The paralysing influence that the dictatorial North Korean leadership has on its people and country also extends to the  Malta-Korea Friendship Association. For the evidence, just take a look at the “activities” page of its website and you’ll see that the most recent update is way back in June 2007; the one before that is May 2006. Morbidly enough, these two “activities” are in fact obituaries. More of the North Korean joie de vivre rubbing off here?

Today the Tunisian Justice Ministry announced the lifting of the summons warrant issued against her in October. Back then, Ms Arafat thought it opportune to implore divine powers to help her overcome a political threat.

This Madonna of Malta is a new source of divine intervention to be reckoned with!

Click here for related post: Suha Arafat and the Madonna of Malta

A premature greeting, is it not? What with  the summer not having melted away completely and another two months before that December day. However, springing up from the turfed roundabouts are the decorations heralding the Christmas season. Why such an early blossoming of baubles?

Commerce is probably the main factor because, as economists and politicians like to emphasis, spending stimulates the economy. Since childhood, our minds have been trained to equate Christmas with gift giving and consequently these traffic island embellishments are actually a diversion to the shops and malls. Physically we might be driving home or to work but mentally we have been detoured into drawing up our shopping lists.

There could be a religious dimension to the matter of course, especially in view of developments in neighbouring Libya. Last Sunday, National Transitional Council leader Mustafa Abdul-Jalil said that Islamic Sharia law would be the main source of legislation in the country. Many on this island shuddered upon hearing the words “Islam” and “sharia”, immediately fearing  that Maltese Catholicism was facing a new threat. The Church, which has recently lost its battle against the introduction of divorce in Malta, may now be girding its loins for another holy war. This early erection of Christmas symbols in public places is  proof of Malta’s preparedness to become Europe’s bulwark against the spread of Islam once again. I ask, is it mere coincidence or prescience that the government has been repairing the formidable bastions which protected us from the infidel  in the past?

A merry Christmas to all.

Is eating an “ghadam tal-mejtin” (aka “ossa dei morti” or “bones of the dead” – a bone-shaped pastry filled with almond paste and covered in icing) in early October, nearly a full month before All Saints Day and All Souls Day, disrespectful?

Is eating an “ghadam tal-mejtin” in a confectionery across the road from where a light mahogany-coloured coffin is being carried on heavy shoulders down the town’s thoroughfare, disrespectful?

Is eating an “ghadam tal-mejtin” while watching a gaggle of giggling schoolchildren visit the church where, only half-an-hour earlier, sorrow was being shed in tears during a funerary mass, disrespectful?

Pre-match comment:

• Latvia and Malta are the bottom two sides in Group E so as with the Austria game, this match – kicking off at 6pm – means very little indeed.

Match comments:

• KICK OFF! We have started in Riga. Remember, this game is meaningless in Group F as neither side can qualify.
• Aleksejs Visnakovs lashes a firm effort wide of the far post for Latvia. Remember, this game has nothing riding on it as neither team can qualify.
• GOAL! 1-0 Latvia! He had a decent chance earlier and now Visnakovs opens the scoring in Riga. However, this game is largely inconsequential.
• GOAL! Latvia 2-0 Malta! Artjoms Rudnevs gets on the scoresheet in this pointless game.
• FULL TIME. Latvia win 2-0. This game doesn’t matter one bit though.

This island is small but these comments, factual as they may be, make me feel even smaller.

I cannot claim to have had a close relationship with him but the melancholy that hit me when I heard the news of his demise yesterday is with me still – I could neither sweat it out of my system nor kick it off on the dusty trail. In the decades that I’ve been active in athletics, our paths crossed on more than one occasion and, four years ago, he was there to give me useful advice in connection with a challenge I had intended tackling. That training schedule, together with his comments, is still stuck to my notice-board, a relevant focal point whenever I decide to undertake a new athletic venture. In more recent years, living in the same street, we sometimes small-talked outside his garage while on many mornings I’d even hear his motorbike throttling to life, signalling it was high time that I, too, headed for work.

My condolences go to his wife Carol and all those who feel his loss.

