Method and Madness

How many forms can foolishness take? As most readers of this blog would probably concur, The Times and its contributors are indisputably an overflowing cornucopia of ludicrousness, though it is not without some disappointment that latterly this has manifested itself in the drab ramblings of witless bores. Thus, when I (metaphorically) opened up Monday's issue of the paper and found Carmel J. Delia's nonsensical asininity, I was relieved to find that The Times has extended its retinue of loons to the category of good old-fashioned cranks.
Still, I am confused. Delia's style feels like it would be more at home amidst the litany of Americanate giddiness that is the unwholesomely titled basketball column "Take it to the Hole".
The irrepressible high spirit of Delia’s outpourings certainly doesn’t look comfortable alongside dog-impersonator Lino Spiteri's characteristically dull article. An image that comes to mind is of a clown at a funeral.
And the less said of Joseph Muscat's contribution the better. Though it would be amiss not to note that of the 1278 words reserved for this buffoon’s article, only 279 of them were actually written by him. The rest is a huge chunk of text lifted directly out of the Convergence Plan 2005-2008 to the European Union. I am lost for words as to how to remark on this unashamed indolence, other than calling for Muscat to be publicly horsewhipped.
So how does Delia fit into all this? Someone once offered me a fascinating theory for the proliferation of village crazies in Russia. At the height of the Stalinist purges, even personal behaviour was subject to the suspicion of authorities or officious neighbours. Consequently, talking out of turn would immediately be reported to the secret police. Likewise, anyone not saying anything at all could be reported, as they might be thinking subversive thoughts. The only solution was to talk rubbish all day, which meant that you were probably just an idiot. Which brings us back to Delia.
But is rubbishing Delia fair? To pursue the Russian thread, there is much in his writing that is reminiscent of the skaz genre, best executed in my opinion by Soviet humorist Mikhail Zoshchenko. This author in particular was best known for his coruscating commentaries on the absurdness of daily Soviet existence. To quote from The Literary Encyclopaedia, "skaz appeared quite widely ... as a parodic device, undermining narrative (and/or central) authority by invoking the discourse of the “other” (implicitly the “not-author”)". To put it crudely, by adopting this curious prose style, the writer contrives to obviate the appearance of dissent; a highly perilous activity in Stalinst Russia.
What Delia is so afraid of is not yet clear. Could the organising committee of the Malta Song for Europe pose as horrifying a threat as Dzerzhinsky's chekist menace? Surely only the prospect of their cruel repression could account for this inspired lunacy:

"As The Beatles once sung, money can't buy love, but it might be just the tool one needs to participate in the Eurovision Song Contest. Unless, of course, a knackered microphone, or two, gets in your way!
Yessiree, one does get knackered microphones even in this day and age of face transplants and orbiting spacecraft!"

And the next quote is pure Gogolian madness, though the cavalier use of language leans more towards the poetry of Archy the cockroach:

"Now, everyone knows that these days going to a hairdressing salon is almost a must and so practically everybody does pay a visit to these salons, especially so women."

The choice quotes are far too many to include here, despite the commendable brevity of the column itself. So after my wavering indecision, I have decided that in Delia we have indeed been endowed with a subversive holy fool. A great day for The Times! A great day for Malta!