-an OD of Toughts-

You know that moment when you sit down after a long day, crack open a drink, and think, Right, let’s watch something good,  only to realise that modern TV has turned into a therapy session you never signed up for? Well, that’s where I’m at. I’ve had it up to my eyebrows with the endless moral bushings and politically polished lectures that now pass for “entertainment.” So, I’ve gone back to watching old films and series, back when people made things to entertain , not educate you on the correct social vocabulary of the week. The Glory Days of Just Getting On With It In the old stuff, people simply did things . If there was a car chase, it was real, not a green-screened Tesla soaring through space while the main character delivers a monologue about personal identity. The actors smoked, shouted, fought, laughed, and didn’t give a toss about what Twitter thought of them, mainly because Twitter didn’t exist — and life was better for it. You had The Italian Job with Michael Caine...

 In 1776, Thomas Jefferson scribbled down a few words that would echo through history: “the pursuit of happiness.” Lovely, isn’t it? Sounds like an invitation to eat pizza in your underwear while watching Stranger Things until your eyeballs dry out. But here’s the twist — that’s not what he meant. Not even close. When Jefferson said “happiness,” he wasn’t referring to that fleeting, dopamine-fuelled nonsense we call fun. He wasn’t talking about a new iPhone, or a bottomless brunch with avocado toast and regret. Back then, happiness meant something a bit more… grown up . It was about flourishing. Purpose. Meaning. Doing something worthwhile even when life punches you square in the face and then reverses over you for good measure. See, Jefferson nicked the idea from Aristotle — a man who didn’t own a smartphone and probably didn’t smile much either. Aristotle said there are two types of happiness: Hedonic happiness — pleasure, comfort, distraction. Basically, Netflix and cri...

Every so often, television does something that makes you sit up, spill your pint, and mutter “well, bloody hell.” Fleabag is one of those things. It’s not so much a series as it is a high-speed collision between your funny bone and your nervous system.   On the surface, it looks like yet another “quirky London woman with problems” thing. You know the type — artisanal coffee shops, awkward dates, a bus with a slogan about mindfulness. But within five minutes, you realise Phoebe Waller-Bridge isn’t just acting; she’s practically kicking the fourth wall in the groin, staring you dead in the eye, and saying: “Yes, I did that. Now deal with it.” And here’s the thing — you do. Because every gag, every filthy aside, every dead-on observation about family, love, or why guinea pigs make terrible business mascots, is sharper than a butcher’s knife at Christmas. But then — and this is where it goes full speed ahead— just as you’re laughing at some brilliantly inappropriate joke, she hits ...

So, I sat down expecting yet another glossy corporate puff piece. You know the sort: a bloke in a tweed waistcoat banging on about “heritage” while stroking a sack of barley like it’s his pet Labrador. But no — what I got was essentially Game of Thrones , except with fewer dragons, slightly less nudity, and vastly more pints. The whole thing is Guinness flexing harder than a bloke at the gym in January. Every episode is dipped in sepia, poured through a pint glass, and polished until it looks like the inside of an Instagram influencer’s brain. Sweeping shots of barley fields make you think a knight is about to ride through with a flaming sword — but no, it’s just some farmer moaning about soil like it’s a long-lost lover. Then it cuts to a master brewer fiddling with pipes and valves as if he’s preparing to launch Apollo 11, when really, he’s just making sure some lad in Dublin doesn’t end up with a pint that tastes like bathwater. And the drama… my God, the drama. The way they go on a...

There’s a new show on Netflix called Black Rabbit . It stars Jason Bateman and Jude Law, which means immediately you’re dealing with more furrowed brows than a field of freshly ploughed soil. The setup is simple enough: Jude runs a fancy New York restaurant and nightclub, Jason turns up like a drunken uncle at Christmas, and within minutes you realise this family reunion is going to end with bodies in the bin. Now, the first thing you’ll notice is the lighting. Or rather, the total absence of it. Every scene looks like it was filmed inside a coal mine during a power cut. You’ll spend the first episode fiddling with your TV brightness settings, then eventually accept that this is just what New York looks like now: murky, brooding, and about as cheerful as a funeral in Wolverhampton. The story itself? Imagine The Godfather had a one-night stand with Ozark in the back of a nightclub kitchen. There are debts, gangsters, broken loyalties, and the kind of tense conversations where every...

Every now and then, a politician says something that doesn’t just bounce off your ears — it crawls inside your head and refuses to leave. That’s what happened when Finance Minister Clyde Caruana recently spoke about Malta’s demographic future. He didn’t coat it in glitter. He didn’t hide behind statistics. He said it plainly: Malta is heading towards decline. A shrinking population. An ageing society. An economy wobbling under the weight of it all. It was equal parts fascinating and terrifying. Fascinating because, at last, someone dared to spell it out. Terrifying because deep down, we already know he’s right.  Why aren’t we having children? That’s the real question. Why are young couples delaying family life, or avoiding it altogether? Why are so many twenty- and thirty-somethings who would love to raise children quietly putting it off year after year? The answer is heartbreakingly simple: life is just too much . A country of tired faces Look around. Malta is full of exh...

