-an OD of Love-

It starts in the quiet of the morning, when the only thing alive is the hum of the refrigerator — loyal, unbothered, and frankly doing a better job at holding itself together than I am. The world outside still dreams, but I’m wide awake, stuck somewhere between the last flickers of my nightmares and the crushing list of things I’ve convinced myself I won’t manage today. Anxiety. There it is. My ever-faithful companion. Not quite a friend — more like that nosy neighbour who never leaves you alone, always peeking in through the curtains. It doesn’t kick the door down. No, it slides in quietly, like a dodgy DM. First a flutter in the chest, then a storm in the brain. One moment you’re brushing your teeth, the next you’re spiralling into existential dread because you forgot to reply to a text from three weeks ago. Then comes Depression. Less theatrical, more like someone turned the world into a black-and-white film and then forgot to press play. It doesn't shout — it seeps. It’s the re...

 “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” is like a vintage Rolls-Royce of TV shows — it doesn’t just run well, it purrs, glides, and leaves every other comedy choking on its exhaust fumes. It tickles every sense I have — making me laugh so hard I snort like a pig, cry like I’ve just watched my favourite car get crushed, and want to dance around the room like a lunatic.  I even made a playlist from the music — because that’s what true fanatics do — and it’s planted itself firmly in a very exclusive club: the one with my absolute favourite shows of all time. That club’s as hard to get into as a McLaren in a traffic jam. From the very first episode, I was gobsmacked. The production is so flawless it practically shoved me back into the 1950s — and made me want to live there, despite the lack of WiFi and the sheer number of hats. The streets, the nightlife, the posh Jewish family drama — it’s like they built a perfect little time machine and sprinkled it with comedy gold. The costumes and mak...

So, Robert Abela took the stage on Workers’ Day, looking like a man who’d just been told someone scratched his new jet ski. And what did he say? That the Opposition is celebrating your suffering. Yes. According to him, they’re “rubbing their hands in glee” over the European court’s ruling that Malta’s passport scheme was, well, illegal. Now, let’s just take a moment here. Because when someone stands in front of a crowd and accuses others of sowing hatred , while visibly fuming like a diesel engine running on vinegar and regret, you’ve got to ask: why is he always so angry? I’ve seen calmer expressions on wasps. Abela accuses the Opposition of having monstrous egos and caring only about their careers—which is a bit rich coming from a man who treats the truth the same way I treat tofu: with outright disdain. Let’s get one thing straight. The only genuinely nefarious activity in this whole sorry tale is Labour flogging Maltese passports like knock-off fake handbags at a Sunday market....

T he man who tried to redecorate the White House into a palace is now zipping around in one. Because why just bend the rules, when you can bulldoze them? Flying Too Close to the Gold-Plated Sun Donald Trump, America’s most reality-TV president, is now officially writing checks that even his ego might not be able to cash. He’s not just overstepping presidential powers — he’s treating them like a speed bump in a Bugatti. Congress? Ignored. Supreme Court? Treated like Yelp reviewers. Legally residing critics? Hauled off to “detention” centers. And the Justice Department? Just another lever in Trump’s personal game of vengeance. Tariffs? Trump now sets those like he’s choosing pizza toppings: random, excessive, and guaranteed to give you heartburn. But even among his most loyal flag-waving faithful, there’s one thing Americans don’t tolerate: straight-up bribery . And wouldn’t you know it — Trump’s diving headfirst into it like it’s a pool full of gold coins. Enter: The Flying Palac...

I’ll start with something utterly shocking: Malta — that little sun-drenched rock in the Mediterranean that’s smaller than most airport car parks — now holds more people than it was ever, in any reality, designed to accommodate. This place is just 316 square kilometres of limestone, potholes, and people arguing over parking spots, yet somehow it’s now home to what feels like half of Europe and a large chunk of outer space. In the span of just ten years — between 2013 and 2023 — the population of Malta ballooned from 425,000 to 552,000. That’s a 30% increase. In a decade . I’ve had sourdough starters that grew slower. It’s like someone left the migration tap on and forgot to install a stopcock. But wait. It gets even more ludicrous. That 552,000? That’s just the residents . In August 2023, the National Statistics Office did a headcount and found out that with tourists included, the “effective population” hit a knee-wobbling 628,058. That’s more people than Malta has roads. And I’m bei...

Somewhere between a diplomatic summit, a bad acid trip, and a flaming roller disco lies Eurovision — that annual fever dream where Europe (and random tagalongs like Australia) pretend that unity can be achieved through wind machines, key changes, and someone from Moldova in a space suit playing an electric flute. This year, the madness descends upon Basel, Switzerland — land of neutrality, fondue, and now, presumably, flaming piano solos and Albanian power ballads with choreography that looks like someone’s nan trying to do tai chi on a trampoline. Let’s not pretend we watch it for the music anymore. Eurovision hasn’t been about songs since about 1973. These days, it’s three hours of “What in the glittery hell am I watching?” followed by an hour of painfully slow voting that reveals more about global politics than the United Nations ever could. And we eat it up with a spoon. The music itself? Mostly sounds like it was generated by ChatGPT under duress. You’ve got lines like “Together...

