Dedicated to all readers of Lanzarote who have shown incredible loyalty towards this project through think and thin, good times and bad (in particular these tense eurovision days). We thank you for your support. Please do keep coming back. Also dedicated to our favourite bloggers after 1 year in the business: vlad at fool's cap, jacques at j'accuse, mark at xifer, pierre at pierre j. mejlak's blog, toni at toni sant's blog, cyberdigger at ta' barra mod iehor iehor, sandro at ta' barra mod iehor, gybexi at inutile de dejeuner, zemploid at the orbit, sharon at lost in thought, fausto at malta 9, arseidor, raphael at the skip, twanny at triq il-maqluba and stagno at xemx wisq sabiha/maltastar.we'resobloodyhip.com


LES MALTAIS

Pour avoir longuement visite l'ile de Malte au printemps, avec une camarade intelligente qui n'avait pas de culotte, je puis temoigner que c'est une ile tres jolie ou l'on ne s'ennuie guere a l'ombre des acacias ventrus grouillants de cigales, animal dont le crissement saccade nous les brise, il faut bien le dire.

Si l'on exclut les villes-Etats comme Hong Kong, Malte est le premier pays du monde pour la densite de sa population, qui est de 1 107 habitants au kilometre carre, en comptant les scatophages et les diabetiques, contre seulement 97 en France, en comptant les putains et les socialistes. C'est dire a quel point les gens sont serres les uns contre les autres lors des promenades pedestres et des offices de dimanche. D'ou l'interet de visiter Malte en compagnie d'une camarade depourvue de culotte, la promiscuite surpopulatoire en milieu urbain pouvant a tout moment solliciter la libido du touriste dont l'appareil photographique ventral cache mal aux regards la boursouflure turgescente d'un mandrin frenetique que la morale reprouve en dehors des liens sacres du mariage.

Peu intelligent par rapport au cadre francais dont on peut voir briller l'oeil vif chaque jour a l'aube dans n'importe quel avion d'Air Inter, le Maltais est en revanche tres gentil. Manquerait plus qu'il morde, direz-vous. Certes, mais pour cet etre ne a cheval entre la Sicile et l'Afrique, mi-italien mi-bete, je demanderai l'indulgence.

Le Maltais moyen est petit.
Le Maltais petit est minuscule.
Il n'y a pas de grand Maltais. Il n'y a que toi, Helene. (Message personnel).

Desuete et volontiers monogame, la Maltaise a generalement la peau brune et pulpeuse, et ses hanches de guitare en font un instrument accorte, au lit comme a la plage. Mais attention. Quand je dis "instrument", qu'on ne se meprenne pas. Je ne suis pas pour la femme-objet, au contraire: j'aime bien quand c'est moi qui bouge pas.

Le Premier ministre de Malte s'appelle Dom Mintoff. Tres traumatise par l'occupation brittanique, dont la derniere base a evacue l'ile en 1979, le peuple maltais se retrouve en son chef qui manifeste volontiers son anglophobie en pissant dans les theieres le 14 juillet. C'est quand meme moins con que d'afficher une tronche de hareng douloureux le 11 novembre sous l'Arc de triomphe pour secouer ce qu'il reste de mains aux ex-poilus moribonds nostalgiques de l'eventration collective de 14-18.

Word key

les etrangers sont nuls = foreigners suck
culotte = panties
ventrus = bulbous
boursouflure = swelling
turgescente = becoming or seeming swollen
mandrin = piercing object
desuete = outdated
accorte = comely, attractive
se meprendre = to misunderstand
theieres = teapot
tronche de hareng = herring's head


(This post would not have been possible without the kindness of a certain Mr Thomas Burgel - originally from Bretagne but now working for Les Inrockuptibles in Paris - who sent us a huge parcel of books and music following our reunion in Brussels two weeks ago. 2 Many DJs is a great party mix and Pierre Desproges a great misanthropist)

Enjoy les vacances: we're off to Budapest, departure from Charleroi with WizzAir at 17.55

The Greek secret service is investigating what reliable sources have termed 'a systematic, calculated intimidation' of Athenian shopkeepers by an unwieldy crowd, Lanzarote News can confirm tonight.

According to eye-witness reports, a group of around 100 individuals, brandishing a mysterious red-and-white flag mobbed a string of souvenir and kebab joints in downtown Athens demanding that stunned shopkeepers vote for a bloke called 'Fabrizju'.

Christos Tzakis, the 37-year old owner of the 'Kalimera Kebab' was still recovering from the ordeal when we caught up with him this morning. "This was incredible!" he exclaimed, a bead of sweat making its way down his rugged face, "This fat guy comes up to me and mentions 'Fanjellu' or something. When I asked him what he meant things turned nasty - he threatened to boycot my shop or, worse, simply burn it down."

Similar incidents were reported throughout the day, Greek shopowners claiming that they feared the worst for their business. "Bloody Maltese fanatics " said one angry salesgirl, visibly shaken by the events "How dare they, we'll get our own back by boycotting their shitty little island" she added, exaggerating somewhat.