The Honda GB350S is proof that sometimes the Japanese still get it right. Because while every other manufacturer is busy building bikes with 1,200cc engines, radar-guided cruise control, and dashboards that need a degree in astrophysics to understand, Honda has quietly gone: “What if we just built a proper bloody motorcycle?” And that’s what this is. A proper motorcycle. It doesn’t come with panniers the size of shipping containers. It doesn’t sound like a hairdryer in a biscuit tin. It doesn’t look like it was designed by an angry Decepticon. It’s just a bike. With wheels. A tank. And an engine. And my God, it’s brilliant. The engine itself is a single-cylinder lump the size of a small log. 348cc of “don’t worry, I’ve got this.” It doesn’t rev, it doesn’t scream, it just thumps. Twist the throttle and you don’t so much accelerate as… advance. Like a Roman legion. Slowly. Methodically. Utterly unstoppable. Riding it is like riding a very polite tractor—it won’t scare you, but it’ll plo...

 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...

Realistic Recovery: Grit and Grace Have you taken your walk today? I haven’t. It’s August, and if I get told to go for a walk and drink more water one more time, I swear to the ever-living god I’ll throw my phone into the sea. Then, of course, I’ll probably go on a walk anyway, because frustratingly, I know it will help my mood. And yes, I am dehydrated, despite my motivational water bottle with its smug hourly reminder.  photo by Lothar Baxmann Most good ideas are simple. But taking care of your mental health is hard. Well-meaning advice can be life-changing—or infuriating. Sometimes it’s like being handed a teaspoon of water for the house-fire that is your body, your brain, your room, the planet. They feel like a 2015 infographic: relevant once, now trite and overly earnest. And yet, the truth remains—complete fixes are a myth, usually a monkey’s paw in disguise. A life worth living is built from small but meaningful actions, often requiring more effort than you feel capable ...

  From Neighbours to Enemies We have become an aggressive, violent nation. This is not hyperbole. Concrete has swallowed the island, green spaces have vanished, and the result is obvious. Road rage explodes into fistfights. Parking disputes turn into screaming matches. Party hotspots end in blood. People murdered. People beaten. People snapping at the slightest provocation. Civilised behaviour has evaporated because Malta itself is no longer civilised.  A Day in the Cage Here is Malta in one day. At six in the morning, the compressor starts drilling. It continues until eight in the evening, joined by the staccato rhythm of a jackhammer. I close my window because the neighbour below is smoking cannabis, choking my lungs. Two floors down, another neighbour lights his barbecue as if he owns the block It takes me an hour to drive a journey that should last fifteen minutes. A double-parker blocks the road, tells me to get lost when I honk, and refuses to move. On the return tr...

 Right, so a good friend and a person who avoids mainstream movies suggested I watch Seeking a Friend for the End of the World . And immediately, I thought, brilliant, another one of those quirky indie films where everyone talks about their feelings while the world burns to ash. The sort of thing where characters exchange long, meaningful glances while a meteor is hurtling toward Earth. Normally, I would rather be staring into the foamy head of a Kilkenny than sit through two hours of people sighing into teacups. The premise is simple enough. In three weeks, a massive asteroid will slam into Earth and wipe us all out. Now, in most films with this setup, you would expect Bruce Willis in a vest, tanks rolling down Fifth Avenue, a space shuttle or two being lobbed into orbit, and about four explosions before the credits have even finished. That is the standard Hollywood recipe. But this is not that. No. This is a film where Steve Carell, usually the king of awkward comedy, goes on a ...

Right, let’s address the genius argument I keep hearing: “You’ve been telling us about this doom and gloom since March 2013. But it never materialised!!!!!” Yes, well done. You’ve spotted that the sky hasn’t fallen yet   That’s not proof of economic brilliance, that’s proof you’ve got the observational skills of a goldfish. Debt isn’t a thunderstorm. It doesn’t arrive with a crash of lightning and a loud bang over Castille. It creeps. It lingers. It builds up quietly in the background, like cholesterol in your arteries, until one day, bang, heart attack. And you’ll be sat there, wide-eyed, saying, “But I thought pastizzi were fine, I’ve been eating them since 2013, and I’m still standing.” What we’ve got here is the economic version of that. Successive governments dishing out freebies, cheques, handouts, subsidies, anything to buy a smile, a vote, or at the very least a Facebook “like”. And where does the money come from? Not from a magical tree sprouting €50 notes in Castille’s ...

