And so we came to it at last, the great battle of our time. But like almost everything in this sweet land of ours, the history of its unfolding is divided.
Some have it that the proud and magnanimous Lorenzo the Magnificent, together with… erm, nobody in particular… fought a heroic and historic battle against the legions of the fell Sorcerer Sant: who would, if victorious, have plunged the land into a second hofra. But others decree that that it was Sant himself – or Sir Alfred the True, as he was known to the hordes of the Left – who strove in vain to liberate the country from the curse of corruption with which Lorenzo’s reign had blighted it. The truth, for what it is worth, is most likely elsewhere.

Be that as it may, a great battle was indeed fought, and for a time the hordes of the Left appeared destined to a resounding triumph. For Lorenzo the Magnificent presided over a crumbling empire; many of his erstwhile champions had grown lazy in their opulence, and careless in their exploits; and perceiving all this, Sir Alfred gathered to his seat in the Glass Palace his faithful lieutenant Sir Jason, his valiant squire Sir Michael, and his shrewd counsellor Charlemangiò, and spoke unto them thus: “Bejnietna l-Laburisti, I think we are going to need a more cunning electoral campaign. Any bright ideas?”

So Sir Jason drew upon his dark arts, and lo! Before their eyes there materialised a cauldron full of spluttering, malodorous mud. “Take this, O Truthful One, and fling the mud at thy enemies. For this is magic mud, and you never know: some of it might stick.”
And Sir Michael rode forth unto the Fossos plains, and with a frightful roar he summoned an army of lions, each with a red handkerchief tied around its mane. “With these Lions of Change,” he decreed, “none shall withstand our march towards undying Youtube fame!”
And finally, Charlemangiò opened his manual of genetic sorcery, and selecting a suitably nefarious curse he laid it upon the DNA of the entire GonziPN clan.

Thus armed with Jason’s mud, and Michael’s lions, and Charlemangiò’s curse, the hordes of the Left proved invincible in battle. One by one the Blue Knights fell, some more valiantly than others. Among the slain are Sir Censu the Witlessly Recorded, devoured by a ravenous brimba in the dungeons of the Maritime Keep. And for his part, Sir Jesmond of the Overshot Budget was last seen clinging desperately to the Bridge of Manuel Doom, awaiting unlikely rescue from an untimely fall.

But there was one knight who had so far resisted all Sir Alfred’s strategems. A part-time farmer by day, and a fearless environment crusader by night, this young and brave adventurer had single-handedly defeated the Siggiewi cement dragon, and rescued the temples of Mnajdra from the encroaching sloughs of waste. For these and other exploits he was named an honorary member of the Order of the Green Politicians, and even won the blessing of the fairy environmentalist-queen, Dame Astrid. Alone of Lorenzo’s failing army he stood his ground, and Sir Jeffrey Orlando was his name.

Long did Sant plot his downfall, perceiving in him a young whippersnapper who could in time grow perilous. So from the secret underground basement of the Glass Palace, he put forth his army of elven scouts to explore the multifarious labyrinth of the Civil Service archives. Soon they chanced upon a scroll that would, if read aloud upon the proper place and at the proper time, seal Sir Jeffrey’s fate forever.
But the serpent of treachery is never too far away from the Glass Palace, and among the elves was one who favoured good Sir Jeffrey, and sent word to him of his impending peril.

Now Sir Jeffrey was a brave warrior, but there is a fine line between bravery and – how can I put this? – sheer tomfoolery. So for three days and three nights, oblivious to the spectacle he thus made of himself, Sir Jeffrey did hunt the wicked sorcerer: On the hills, in the fields, on the beaches and before the gates of MEPA itself, he challenged Sir Alfred daily to mortal combat. But ever the sorcerer fled before his onslaught; for Sant’s craft lay not in open war, but in subtlety and occult device.
And thus it chanced that Sir Jeffrey’s hunt took him far beyond the confines of the eighth district, onto an enchanted isle where Sir Alfred was rumoured to be brewing trouble. There he beheld a splendid feast, and being weary and hungered of the chase, and little realising that it was a rather obvious enchantment designed to ensnare him, the Green Knight sat and ate his fill.

Alas! For while Sir Jeffrey partook of the enchanted feast, Sant stole away from the isle in secret, and hastened towards the part-time farmer’s own estate in the fair Mistra vale.
There, the cunning sorcerer called forth the wicked journalists of the Union Press, and lo: he unveiled before their eyes an outside development zone vision most foul, corrupt and insincere.
“In this dossier ye shall verily see how the good Sir Jeffrey Orland, Paladin of the Order of Green Politicians, Champion of the Environment, and a fearless extractor of molars and incisors to boot, hath plotted with his minions to rape this virgin land, and erect upon its hallowed soil a perfidious Knight-Club, of all ridiculous things!”
And when Sir Jeffery belatedly arrived, the sorcerer had vanished, and with him had vanished also all his honour and green credentials in one fell swoop.

Sir Jeffrey tore at his garments in rage and howled to the heavens in despair, crying out in the wilderness: “Lies! All lies! For I rented out this land to I know not whom, who applied for a permit for I know not what, and even though I never met the man, already have I persuaded him to withdraw the permit of which I am entirely ignorant, so that the ridiculous obscenity of which I am totally unaware shall never come to pass!”
Thus loudly protesting his ignorance and innocence, Sir Jeffrey rode to the pavilion where the good King Lorenzo himself sat in state, discussing his own magnificence with an army of grovelling subjects. And in a manly display of chivalry and valour, Sir Jeffrey Orlando burst into tears.

Now, in the court of Gonzilot there dwelt at the time a cunning little mage named Saliba, who heard Sir Jeffrey’s lament and watched his pitiful antics from his tower in the newly built maximum security fortress at Pietà.
Less subtle was he than the Sorcerer Sant, but every bit as devious; and besides, it was widely known that Saliba kept a magical device locked away in his vaulted chamber, which enabled him to contrive the appearance of any document that happened to be needed at any given moment: such as, for instance, a recipe for stuffed calamari, or a five-month old arrest warrant.
So Saliba summoned Sir Jeffrey to his tower, and pulling strings on his magical device, he contrived to produce an enchanted DOI press card.
And he spoke unto the Knight, saying: “For heaven’s sake, man, pull thyself together. Save thy tears for after the election, when we feed thee to the Lions of Change. Meanwhile, let us go to challenge the Enemy before the gates of Mandra Malta on Gwardamangia Hill. For my gnomes tell me that in that place, and at that time, he intends to read aloud the scroll that shall turn thy last remaining vestiges of credibility into a heap of construction waste.”
And Sir Jeffrey, emboldened by this the mage’s wise words, and buoyed by the knowledge that the magical press card would render him invincible to the fearless Broadcasting Authoritarians, wiped the tears from his eyes and rode forth into battle.

To be continued…