Public displays of self-pity are supposed to be contemptible
Published: September 17, 2012 at 12:10am
And while on the subject of Franco Debono, and kind souls who should explain things to him because he doesn’t read them here, please do tell him that public displays of self-pity – indeed, self-pity itself – are almost universally held in contempt.
Tell him something he clearly never learned while growing up in that home in Hal Ghaxaq: that individuals who parade their self-pity are scorned. This is especially so when they are men, though even women don’t get away with it nowadays, the era of the dramatic, tragic widow being long gone.
Franco is wrong to take account of the faux-supportive comments of a cultural minority who see absolutely nothing wrong, still less freakishly disturbing, in somebody – and what’s more, a MAN – whining and bleating all over the forum in search of sympathy, while cataloguing his real and perceived miseries.
On a positive note: at least we’re not at war and Franco hasn’t been conscripted. Because can you imagine sharing a muddy trench, a billet or the inside of a tank with this freak-show?
“I’m cold. I’m tired. I’m hungry. When are we going home? Qieghed inbati. Kemm qed inbati. Dak hadli l-hand grenade. Dak ghandu zewg kutri u jien ghandi wahda biss.”
“Isss! Dak ghandu sleeping bag u jiena m’ghandix. X’sofferenzi! X’sagrificcju! Imma dan sew?”
“M’ghamluniex kurunell. Dak ghax ghandi idejat tajbin u jghejru ghalija. Ghamlu lil Mifsud Bonnici minfloki ghax kellu n-nannu brigadier. Nirrispettah ta, u habib tieghi, imma Ustja x’batija din. Lanqas ta’ Kristu. U attakkawli lil mummy ukoll! Fejn trid tasal izjed? Dik krudelta!”
Shots are fired and two of his mates fall dead. There is a huge blast, clouds of black smoke and flying debris as a convoy of trucks is blown up nearby by a suicide bomber. Franco is oblivious and carries on.
“Il-vera qed inbati. Haduli l-idejat. U attakkawli lil mama! Why don’t they go and see who really needs a psychiatrist, mela healthy and normal people like me! Ara ftit, ghamlu lil Austin Pipi Gatt maggur u hallewni hawn semplici suldat ghax jien ragel sabih u huma koroh.”
Franco walks into the mess carrying a hand grenade. Everyone freezes. He stands there with his fingers on the pin, bitching about the Evil Click. The urge to brain him with a soup ladle is strong, but nobody tries.
Then somebody says in a loud whisper: “IS THAT A PONY ON HIS FLAK JACKET?”
Franco pulls the pin.