It later emerged that 'Farbizju' is Malta's singer at this year's Euro Song Fest and a bit of a cult-figure in the small, predominantly cheesy country.

The organisers of the event declined to comment following the shocking incidents as police confirmed that they would be closely monitoring telephone lines in the Athens district on Saturday night, amid press reports that 'voting may be influenced'.

However, one official we contacted this morning, confirmed that the Maltese fans did have a tendency to 'make their presence felt' wherever they went, as The Times of Malta succinctly put it this morning. "They're a rowdy lot", he added with a meaningful smile.

Intrigued by this insane incident, Lanzarote News decided to see for itself what all the fuss was about and followed the good-natured Maltese singer as he navigated costume changes and sound checks and pouted his way through several photo-shoots. There appeared to be a slight hitch with a particular garment which, in the words of a certain Robbie Abela, "made his bum look totally flat for Christ's sake".

In the meantime, the Greek organisers have announced that journalists are, in fact, welcome to attend tomorrow's exclusive "Wild Sex" party which they promise "will be even better than the songs themselves". Judging by the sheer quality of bare mid-riffs and hot totty in these parts, it's hard not to believe them.

"It's gonna be a bit lonely for those wankers from Finland who came here to make a point," said one attractive Andorran backing vocalist as she gave us that unmistakeable 'come-hither' look.

Yippee!!!

Toni Sant certainly has a point when he says that the Eurovision Song Contest has its own legacy, like it or not. After all, here we are, discerning members of the public, discussing Fabrizio Faniello's hairstyle and crap lyrics. Again. There are some things that simply pull you in. Whether it's to cheer on the sex god from Cyprus, or to compare and contrast the line-up of stunning totty from Eastern Europe (the line 'man, these Eastern European birds just do my head in' invariably crops up during ESC nights with friends), or to listen to Terry Wogan's wise-cracks about reindeer or that Estonian bloke's leather trousers. Millions watch it, millions look forward to it and millions (well, let's say thousands) take it seriously.

But my question, following Toni's thumbs-up to the Warewolves from Finland, is this: when will Malta pick someone eccentric to represent it at Eurovision? When will we ditch the 'sultry Mediterranean looks', 'angelic voice' and 'pop chick' for someone slightly mad? When, in other words, will we pick a line-up of a capella nuns or a group calling itself 'Hunting is Cool and We Don't Give a Toss'? Any ideas Toni? Until then it's going to be (yet) another summer night frolicking in white linen shirts on hackneyed sandy beaches with imaginary models while another cliched sunset reminds us how bloody seriously we take ourselves.

Earnest update from Maltarightnow about Toni's faves Lordi: Dan x'aktarx minħabba li Lordi hu grupp li mhux soltu naraw bħalu fil-Eurovision.Minbarra l-mużika bi stil hard rock, għandhom ukoll il-kostum li jirrifletti l-istil tagħhom. Il-ġurnalisti ma naqsux milli jistaqsuhom dwar kemm idumu biex jagħmlu l-irtokk kif ukoll dwar l-effett li d-dehra tagħhom tħalli fuq it-tfal. Il-membri tal-grupp, minkejja d-dehra pjuttost raffa tagħhom, wieġbu għall-mistoqsijiet kollha tal-ġurnalisti anke wara li temmew il-konferenza stampa.

:-)))))))

Daphne on Dolly.

We see the copycat principle at work in every sphere of Maltese life...

Now it’s computer shops. They’re all over the place, and still you can’t get what you want or need. At one stage, it was jewellery shops, all of them selling the same boring stuff bought from the very same wholesaler. Now it’s boutiques, selling the most unbelievable tat – the kind you only see worn by streetwalkers in Rome and Soho – and kitchen emporia. Yes, kitchens are the new copycat thing. Everyone and his brother are selling them.

The copycat syndrome is what makes us behave like sheep, too. Safety in numbers? Lack of imagination? If everyone’s doing it then it must be right? One couple in a group of friends splits up and the rest of them go down like skittles. Go to a party and all the women are wearing variations of the same thing. Now they are even the same shape and size, and look like they have been pressed out of ginger-bread moulds. Pop, another one! Pop, one more!

I went to a very popular coffee-shop between meetings the other day, and it was packed with women with their small kids, and other women on their lunch break. For some minutes I sat there, feeling spooked, like there was something weird, and then I realised what it was. I was the only one wearing the hair that God gave me, the only one with a dark crop up top. They all – and I mean all, without exception – had the same hair, the kind of hair that I think of as screaming out for help (“Help me! Help me! I’m being tortured to death!”). It was either dyed blonde or heavily streaked blonde on brown – for both of which processes prior bleaching is essential, making the hair lifeless and frayed – then blow-dried “straight”. As somebody with naturally straight hair, I can tell a blow-dry at 20 paces. The hair moves differently. It was like an Argentinean polo party, with absolutely none of the glamour or beauty.



Thank God for The Encyclopedia of Modern Life. Jewellery, hairstyles, babies in prams, a disconcerting lack of individualism and the sheer 'horror' expressed by the 'ruggedly individualist middle-class professionals'. The lot! Astonishing!