Dad at Rome Olympics 1960

Dad’s legacy. Over half a century ago, when Malta was still under British rule and the members of their armed forces stationed here offered stiff competition to the locals in the sporting field, my dad was one of the leading cyclists on the island. The culmination of his career was when he represented Malta in the Rome Olympics of 1960. Such was his dedication that although marrying a few weeks before the event, he convinced my mum to delay the honeymoon until after the Games. Credit to him for his focus and kudos to her for accepting. I grew up in the shadow of his achievements and the expectations that I was to follow in his wheels…..cadence…..slipstream were inevitably high. This seemed to hold true when in my first official racing season in the “schoolboy” category (as it was known then), I always placed in the top three – excepting the occasion when I had a humiliating encounter with a tree after miscalculating the sharpness of a bend at the bottom of a hill along the panoramic Zurrieq road. However, when I was around 17, the tedium of daily training dampened my enthusiasm and I found myself drifting into other sports and activities. Cycling had become an ex-love but the reach of my dad’s successes never receded. Possibly I’m still in search of an activity where I can say I’m the best local athlete in that event. Truth be told, time is not on my side but, quiet please, my brain is trying to keep that fact hidden from my body.

An affinity for hills. And if it means negotiating a mountain, all the better. With my dad I used to love watching the major tours which, in those days, could only be watched on Italian television: Giro d’Italia and Tour de France. As I still do today, for that matter. However, the real draw was always the mountain stages. I dreamed of being there, even if not necessarily in the peloton as a pro cyclist. Inevitably my heart rate would rise which each switchback and a shiver would run down my spine when the parting waves of supporters indicated that the cyclists’ efforts were reaching the final kilometres of the climb. I was fortunate to live this experience with Lifecycle in 2008 as we travelled from Lourdes to Casablanca. I won’t say that I didn’t suffer, especially on that first day when I tasted the pain a real mountain can inflict on someone inexperienced in tackling kilometre after kilometre of incline. However, the satisfaction of traversing the col and the exhilaration of not succumbing to the mountain was not only rewarding, but addictive. Every mountain stage became personal – who will dominate whom – and I had no intention of kowtowing to a mass of rock. This challenge has now carried on into running. The Madonie race was a necessary reminder of how relatively tame this island’s hills are in comparison and, as a consequence, how much harder I have to work if I want to achieve some respectable results in future.

Slow-twitch. School sports days weren’t particularly pleasant for me because the emphasis was on short athletic events, which is fair enough considering we were only kids. I dreaded the sprints though, as I did if the finish of a cycling race had to be decided in the final metres. My legs just couldn’t carry me fast enough. The learning curve of experience eventually led me to realise that what I lacked in basic speed was made up for in stamina. I need time to settle into a decent pace so basically, the longer the session, the more relaxed I feel. Of course I’m no Forrest Gump and there’s always a threshold where an element of physical discomfort and mental weakness start to set in.

The threshold. For some, it’s how fast. For me, it’s how far or how long. I’m curious to see what this body can do, I’m thrilled by what it has done. Until a few weeks before I actually succeeded, I had never imagined I could manage a 260km bike ride in one day. Until I passed under the finish gantry of the Madonie race, I had never spent so many hours on my feet to conclude an athletic event. Until now, I have no inkling of how much further I can go for but I’m endeavouring to find out. At the end of the day, we really ever cross the threshold of our abilities the moment we give up trying.

The reason I chose to read this book is because it recounts the journey of the members of the Russian imperial family as they fled Russia, travelling by sea from Yalta to Malta. Though there are few references to my country, they are generally positive. Comments such as, “The Romanovs were elated by the beauty of the island” or “Sofka was very taken with Malta”. The Dowager herself wrote in her diary, “…Xenia and I drove in an open motorcar to lovely San Antonio in the loveliest weather and where the air was full of the scent of orange blossoms as we drove into the garden.”
The main part of the book is written in the style of an on-board diary while the concluding pages deal with the “where and  how all the family members and main characters end up over the years”.
In spite of the wealth they had been born into and their kinship to European royalty, I cannot but realize that a refugee is always a refugee, pining for a return to one’s home.

