And here’s Denis Catania, the Maltese village branch in the new world. Having given up making snowmen, he now lives out his fantasies on the internet.

…pulling taps. Hmm, I think pumping barrels is more appropriate.

@ Pippo, read it again this afternoon, and it’s still funny.

Denis, you should have greater worries yourself.

1. Make up your mind, which side of the fence you plan to jump.

2. Worry about how your formerly prosperous America has become the world’s greatest debtor (and to the Chinese, I may add).

3. For how many centuries will your descendants have to pay for Bush’s folly?

Daphne, I remember overhearing dodgy-looking Maltese men hanging round in Soho in the early eighties till late nineties. I used to go to the market there, but now the market is not as lively as before. The Maltese have been replaced by the Albanian Mafia, although I still hear the odd Maltese now.

I disagree. It started going to ratshit somewhere around the middle of the 18th century, when a bunch of toff randy intellectuals put forward the idea that the Golden Age is ahead of us. 1789 was but the culmination of those lies in the intellectual powerhouse of Europe. In Malta we have Xarabank, and we had Mintoff ante verbum. (i.e. “il-hamallu jaf imexxi daqs il-kolt”)

Malta’s Village People. YMCA.

Gather round, chick-chicks, and listen really carefully. Our great-great-grandfather Francesco VELLA (exactly the same Vella as Daphne) was married to Giulia Casolani Isouard. Her father Luigi was also a hbieb tal-hbieb of the 19th century: in fact, they called them the Casolanisti. And his brother Sir Vincent was secretary to Alexander Ball. And her mother’s brother was – you’ve guessed it, chickens; or have you? – Nicolo Isouard.

Now I can really hear the flapping in that coop.