Mrs Muscat: heading right for the worst-dressed list
This is Mrs Muscat at high mass to mark Remembrance Sunday. Last year neither she nor her husband bothered to turn up and sent Joe Debono Grech instead.
Today they turned up and Mrs Muscat looks like the daughter of a Sicilian baker from New Joy-sey at a low-level Mafia funeral in Queens.
I’m not in the mood for taking this tacky outfit apart or explaining why it is all wrong for somebody in her position in any circumstances, and why black-lace cut-out sleeves, a very tight and complicated bodice, lots of chest flesh on display and a pantomime hat are especially wrong for Remembrance Sunday.
I am fed up of living in a society dominated by savagely aspirational hamalli, and I am especially fed up of feeling like it is wrong to use that word when it is quite obviously the only word that suits.
I’d really love to know what Mrs Muscat’s gay and camp fashionista admirers think of her horrid, tacky dressmaker outfit this morning, but then they are all savagely aspirational hamalli with pretensions themselves, so they probably think she looks magnificent.
Meanwhile, her social superiors who lionise her in return for power stations and similar spread the word that she’s trying so hard, miskina. Oh indeed – like it takes a Swiss finishing school, rather than simple observation and common sense, for a woman of 40 (not 20) to work out why that outfit is all wrong for a memorial mass and all wrong, fullstop.
Tacky as hell – but her husband has power stations and other contracts in his gift, so let’s celebrate her tackiness and give her the ‘treatment’ she craves.
Pajjiz tal-pirati – Pirates of the Mediterranean.
And while I’m on the subject, will somebody please put the prime minister on a strict diet and teach him how to sit, stand, walk and carry himself in all situations. He looks like a sloppy frump on that podium – his wife’s carriage is much better than his and serves to make him look even worse.
He isn’t helped by the fact that nature and genetics didn’t give him much raw material to work with – I mean, just look at those disproportionately short arms; the tips of his fingers don’t extend beyond the tops of his legs – but he isn’t exactly going out of his way to do Malta proud, either. He looks like a village band club leader who suddenly found himself prime minister of an EU member state.
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More importantly, is the corset Joey’s wearing his, or did he borrow it from Michelle?
And looking exactly like he’s about to let rip…..
And hats are only meant to be displayed at that angle.
Must be the missing link revived.
Many Maltese women make a mistake when wearing black. The colour, by itself, does not make a dress adequate for every occasion.
Sometimes you are at a funeral and they come wearing black cocktail dresses. As long as it’s black, they think.
Is she wearing something that her grandmother stored in the attic forty years ago? And what is that Simon Templar halo doing on top of her head, and askew too?
It’s Lucille Ball meet Jackie Kennedy meet Ford model T.
This the bleak destiny that Malta is condemned to adapt to. Twenty-five years of normality and education under the PN plus EU membership have done nothing to change the deep cultural division in Malta (and it is a cultural division expressed in party support, not a political division as such).
Ignorance generates more ignorance. One cannot enforce education on the majority of the Maltese, the same way that the British could not enforce democracy on the majority who found it as an alien concept.
It is very obvious that Michelle was trying to go for the Dolce Gabbana look once again, and failed miserably.
Her first mistake was to think that her homemade knock-offs would ever look like original, and her second was to think she could carry it off.
Anyway why does she insist on having her clothes made by two cobblers when she travels all the time and can buy what she wants?
I advise you to look in the mirror before you leave the house, Mrs Muscat – and stop feeding that slob of a husband of yours.
The Evita look gone wrong.
Could someone please gently hint to the Honourable Joseph Muscat that if a man carries his upper arms at his sides with the dorsum of both hands facing forwards with even a slight stoop forwards that gives Homo sapiens the appearance of an orangutang and not that of a Prime Minister?
Who represented Malta at the Remembrance Sunday ceremony at the Cenotaph on Whitehall? Why was our High Commissioner nowhere to be seen?
Who exactly is our High Commissioner at present? I distinctly remember Joe Zammit Tabona present in previous years. Can the Government please explain what is going on?
I disagree with most of Labour’s right-wing and populist policies and I agree with most of the opinions expressed here.
However, I do not think that one should focus on the physical attributes of a person, be s/he a public figure. That he is short, he can do nothing about it can he?
I believe, we should “praise” a person for what s/he achieves. Just like the wealth one inherits, Good looks are no object of praise for the simple reason that they are not the result of any specific effort of the person who enjoys them.
[Daphne – You just don’t get it, I’m afraid. I have said quite specifically that none of us can do much about biology and our genetic make-up, but we certainly are to blame for suits that don’t fit, an inability to control our food intake, and poor posture.]
