The Maltese archipelago, famed for its sun-drenched limestone and a pyrotechnic obsession that borders on the pathological, has once again proven that when it comes to explosions, it is a world leader. A fireworks factory, presumably a place where safety regulations go to die quietly in a corner, has erupted with the kind of vigour usually reserved for the Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul. Workers, who were presumably just trying to make a living without being vaporised, have been killed and injured. The safety regulator, a body whose existence is as mysterious as the Holy Trinity, now faces questions. Questions like: 'Why does this keep happening?' and 'Did anyone actually read the health and safety manual, or was it used to light the blue touch paper?'
Let us paint the scene. Picture a warehouse full of gunpowder, fuses, and the sheer, unadulterated optimism of men who believe that a spark cannot possibly find its way into a pile of explosives. The air, thick with the scent of cordite and incompetence, suddenly becomes a fireball. Workers are thrown like rag dolls. Families will grieve. And the safety regulator, a quango that sits in a climate-controlled office somewhere, will launch an investigation. They will produce a report. They will recommend 'tighter controls' and 'better training'. They will express 'deepest sympathies'. And then, in a few years, another factory will go boom, and we will all pretend to be shocked.
This is not a tragedy. This is a farce. A grim, bloody farce. Malta, for all its charms, has a relationship with fireworks that is akin to an alcoholic's relationship with the pub. It is passionate, destructive, and entirely predictable. The regulator, if it existed in any meaningful sense, would have long ago shut down every unsafe factory. But that would require courage, and in a country where everyone knows everyone, courage is in short supply. Better to have a bang, a few dead, and a perfunctory inquiry. After all, tradition demands it.
So here we are. Another headline. Another batch of funerals. Another regulator wringing its hands. The only question that remains is: How many more must die before someone in a suit actually does something? The answer, dear reader, is probably 'all of them'. Until then, light the fuse and stand well back. Because in Malta, the show must go on, even if the performers are corpses.
