-an OD of Love-

The scale and I? We’re enemies. One wrong meal, one off calibration, and suddenly my sense of self-worth nosedives because of a number. If I let that number dictate my journey, I’d have given up long ago. My weight can fluctuate by a kilo in a single day something it took me years to understand, and even longer to stop blaming myself for. So now, I focus on how I feel. How my body moves. How walking feels. How roomy the chair is. How my clothes fit. That feeling that quiet confidence, that freedom is what success looks like to me. The Rooftop That Changed Everything I’ll never forget that sunny day in Milan. I was standing on a rooftop, surrounded by centuries-old beauty, and I couldn’t enjoy a second of it. I was in too much pain to explore, too drained to care. That moment broke me. What should have been a little break became the moment I gave up. But rock bottom has a way of becoming a foundation. Today, I have a new life. A different energy. A deeper appreciation. And I long to go ...

  Right, so imagine, if you will, the mid-1960s. A time of questionable fashion, even worse music, and, crucially, motorcycles that largely handled like a shopping trolley full of actual bowling balls. And then, there was Kawasaki. A name, back then, that probably conjured images of… well, I don't know, industrial machinery? Not exactly a purveyor of two-wheeled ecstasy. But apparently, they'd had a thought. A rare occurrence for a Japanese corporation, one might argue. They looked across the pond, saw America, land of the brave and home of the deeply credulous, and decided, "Yes! We shall sell them motorcycles. Big ones." So, they got some chaps – probably smelling faintly of instant noodles and regret – locked them in a room, and told them to build something utterly, monumentally brilliant. They called it "New York Steak." Because, obviously, that's what you name a groundbreaking motorcycle project. Not "Project Thunderpants" or "Death o...

Once a jewel of the Mediterranean, known for its charm, history, and stunning coastline, Malta today feels more like a permanent construction zone. Cranes tower over every town, dust clouds choke the air, and roads crumble beneath the chaos. Villages merge into sprawling urban monotony, leaving locals and visitors alike wondering: what’s left to see in a country that never stops building but seems to lose more of itself with every brick? The Crane-Scarred Skyline Ask any Maltese resident and you’ll hear the same refrain: What are tourists even coming here to see anymore? Because instead of domes and narrow cobbled streets, the skyline is now dominated by cranes, dozens of them, stretching into the sky above every village and town. Stepping outside is an assault on the senses: jackhammers echo endlessly, concrete mixers rumble, and dust settles on everything, including your laundry. Navigating Malta means detours and blocked roads at every turn, while urban planning often feels like...

  Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been since Labour burst out of the Naxxar Counting Hall like a flaming rocket powered by voter rage and a suspicious amount of electoral Red Bull, leaving the Nationalist Party in a smoking crater of existential crisis and confused applause. Since then, the PN has done what any self-respecting political party does when it loses catastrophically: it changes the wallpaper, moves the chairs around, and sets fire to itself three times for good measure. Let’s be honest, the PN hasn’t just struggled. It’s made struggling into an Olympic sport. Simon Busuttil: The Man With the Plan (Just Not a Very Good One) Simon came from Brussels, which probably explains why he was so good at issuing calm press statements and so bad at winning elections. He looked the part, sounded the part… but had all the firepower of a damp tea towel. He abstained on civil unions, lost an MEP election by the same soul-crushing margin as the general one, and even when the Panama P...

Let's get one thing straight: the entire, tedious point of civilization has always been to keep the thugs from running the show. It’s a simple, almost boring concept, yet one we seem determined to forget. Unless we consistently and forcefully stop the strong from savaging the weak, the idea of a "safe society" is a pathetic fiction we tell ourselves between crises. A civil society that quaint notion where the powerful aren't allowed to brutalize the vulnerable for sport or profit is the ideological opposite of the world being built by so many of today's leaders. The goal is supposed to be moving away from brutality, not embracing it as a legitimate political tool. It's about protecting the weak, not empowering the strong to do their worst. And don't kid yourself; it’s all the same tired, predictable playbook. The names and places change, but the strategy is identical. Whether it’s Trump’s flunkies bullying immigrants, white supremacists menacing minoritie...

Ten years ago today, we lost Rik Mayall. Not just a comedian, oh no. That would be like calling a nuclear bomb “a bit noisy.” Rik wasn’t in comedy, he was comedy. A chaotic, unwashed, howling symphony of fart jokes, political rage, and facial expressions that could melt granite. He didn’t perform like the others. While comedians were busy being clever with wordplay and sipping skinny lattes, Rik was on stage juggling chainsaws, humping the furniture, and dropkicking society in the balls.  Take The Young Ones. Now that wasn’t a sitcom. It was a feral, foaming, student-powered riot. And right at the centre of it was Rick – with a K – a self-proclaimed anarchist and poet who made Karl Marx look like a mild-mannered geography teacher. This was a show where the housemates fought, died, exploded, came back to life, and argued about lentils all in one episode. Subtle? No. Funny? Dear God, yes.  Then, Blackadder. You remember Lord Flashheart? Of course you do. Because he kicked the d...

 Right. So I sat down to watch Stick on Apple TV+, fully expecting to endure 45 minutes of people in visors whispering about wind speed and turf quality. And yet — somehow — I emerged from the first episode emotionally compromised and inexplicably Googling “golf holidays in Scotland.” Stick is the story of Dan "Stick" Sullivan, a man whose talent for hitting small balls with long sticks. Washed-up, emotionally constipated, and armed with a 9-iron and the kind of emotional baggage Ryanair would charge double for, he returns to his hometown and brace yourself, finds redemption. Through golf. Now, before you roll your eyes so hard they get stuck, let me explain: this is not a show about golf . It’s a show about life , cleverly disguised as a series of duffed chip shots and whiskey fueled arguments beside water hazards. The local golf course? Less Augusta National, more post-apocalyptic dog park with flags. The characters? An ensemble of glorious disasters, including: A ...

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...