A few weeks ago, at a music festival full of people who smell like compost and regret, someone asked me how work was going. Without thinking, I replied, “I’m decentring work.” Photo by pen_ash Now, to most people, that sounds like I’ve joined some sort of spiritual cult where we wear linen trousers and hum at sunrise. In reality, it just means I’m working less and lying down more. Apparently, this is part of something called “the rest revolution,” which is a cultural shift where doing nothing is considered not just acceptable but aspirational. Like a Rolex but without the time-keeping or the €20,000 bill. It is fuelled by trendy buzzwords like “quiet quitting,” “micro-retirement,” and my personal favourite, “lazy boy jobs” which all translate to I’m sick of flogging myself for pennies while Jeff Bezos buys another yacht. And they’re right. We’ve reached the point where many jobs demand more hours, more stress, and more meetings about meetings, but give you less money, less stability, ...

At some point, usually after a hangover, a breakup, or a speeding ticket, we all decide that it's time to become a “better person.” Whatever that means. We picture ourselves as less angry, more generous, perhaps someone who volunteers at a soup kitchen and doesn’t shout at printers. But we immediately run into a problem: we haven’t the faintest idea what “better” even looks like. Are we meant to start yoga? Hug strangers? Stop flipping people off in traffic? Nobody says. Now, the world is stuffed full of lifestyle gurus who’ll tell you to journal, meditate, juice kale, or swim with dolphins. But the truth is, self-improvement doesn’t come from reading books or listening to people who use the word “authenticity” unironically. It comes from doing . And more importantly, not being a complete arse . So, what does being a “better” human actually involve? For a start, stop being awful to other people. Revolutionary, I know. Try treating people with respect, not because it’s spiritual,...

The pounding heart, it starts to race, A brand-new mask, a different face. It hides behind the daily news, Shifting truths and worn-out views. The ache today’s not hard to trace— Just miles away from my own place. From where I’d greet the break of dawn, But now that road feels far and gone. It’s a flight that cuts the sky, Then dives beneath where eagles fly. On this long and endless ride, In a world that dances then tries to hide. It’s a flight that sinks, not soars, With rusted wings and bolted doors. I’m nailed against this empty wall— And now I barely feel at all. No, I’m not a hero, Not one with stars to claim. I’m not a hero, Just one more lost name Since the war went down in flame. I sleep in fog, in silver-grey, Where fallen trees just rot away. And dreams that chased the wind at night, Collapse before they take their flight. Oh, what a weight, what bitter luck— To trip just past the final truck. From all the fear I tried to hide, From all the pain I...

Look. Ozzy Osbourne died. And no, we didn’t know him personally. He didn’t send us Christmas cards or pop round for tea. But the moment that headline hit, something inside twisted. And not in a “oh, sad news” kind of way. No. In a deep, throat-lumping, soul-punching kind of way. Because Ozzy wasn’t just some ageing rocker. He was ours . The Soundtrack to the Chaos If you grew up anytime between cassette tapes and dodgy MP3 players, chances are Ozzy was in your ears. Loud. And often. Through heartbreaks, grief, anxiety, panic attacks, teenage sulking, and those moments where everything felt completely and utterly pointless. He was there. Belting it out while we stared at the ceiling, wondering if we were losing the plot. Sometimes it felt like he got it, like he was screaming what we couldn’t say out loud. Other artists came and went. Nirvana exploded, burned out, and became a logo on t-shirts. Trends changed, scenes shifted, and our lives did that thing where everything gets me...

Look around you: Two people were shot dead. A woman was run over and killed by a drunk, unlicensed soldier, and the guy walks free. Another man beats a woman inside a car, and someone else gets seven separate bailouts for all kinds of charges. A man was crushed by a bus and died. And the daily dose of accidents we’ve become numb to. Then, when someone dies by suicide, everyone suddenly acts shocked. But the most we manage is a post about "mental health awareness", a podcast or two, and once a year, we light up Mater Dei and Mount Carmel in green as if that fixes anything. Everyone becomes an expert on depression for a week, and then it’s back to silence, especially from the institutions, which wouldn’t dare upset anyone. But this is the reality. This is what life has become here. It’s anger, it’s pressure, it’s helplessness from the top down. People are mentally and emotionally exhausted. The whole system is toxic, and it’s showing. Everywhere. You open...

 Let’s not pretend. What’s happening in Malta isn’t a mistake. It’s not a bug in the system. It is the system. Our institutions—those sturdy bricks that are supposed to keep power in check—have been hollowed out like a chocolate Easter egg. Nice to look at. Shiny, even. But bite into it and you find there’s nothing there. No substance. No spine. No resistance.  And here’s the sick twist: it’s all happening legally . Quietly. Efficiently. And with a smile. We didn’t wake up to tanks in the streets. No strongmen banging fists on podiums. What we got was a carefully choreographed series of “reforms” and “updates”—each one just technical enough to bore the public, just ambiguous enough to avoid outrage, and just effective enough to neuter any serious oversight. The judiciary? Once a pillar of justice, now more of a suggestion. Appointments based on merit? Don’t be naïve. For years, judges were chosen by whoever held the keys to Castille. Loyalty, not law, was the ladder up. E...