I rate this book a 7/10.

It captures the crusading spirit of Maltese Catholicism to the last drop of spiritual blood. 

“There can never be a responsible divorce. Divorce of any kind is evil, condemned by God for our own good.

We do not want divorce, any divorce. The great majority of Maltese and Gozitans want no form of divorce; so the vast majority will say NO to divorce.

It is a devilish deceit to try to qualify divorce. Divorce is the dissolution of a validly contracted marriage by a human person. No human person has the power, let alone the right, to dissolve a valid marriage.

A big NO to divorce; YES to the indissolubility of marriage.

Join in the battle between God and the devil! Fight the good fight! The victory is ours, it’s already guaranteed!”

Image: http://thetorchonline.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/devil_vs_god.jpg

In brief, we’re telling one and all that no, we are not going to actively help a down-trodden and long-suffering people even though we acknowledge that they are right in their request for assistance.

On the other hand, in reply to a question proffered by one of the journalists, our PM made it clear that should Malta come under attack, then Europe is obliged to spring to our defence.

As a salve, he explained that we will offer humanitarian assistance but this has little placatory effect. Helping to stop the bloodshed is the most humanitarian act and we are refusing to do this. So does he mean that we are ready to host hundreds of refugees should the situation arise? I doubt it because we have been making it amply clear that we have no “spare room” in our house for them.

I cannot understand how we can spectate with a clear conscience while Libya burns.

I cannot understand how, when Dictator Gaddafi and his cohorts have been eliminated from the political equation, we will have the gall to go knocking on Libya’s door hoping for a “business as usual” welcome.

I cannot understand how our Parliament refuses to take the symbolic step of stripping Dictator Gaddafi of the honours we bestowed upon him.

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4HF8egkCZU4

On a February day of some years ago, I was roaming the near zero-degree streets of Prague. As I am wont to do, I was ambling without a map because I take the phrase “losing oneself” literally. The excitement of discovering what there is and what goes on in the narrower, darker, less frequented corners of a city is matched by the itchiness of my fingers on the camera’s shutter button.  I even kept my chilblain-prone fingers uncovered so that I could more easily snap sides of the city which never make it into the guide books, no matter how “rough” these guides claim to be.

I stumbled onto the place. A museum. The prospect of some warmth and a pee break. So what if the name of the artist was unfamiliar to me. Alphonse Mucha mightn’t have rung any bells at the time but the paintings certainly filled a gap in my memory. I realized that I had seen some of these exquisite pieces before;  possibly also works by other artists in the Art Nouveau style, of which Mucha is synonymous with.

Now that the late Mr Mucha is visiting the city of Valletta, taking up temporary residence at the Museum of Archeology, I just had to pop in and say hello to this creator of beauty. Why don’t you do the same?

I kept my word and not once did I check the stopwatch. I had to make an extra effort though when I came to Msida because the gentle elevation opposite the parish church just made me want to tilt my head towards the clock tower. It was another test of will-power to keep my gaze from drifting upwards so I was relieved when I ran past it, still oblivious to the time I was doing.

In the post, “Thoughts from the day before“, I remarked that my shoes were being retired in the blaze of glory of an international event. The finishing straight at the Sliema Ferries did a Venice impression with sea-water reclaiming its former territory, consequently my Asics GT-2120 underwent a baptism rather than the final rites, as I sprinted to the finish line. However, looking at my sports log book, I realize that they have at least another 200km of life left in them, thus making them born-again trainers!

Did anyone else smell the pine trees as we turned into the crafts village at Ta’ Qali?  For those (too) few seconds, I was transported to the bosk known as Mizieb (survey maps refer to it as Bajda ridge), which is my home training ground. To think that exactly 2 weeks prior to this race, I ran and scrambled and even trod gingerly the equivalent distance over more challenging terrain (One helluva run).

Which leads me to the “What now” question. Trail races is the answer. Assuming an uneventful recovery, I really would like to try my hand – or should that be my feet – at racing over rough terrain. Come August there’s the Hellfire event locally but before that I might cross over to Sicily and do something there. Until then, I’ll keep on taking it one steady step at a time.