Armageddon outa here…

But let's take a leaf out of Eric Idle's book, shall we? Let's "always look on the bright side of life" (oh, and that reminds me: I'm in a "movies"-sort of mood today. So sit back, enjoy the show, and... switch of that goddamn mobile, will you? Thanks...)

Right, where was I? Ah yes, the bright side of life. At least they don't have their fingers permanently hovering above the proverbial 'Big Red Button'... as US Presidents so often do in all those Hollywood movies about the end of the world.

You may be familiar with the type of scenario I have in mind: it's more or less lifted straight out of Stanley Kubrik's 1964 cinematic masterpiece, Dr Str-Anglu (Or How I Learnt To Suddenly Stop Being a Labour Party Deputy Leader)... and more recently the same theme was picked up by that 1980s classic, War Games: you know, the film that also launched the career of Matthew Broderick, thereby earning itself the accolade of 'greatest disaster movie of all time'... (As you can imagine, this was way before the days of Deceduti - Wara L-Ahhar Tad-Dinja... just thought I'd clarify, that's all.)

But in any case: in that sort of movie (13 Days was an even more recent example, starring Kevin Costnaaaaaaargh!), World War Three is generally started by the simple act of either pushing a Big Red Button - and of course the choice of colour is entirely (but ENTIRELY) coincidental - turning a small innocuous-looking key, or something equally dubious, anti-climactic and entirely unlike the real thing.

[Note: the obvious way to start World War Three is to inform Joanna Lumley that she's put on a little weight... or admit to having a soft spot for Lady Gaga at a vegetarian convention. But now that I've let you in on that secret I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you. Nothing personal, surely you understand...]

Anyway: what happens next naturally depends on such considerations as the movie's budget, or whether Jeff Goldblum and Will Smith happen to be residents of the planet currently under demolition.

But to give you a rough idea of what to expect from, say, James Cameron's version of the same movie: take every single global catastrophe you've ever heard of - 9/11, the tsunami of 2004, the Cretaceous-era meteorite impact of 65 million years ago, or the approval of Tonio Borg to the European Commission last month - roll them all into one, add a couple of fireworks factory explosions, an a capello concert by La Barokka, and maybe one or two Haikus by Franco Debono... and quite frankly you will still be nowhere even close to the sort of sheer, unbridled destructivity and Apocalyptic mayhem that would be unleashed to wreak its malice on the unsuspecting world as a result.

Now: just imagine that the same Big Red Button was not hidden away in the safety of that top-secret underground nuclear fall-out bunker, half a mile beneath the deserts of Arizona, and enjoying the full blessing and protection of Chuck Norris (Who Art In Heaven, etc);... but rather, that it was in the basement of the Stamperija in Pieta' (or for that matter at the Police Headquarters in Floriana - which, let's face it, is pretty much the same thing anyway).

Under those circumstances, my guess is that the so-called Mayan 'prophecy' that so spectacularly failed to materialise this week (which reminds me... those bloody Mayans. Can't get anything bloody right, can they?) would have actually come about years ahead of its time.

In fact I can almost see the multiple mushroom clouds already... and isn't that Simon Busuttil's voice I can suddenly hear crackling over the intercom?

"Lawrence! What on earth are you doing with that naughty smirk on your face? And... why is your finger hovering with intent above that Big Red Button... just like I've always told you not to ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER even THINK of doing???"

"What, you mean this Big Red Button over here? Relax, Sim, it's not like I'm just about to accidentally... Ooops...!"

"Lawrence... please don't tell me that what I just heard was the sound of your finger inadvertently applying slightly too much pressure onto the surface of that Big Red Button I just told you about... ?"

"What? Me? No, of course not....I mean, you always told me that bad things would happen if I... hang on... why are all those red lights suddenly flashing everywhere...?"

This is roughly the point where we are rudely interrupted by a piercing, high-pitched whistling sound, of the variety made popular by Thomas Pynchon's incomprehensible 1973 novel, Gravity's Rainbow.

"ATTENTION PLEASE" (comes a vaguely Dalek-like voice through the speakers) "We interrupt your mindless guffawing and inane smirking to announce that several suspiciously missile-resembling objects have suddenly entered your country's airspace and are heading right in this direction. Indeed, according to our security system's ultra-accurate calculations, they will impact this building in precisely: 10...9...8....7..."

