-an OD of Toughts-

 Political violence is always wrong. Always. Anyone who tries to argue otherwise is either insane, dishonest, or just loves chaos. Shooting someone because you dislike their opinions is beneath contempt, beneath common decency, and frankly, beneath explanation. But here’s the thing nobody wants to say: mourning Charlie Kirk is optional. Optional. You are under no moral obligation to light a candle, post a heartfelt social media tribute, or pretend the world has lost a saint. Kirk’s brain was like a rusted gearbox in a 1970s Lada—creaking, failing catastrophically, and emitting fumes of ignorance strong enough to kill small wildlife. And what ideas did he offer? Oh, just a parade of moral flatulence so noxious it could choke a small city. Nuremberg-style trials for doctors. “Some gun deaths” are worth it to protect the Second Amendment. Women should submit to their husbands, Martin Luther King was “awful,” and empathy is a made-up new-age fairy tale. Civil rights? A “huge mistake.”...

Right then, let’s sharpen the knives. The PN has a new leader. Alex Borg. But before anyone starts blathering about rebirth and fresh horizons, let’s call this what it is: a party that’s been lying in a ditch for a decade has just propped itself up on one elbow and muttered, “still alive, sort of.” Photo: James Bianchi/MaltaToday) Borg only just won, wafer-thin, narrower than a spaghetti strand, which is hardly the sort of triumph that makes people think “ah yes, here comes the saviour.” What he does bring is youth, a new face, and the sense that the PN isn’t entirely run by men who still think the fax machine is cutting-edge technology. But experience? He’s got about as much as a teenager on his first driving lesson. And let’s talk about the leadership race itself. If this was supposed to showcase competence, it was a spectacular own goal. The electoral commission ran it with all the slickness of a goat trying to ice skate. Delays, confusion, a media policy so laughably restrictive...

 Bang Bang Baby is one of those shows that makes you sit there, scratch your head, and mutter: “What on earth am I watching?” We’re in 1986 Milan. Bubble gum, a foul-mouthed parrot, a psychic, and a soundtrack dripping with Echo and the Bunnymen. It’s part mafia thriller, part fever dream, and occasionally part “did someone spike my drink?” At the centre is Alice, a 16-year-old who discovers her dad isn’t dead at all, just very busy being knee-deep in mobster business. And suddenly she’s hurled into a world of lies, bullets, and family drama that makes The Sopranos look like The Waltons. Now, don’t expect the show to hold your hand. It throws you into the deep end, shuffles between subplots like a dodgy deck of cards, and moves at the pace of a Fiat on a cold morning. At times, you’ll feel lost. At times, you’ll wonder if you’ve sat on the remote. But here’s the thing: once it finds its stride, it’s stylish, moody, and strangely magnetic. Every shot oozes atmosphere, the music is p...