Right, brace yourselves: the Pope is American now. Yes, really. The 267th head of the Catholic Church — Pope Leo XIV — is from Chicago, land of deep-dish pizza, gun crime, and sports teams that never quite deliver. And yet, somehow, he’s not shouting, waving a flag, or trying to sell you a pickup truck. Photo copyright of ALBERTO PIZZOLI   AFP/TNS Born Robert Francis Prevost, the new pope looks like he should be holding court at a Cubs game with a hotdog in one hand and a Coors Light in the other. But instead, he’s up on the balcony of St Peter’s Basilica, speaking to the world like a wise, well-travelled monk who’s seen things, not like your average senator auditioning for a cable news meltdown. This man speaks multiple languages, has Peruvian citizenship, and spent donkey’s years living in South America, doing actual things to help actual people. Which is so un-American. He’s not tweeting threats at journalists; he’s posting about compassion. Actual compassion. For immigrants....

It’s a strange time to be alive. You can now identify as a toaster, marry your pillow, tweet your feelings into the void, and sue someone for saying your haircut looks like it was done with a spoon. Somewhere between soy lattes and hashtags, we decided offence is not just a feeling but a full-blown crime against humanity. Welcome to Malta — a sun-drenched rock floating in the Mediterranean, where satire is on trial and feelings have become the new currency. Honestly, if I had a euro for every time someone got offended this week, I could buy Elon Musk’s latest electric wheelbarrow and drive it straight into the Grand Harbour. Now let’s be clear. I’m not here to defend comedy that goes after the vulnerable for sport — that’s just lazy, like putting ketchup on a dry steak and calling yourself a chef. But when society starts acting like a child in need of a nap every time someone makes a joke, we’re no longer adults. We’re just toddlers with Wi-Fi. Take Bajd u Bejken , Malta’s version o...

Cherry is a cinematic punch to the gut — ambitious, emotional, and often uncomfortable. Directed by the Russo Brothers and starring Tom Holland in a radical departure from his clean-cut Marvel persona, this film dives deep into themes of trauma, addiction, love, and identity in modern America. The story follows a young man grappling with life's brutalities, and the film moves through his emotional and psychological landscape like a fever dream. It’s divided into distinct narrative segments, each with its own tone and aesthetic — from romance and war to despair and desperation. Tom Holland delivers a performance that is raw, exposed, and surprisingly mature. His portrayal is the beating heart of the film, making the viewer care about a character whose life spirals into chaos. He carries the weight of the role with a kind of nervous energy that feels authentic and unsettling. The film’s style is unmistakably loud — flashy camera work, fourth-wall breaks, dark humour, and visual sh...

Before Gordon Ramsay was hurling insults across the kitchen like grenades, and before Julia Child was charming America with beurre blanc, there was Marie-Antoine Carême — the original celebrity chef. And I mean celebrity in the proper sense: he cooked for emperors, not influencers. Now, Apple TV+, in its infinite budgetary glory, has thrown the whole pâtisserie at Carême , a show so lavishly dressed you’ll swear you can smell the crème brûlée wafting through your screen. Set in 19th-century France — a time when men wore wigs and beef Wellington was practically a political statement — this series doesn’t just stop at towering croquembouches. No, no. It adds espionage, betrayal, and enough palace intrigue to make House of Cards look like a bake sale. It’s part The Bear , part Bourne Identity , and all wrapped in so much gold leaf you’ll wonder if your telly’s developed a taste for opulence. Forget car chases. This is about high-stakes sauce reductions, and I’m absolutely here for it...

  Barbecue. A word that today conjures up visions of smug men in aprons flipping ribs in their suburban gardens while sipping beer. But behind the smoke and sizzling fat lies a story that's anything but leisurely. It's a tale forged in earth pits, drenched in sweat, and, quite literally, seasoned with struggle. It began long before supermarkets started selling “BBQ flavour” crisps that taste like disappointment. Let’s rewind several hundred years to a time when cooking meant digging a hole and lighting a fire.. Yes, before America made barbecue a national obsession, it was the Native Americans who were sticking bits of meat over hot coals in the ground. The Taino in the Caribbean, the Cherokee, the Choctaw, they all had the idea before anyone thought to slap a 'Kansas' label on it. They slow-cooked meat under leaves for flavour and moisture, turning tough cuts into tender bliss. But here’s where it gets complicated — and dark. The Africans brought to the Americas in c...