Ah, so AST went nuts on Radio Malta. What a surprise.

I have just read (there were pressing matters to be getting on with) the report of AST’s interview on Radio Malta, and listened to the recording.

All the points I wish to make are so obvious that I needn’t bother: the way he descends into defensiveness and irrational anger when he is asked about Gaddafi, for instance.

Of course you had a special relationship with Muammar Gaddafi, Alex.

You told us about it all the time. You saw it as your competitive advantage over all others bar Karmenu Vella, on your re-entry to the party riding on a donkey called Joseph.

You even organised a big event – to which you invited businessman John Dalli of John Dalli & Associates – at Labour HQ, to commemorate 40 years of a special relationship between ‘Malta’ and ‘Libya’.

That was in 2009, when Malta had had a relationship with Libya for a thousand years and more before Gaddafi took control in 1969.

And the first visit which you organised, as Labour’s mammoth-from-the-ice international secretary, was to Gaddafi’s court, taking your Dear Leader there to meet him.

Except that he didn’t see you and palmed you off onto some juniors instead. As they say on the street: burn, baby, burn.

Do you know what I find most fascinating about this interview, Alex?

It’s your attitude towards your interviewer, the very same attitude I remember so well from the days when the worst of your party’s thugs used to hang around the entrance to your ministerial office on Merchants Street, ready to launch an attack on demonstrators (it happened to me – postal workers saved me by pulling me into the post office opposite your main door).

And a few weeks later, one of those thugs – I even have his name – reversed hard into my car and smashed it, because I had the temerity to put my hand on the horn as a suggestion that he move along and stop blocking the road.

He was parked in the middle of Merchant Street, you see, chatting to his friends who were hanging about in your doorway as usual.

When I proceeded to the Valletta police station to make a report, with his car registration number, the police officer behind the counter looked it up to get the name of the owner and turned sheet-white.

“I am not going to allow you to lodge a report, for your own safety,” he told me, registering the fact that I was hugely pregnant. “If anything happens to you, a bomb or something like that, I will feel responsible.”

That is the kind of country you and your fellow-ghouls ran, Alex. A country in which the police protected vulnerable citizens by refusing to allow them to lodge reports, for their own safety, because they themselves could do nothing to control Labour-sponsored thugs.

Faced with questions you didn’t like, from an interviewer you considered to be not servile enough, Alex, you threatened, intimidated and raised hell, doing your best to make him quake in his boots at the thought of the Chinese-style retribution that lies in store.

But this is no longer 1986, Alex. And we don’t have you to thank for that.