And so on, and so forth, and so fifth.

OK, now back to looking on the bright side of things. Luckily for us and the rest of the civilized world...well, they don't have access to the Big Red Button after all. I know, because that happens to be safely tucked away in the top-secret underground bunker roughly half a mile beneath the US Embassy in Ta' Qali... and right next door to where the Chinese have their own maximum security military compou... I mean, embassy, complete with a Big Red Button all of their own, etc., etc.

Which I suppose brings me to the inevitable question this entire unlikely exercise was intended to raise in the first place. Why is it such a safe bet that a man like Lawrence Gonzi - or for that matter any Maltese politician, regardless of creed, colour, IQ or dress sense - will invariably go on to press that Big Red Button, given even half a chance to do so... no matter how many people have practically begged them not to, and no matter how many assurances they had previously given to the contrary... whereas all US Presidents for the past 50 or so years (and Chinese premiers, and Russian mafia dons, and everybody else who happens to have special VIP membership in that nuclear world-dominating, Big Red Button-pushing club of theirs) have had that opportunity for decades, without ever actually availing of it even once?

Personally I think the answer has much in common with the answer to that other, equally unlikely and entirely pointless question that pretty much everybody and their bomb is asking at the moment.

And that question is... why, oh why, oh WHY did it prove so utterly and predictably beyond the capabilities of our two political parties to observe something as simple, basic, elementary and uncomplicated as a 'Christmas truce' for more than the first minute of the first day of the ceasefire?

After all, this 'truce' wasn't even imposed on them against their will by foreign superpowers, under threat of nuclear war, or anything. It wasn't even a requirement of any EU Directive. No, they actually came up with the idea themselves. All on their little ownsome, too. "Read our lips," was what they all said. "We won't push that Big Red Button over Christmas. So you can all relax, sit back and enjoy your Panettone, your mince-pies and your gulglien... without any fear that a no-holds-barred festival of death, destruction, universal decay and cinematic ultra-violence will suddenly burst through your front door when you least expect it, precisely as you hand each other your presents under the tree..." (Those were their exact words, I swear).

Then they went on to say: "Don't mind us, by the way. We'll manage without murdering one another in the meantime, you can rest assured. I mean, it's not as though we'll all get withdrawal symptoms or anything, if we somehow resist the temptation to simply gouge each other's eyeballs out, at least for the duration of the festive season. It's all about will-power, after all..." (By which they meant that they have the "power", no question about that... just not sure about the "will", that's all...)

And in any case: how hard can it possibly be to make that tiny, weenie little effort, and keep all their boundless hatred and profound prejudice pent up in their twisted little hearts for little more than... why, little more than a week? Think about it for a second: according to tradition, there's, what? Twelve days of Christmas? And do you really think they will prove incapable of spending 12 measly days without spewing bile and venom into each other's faces... or spreading sickeningly malicious rumours designed to destroy families and careers... or playing nasty, dirty, childish and utterly revolting games that take baleful pleasure and sadistic delight in maximising the misfortunes of others? Can't be that hard, now can it?

Oh, but evidently it can. After all, not only did they not last anywhere near even the first of the 12 days of Christmas... they didn't even manage the first 12 nano-seconds... no, not even for the sake of the little Baby Jesus they all love to bang on about so much...

And far from leaving us all alone to enjoy our Panettone in peace, why, they muscled their way into our living rooms through every available channel: smashing thorugh windows like that scene from Where Eagles Dare... down though the chimney, in through the ventilation system... they even got between the soffits, like the creatures in Aliens... and that's before they swamped every chat-show, radio programme and open-air event known to humankind - with anywhere up to 400 repetitions a day - pumping each other with insults instead of bullets, and raining propaganda and spin instead of nuclear warheads and white phosphorus... but in the end... nay, almost at the very beginning... they just couldn't bring themselves not to go ahead and press that goddamn Big Red Button, now could they?

Right: now this is the part where tradition decrees I should wish all my readers a very merry Christmas and a happy new fear... I mean, year...

But let's be honest. It's not looking very likely, now is it?