Testicles, Tantrums, and the Death of Satire

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 of comedy, with both middle fingers raised. It’s rude, crass, loud — a bit like me after three pints of bitter and a failed attempt to reverse park. And yet, instead of laughing or switching it off, people are reporting it to the police because someone’s ego got lightly singed. There was a testicle joke, apparently. Oh no. Not the sacred testicles!

One influencer — and I use the term “influencer” here the same way I’d use “pilot” for someone who’s flown a drone in their garden — filed a police report because she was included in a joke. This is what we’ve come to. Not satire. Not free speech. Just... feelings. And in a country that literally invented passive-aggressive Facebook statuses, this is rich.

It used to be that if you entered public life — politics, media, YouTube vlogging from your mum’s bathroom — you knew that it came with a risk. Applause, sure. But also tomatoes. You can’t call yourself a lion and then cry when someone pokes your mane.

But now? Satire must be polite. Jokes must be inclusive. Comedy must conform to an ever-tightening code of ideological nonsense, approved by the Ministry of Whinge. Otherwise, it’s “hate speech” or worse, “offensive content punishable by prosecution under the Electronic Equipment Abuse Act of 1722.”

Let me tell you something: satire has never been polite. It’s not your nan offering you a biscuit. It’s a chainsaw on a Sunday morning. It’s meant to be uncomfortable. It’s meant to prod, poke, and occasionally drop a piano on the heads of the powerful, the smug, and the self-important.

And yes, that includes influencers, preachers, politicians, and anyone who thinks their Instagram grid is a sacred document. You don’t get to step into the spotlight and demand a standing ovation without also accepting that someone might throw a custard pie your way.

Look, this isn’t about cruelty. Nobody’s defending a comedian standing on stage yelling slurs while dressed like a rejected contestant from X Factor. But if you can’t tell the difference between satire and spite, between a joke and a threat, then you probably shouldn’t be writing police reports. You should be watching reruns of Teletubbies.

We have reached the absurd point where comedy is being dragged into courtrooms because someone’s feelings were hurt in a minor traffic accident. We’re litigating laughs. What’s next? Fining someone for a sarcastic eyebrow raise?

Let’s be honest. Most of the noise comes from people who love attention more than resolution. They don’t want dialogue. They want drama. They want to play the part of the wounded saint, weeping into their soy cappuccino while typing, “this is not okay” on Instagram Live with a ring light.

But if we let this nonsense continue, if we keep walking on eggshells made of hyper-sensitive opinions, we’re finished. Satire will die. Humour will become another beige commodity. And we’ll be left with comedians who apologise for their punchlines before they tell the joke.

So here’s a thought. If you want to be adored, brace yourself. Adoration comes with attention. And attention comes with scrutiny, mockery, and yes — the occasional picture of a testicle. That’s the deal. That’s showbiz.

Or, as I like to put it: if you can’t handle the roast, get out of the oven.