Apparentement ghal kull ghadma hawn elf Laburist. Dak li baqa ghalihom ghax ta fuq hatfu kull bicca lahma li kien hemm.

Mhux ghalhekk ma jgergrux ghax l-aqwa li b’xejn?

I wonder what Astrid thinks about this.

Even better, let them panic. Perhaps he could employ these as paid passengers.

Perfect. Let it rot.

Good, let’s have it from Kenneth, Michela, Albert and Jane Marshal then.

Stuck as they are with this rabble.

Triton’s has been abandoned and the PN blamed, the ditch remains a building site and the blame the PN.

They’ll take over every space, square, demand the proliferation of latrines and foot rests in the name of plebain entertainment and solace.

The elite meantime, gets to pose at Girgenti and some exclusive baroque or jazz festival to distance themselves.

Behold Muscat’s middle class, split down the middle, a territorial, mental detente holding a fragile balance. Each drawing boundaries and transferring common space to class distinction both ways.

Then they’ll talk sustainable development.

None of the buses, coaches and minibuses hired by the government have ticketing machines. You get to ride free in all of them.

The battle is not over transport policy, but the Zeitgeist.

Arriva was pitched as the alien Wunderwaffen: excellent, but out of the ordinary, because we are Maltese hiiii and qamel is Kif Thabbat il-Qalb Maltija.

So we greeted Arriva, which was, after all, a normal, ordinary bus service, the sort you would expect in any European-standard country, with fireworks.

After all, the country’s household hamallufest show is called – you guessed it – Xarabank.

It’s not the politicians’ fault. It’s the poets’. Always has been.