OK, it’s “guess the sound-effect” time. Ready? Let’s start with something easy. What goes: “Whump! BOOM! Klak-klak-klak-klak-klak-klak-klak…”?
OK, I’ll give you hint. You’ve all heard the noise before, and reacted by immediately blaspheming at a certain Muglett, Jesmond, and the pitiful state his 10-year stint as Transport Minister has left our roads.
That’s right! It’s the sound made when a 35mm tyre explodes upon unexpected contact with a six-inch-deep pothole, followed by the inimitable flapping of rubber thread against the tarmac as you grind your car to a halt.
Now try this one: “Huff, puff, WRENCH! Huff, puff, WRENCH! Huff, puff… huh? AAA-A-AA-A-AAARGH!”
Yes, you’ve got it again! It’s the sound of a (rather light) person attempting to loosen the bolts of a tyre by standing on the spanner and jumping up and down… only to suddenly realise that bolts are actually loosened by turning the spanner anti-clockwise, and not clockwise as previously supposed.
Right, one last one for the road: “Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap… Beep… beep… beep… CLICK! ‘Hello, is that RMF…?’ ”

But you know what? I refuse to also include the most obvious sound-effect associated with such occurrences (which would be something like: “&%*$£... Mugliett… %$£&*… Jesmond… $%£!&... etc.”) for I have come round to understanding that whenever people complain about the state of the roads, the real reason for their anger and resentment is that way, way down inside, they know they really need it.
Driving lessons, I mean. Reason being, that the puncture which briefly ruined my life last night had little to do with the abundance of potholes and UFOs (unidentified flat-provoking objects) on our roads, and much to do with the fact that driving is a skill which requires reflexes, hand-to-eye co-ordination and an attention span lasting more than 12 seconds. Oh, and possibly also a drivers’ licence… but this, it seems, can be acquired without too much difficulty through well-placed connections in the Malta Transport Authority.
In any case, last night I found myself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And I thought to myself: am I right? Am I wrong? Or am I suddenly singing a Talking Heads’ song?
Well, it turned out that I was in fact providing backing vocals for David Byrne during his acclaimed Stop Making Sense concert in 1983. Trouble is, the year was 2008, and I happened to be driving my car (which is not very “large”, but hey! David Byrne wrote the lyrics, not me…) on one of those rare moments when a local radio DJ confounds expectations by playing something that sounds remotely similar to this thing called “music”. (Local radio DJs tend overwhelmingly to come from the “Mix-and-hope-for-the-best” school of disc jockey-ism, which explains how Hot Chocolate can be followed by Elton John, followed by Celine Dion, followed by Hank Williams Senior, followed by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, etc.)
And to make matters worse, all this came to pass on the Tal-Balal road.
The name of the road is important, as it literally translates (for the benefit of my non-polyglot readers) as: “Of, or pertaining to, bullets.” The road is in fact named after what many of us would secretly love to pump into the bodies of whoever was responsible for its surfacing... ideally, at point blank range, with a Magnum 45.
See? How easy it is to simply blame the contracted party in a public works project completed in 2002… But back on the road again, and there I was, driving on the outskirts of San Gwann, asking myself: “How did I get here?” and “This is not my beautiful car!”, when… Whump! BOOM! Klak-klak-klak-klak-klak-klak-klak…
My immediate reaction, naturally, was to give vent to the most obvious sound-effect associated with such occurrences. But hours later my unbridled wrath subsided, and I found myself thinking…
Had I followed the advice of the previous track played on the radio that evening, I would have “kept my eyes on the roads and my hands upon the wheel”. (Yes, the radio was playing some pretty damn music at the time – more of this later.)
This way, I would have seen that darn six-inch-deep pothole long before driving headlong into it. And benefiting as I do from superior hand-eye co-ordination and split-second reflexes, I would no doubt have skilfully circumnavigated the obstacle and spared myself much blood, sweat, tears and needless blasphemy.

But alas! Co-ordination and reflexes avail little when one also possesses the attention span of a lobotomised goldfish. So my eyes were not upon the road, but upon the Bad Moon A-rising above Mekkek Bar… so unlike CCR I did not see trouble on the way. As for my hands, one of them was indeed upon the wheel, but only in a rather half-hearted sort of way… while the other hand, on (ahem) the other hand, was fiddling with the tuner of my car radio.
That evening I turned on a relay station, and I couldn’t believe what I heard at all. I started tapping to that fine, fine music… and my car was wrecked by rock’n’roll.

So, to recap: Am I right to blame my night’s misadventures on the fact that the Tal-Balal road bears a passing resemblance to the surface of the aforementioned bad moon a-rising? Am I wrong to think I should sell my small automobile and buy a M4 Sherman instead? Or should I just blame myself and say “My God! What have I done?”

Well, in a break with tradition, I have decided to entirely exonerate the present administration of government for my misfortune, and even the contracted party which won tender no. CT 397/2001 for construction of Tal-Balal junction, San Gwann. Instead, I will place the blame squarely where it is due: on that blasted radio DJ who deliberately distracted my attention at the critical moment, by uncharacteristically playing two damn good songs in quick succession.
I have since consulted my lawyer, who tells me I have reasonable grounds to sue for psychological damages, as well as for the tubu refitted this morning into my tyre.
Radio DJs must after all be made mindful of their obligation to society, which includes the duty to not shock our systems by performing unlikely and unexpected feats: for instance, reneging on their responsibility to talk over every song, invariably at the most inopportune moment; or refraining from offering “Tislimiet” to whoever sends in an SMS, regardless of what the SMS actually says; or ignoring repeated requests for Bryan Adams from late-shift factory workers; and above all, resisting the temptation to follow up The Doors with Talking Heads at 8.45pm on a Thursday. (And that goes especially to you, Fuzz Box. Tislima.)