The prime minister can’t help the fact that he is short. But his increasing girth, stumpiness and ‘figolla’ shape are the result of bad eating habits and lack of exercise.
Surely being such a public figure he can make an effort. I am approaching 50, am only five feet tall, but wear a dress and jeans size 6. This not without careful eating and regular exercise.
In the middle photo, the Prime Minister looks like he’s sporting a butt plug.
Even Anglu Farrugia looks smarter than Muscat in today’s photos. He, at least, keeps his arms to his side, unlike Muscat who stands and walks like an ape.
Most people know that the wearing of stilettos or other pointed heels is not allowed in St. John’s Co-Cathedral. The prime minister’s wife apparently does not or she just couldn’t care less.
What is worse is that she was allowed in. Hope they would be as lenient next Wednesday during the graduation mass. The rules that were sent to all were that heels should be at least 3cm x 3cm.
Kif tghid Carina – That’s a big no no.
[Daphne – Oh, as if, she’d probably love it. She dresses like a carnival act herself, all orange tutus and blonde wigs at the age of 50.]
I think it’s been a while since you’ve been to the wedding of your local plumber or mechanic, Daphne. They all dress like that and, believe you me, they’ll all be marveling and saying “kemm hi, stajlixx, Me-shall”.
[Daphne – Monty, that is exactly my point: that the prime minister’s wife at the Remembrance Sunday ceremonies was dressed like a guest at a Maltese village wedding. However, I chose to say ‘Mafia funeral in Queens’ not to upset all those who have Maltese village weddings. The look, however, is homogenous – Maltese village wedding/Sicilian village wedding/Mafia funeral in Queens attended by descendants of Sicilian villagers.]
Don’t get ME started.
Let’s start from the top and work our way downwards.
What on earth is Joseph Muscat trying to do with those mutton chops? The man’s well on the way to a full bald pate, for heaven’t sake. The last thing you want, unless you’re an extra from Lord Of The Rings, is hair down your temples with a shiny dome above.
He is also sporting a gelled-back, longer look on what remains of his hair. Oh dear.
Many years ago, when flares were in and disco balls were out, one Clive Waters aka Norman Hamilton went for the bunchy-at-the-back look that screamed I’m in (in Soho). Margaret Thatcher became PM, the Berlin Wall came down, the New Millennium was ushered in, and still he stuck with it.
And boy does he look like a twat.
Now his protégé of sorts and de jure superior is going down the same road. Except the thatch on the roof is missing. Zaghzugh no more, with a retro look to match.
That suit jacket. Yes, that. Who, where, when, how much, and most importantly, WHY?
The armhole is strained to breaking point, the shoulders are an inch too wide, the sleeves are too narrow (and no, that’s not a bicep) and the cuff too, by the looks of it.
Then there’s the billion-dollar question. Or the million. Or the half a million.
Does my bum look big in this?
You betcher, me lad.
Mathematicians tell us, though Manuel Mallia wouldn’t know this since he failed his exam, that some things are impossible. Like squaring the circle. Like finding a rational expression for pi. Like fitting THAT body into a slim-fit jacket.
I mean look at it, for heaven’s sake. Look at those tell-tale undulations along the seams. One more wreath and the thing will explode. The back and shoulders (tifel miftuh, allajbierek) are squeezed into the fabric like a Lidl sausage (the cheap packet, not the billion-Euro ones from their delicatessen) even in the relaxed position.
National security is at stake here, not to mention health and safety for anyone within a ten-yard radius, so I won’t lie to my Prime Minister. In order to wear a slim-fit jacket, you have to be slim. Like a rake. I’m not talking welterweight fit. I’m talking Britpop Awards slim. Even a featherweight boxer would find slim-fit a bit of a squeeze, especially around the chest.
That cut is an aberration. It’s no coincidence that it was invented in the 1960s, that Fount Of All Things Evil, but that’s by the by.
My point is that a PM with a sedentary job and plenty of official dinners shouldn’t touch the things. Not with a ten-foot bargepole, nor with anything.
Next, the trousers.
Oh dear. A man of average Mediterranean body-type (let’s be magnanimous) wearing the hipster cut, with a decidedly non-Britpop waist size and inside-leg length.
Oh dear, oh dear.
At least the trousers are the right length, though the legs are not. Let’s give him that.
Shoes next. Short-arsed barstewards should shun this craze for the Continental (yuck) pointy-toed things. It just makes us look silly. Like gnomes wearing pointy shoes.
Go for a classic, roomy toe-box. Rounded.
And are they slip-ons, or (cringe) elastic-sides boots? I can’t see laces, but absence of evidence, as Manuel knows, is not evidence of absence, so the jury is still out on this one.
The only reason our politicians get away with sartorial murder is that they are surrounded by people who look even worse. The guts on some of the AFM soldiers at today’s ceremony were just unbelievable.
I thought our lads had to go on forced marches and run assault courses and heave logs and all that. I think they’re actually training them to be (barely) mobile human sandbags.
When a man is under five foot six, 75 kilos is the absolute maximum that he should ever weigh, no matter what the guidebooks say (they were written for average white males, who are considerable taller than that).
The US Marine Corps have a Physical Conditioning Platoon (i.e. the lardies’ platoon) for recruits who exceed the required limits. Sometimes, we can learn a thing or two from the Yanks.
Unless Emmanuel has secretly kitted out the AFM with unmanned armed drones, which means our lads can sit around on their arses with a joystick all day, that is.
Excellent analysis as usual, Baxxter, thank you.
Joseph Muscat makes his wife look thinner than she really is.
See, he can be useful.
I love the Mafia comparison.
Besides the diet and some lessons on posture, maybe Mr. Charles Menswear can send the PM a few new “made in China” suits directly from Canberra.
http://charlesmenswear.com.au/
Nobody seems to know who Baxter is. However, referring to Norman Hamilton as Clive Waters gave your age away. I reckon that you are in your early seventies and used to hang around the Golden Harvest in Sliema in the late 50’s. We were a small group who knew Clive Waters at that time and a few more tips will ”expose” the real Baxter.
Whoops, there go the marriage proposals.
Mrs. Muscat likes to wear peep-toe shoes on various occasions.
I love them for their 1940s glamour, but I am aware that they are considered inappropriate in some scenarios. I have looked up the matter on the net and it seems there are no definitive answers.
My common sense tells me that in rainy countries they are inappropriate as you end up getting your feet wet. As office wear, combined with a suit, revealing one’s toes may be considered inappropriate and unprofessional.
I am aware that the British royals always wear closed shoes with hosiery.
My question is: when is it acceptable to wear peep toe shoes? Also what is appropriate footwear for the Maltese climate? Closed shoes in summer, even good quality leather ones, tend to rub against the heel and do not allow the feet to breathe.
[Daphne – I’m absolutely the wrong person to ask because I can’t stand the restriction of shoes and tend to wear flip-flops or the equivalent bejewelled sandals wherever and whenever I can get away with it. If I could wear them in January, I would. In brief, though, complicated shoes are always unacceptable in any scenario and considered tacky even if they cost a fortune and came from a designer’s table. Play it by ear – toes are far more acceptable in Malta than they are elsewhere, largely because of the climate but mainly because of the beach culture. It’s not because of the toes that peep-toe shoes are considered a little tacky – it’s because they’re associated with a certain kind of look/woman. But then really, it all depends on the context and the rest of your outfit.]
Thank you, Daphne..had a good laugh this morning.
Well, I would have thought HP Baxxter is around Joseph Muscat’s age.
You mean a zaghzugh etern? What does it matter? I feel ancient. 21st century Maltese life has a way of sapping your will to live. The global economic crisis, the environmental and demographic crisis, the global offensive by China, and then Malta. I fizzled out before I could achieve anything.
Can we be honest and drop the political correctness here? I’m running out of time anyway. China is our enemy. For the Chinese, we are untermensch, worse than a trod-on piece of dogshit. They aim for nothing less than global domination.
They are not competitors. They are enemies. Unless we identify the enemy, there is no way we can fight back. I didn’t fight to join the EU for a few silly government scholarships or the resurfacing of a couple of streets. I joined because I want the West to win, because I believe there’s such a thing as Western civilisation, because I want to belong to that civilisation.
None of our politicians will agree with me. Not even the Nationalists. How could they? Take Konrad Mizzi. He obviously has divided loyalties. If push came to shove which flag would he defend? Take Joseph Muscat. Who financed his meteoric ascent to power? He is not beholden to his countrymen, but to China. Which flag would he defend?
Niall Ferguson would be proud of you and I must admit, I am too.
I don’t agree with the six apps he identifies. Science and the rule of law, certainly. I would add pathos – that most Hellenic of concepts, the ability to BE MOVED. It’s a deeply Western thing. Even the Maltese have some difficulty with it. It’s where art springs from.
It’s what distinguishes Western Art from non-Western artistic forms. It’s the basis of democratic politics and the concept of the Res Publica. It reigns in the baser instincts and tempers religious fervour.
Then there’s the most important app of all: self-ridicule.
Someone needs to write a book called: “Us, Alone: Why Malta will never belong to the West”.
Woops, I meant reins in. Ten lashes for HP.
Mrs Muscat is desperately trying to portray herself as Malta’s Eva Peron.
What is Mrs Muscat’s assistant getting paid for?