First a big thank you to Martin Belinda Mila and Theo for making space for us in their distinguished long old house in a Sydney suburb. Our bedroom window is by the frangipani tree.

March 5, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
First a big thank you to Martin Belinda Mila and Theo for making space for us in their distinguished long old house in a Sydney suburb. Our bedroom window is by the frangipani tree.

February 11, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
Even from the azure waters of
Boyko Borisov, that proud Bulgarian prototype, travelled to
Coincidentally the city has attracted large numbers of enterprising Bulgarian emigrants who strive for success within the American dream.
On his way to compare notes with his fellow mayor, Richard Daley, Bulgarian man of the moment, Boyko Borisov had a speech prepared for this young and thriving community. What could they have expected from a compatriot who enjoys speaking his mind and aspires to be leader of the homeland they left behind.
Like Christo Stoichkov without the football skills, Borisov charged his problem head on. He was a leader of men fated to live in a country that failed to meet the mark. He wished to compare his fortunate
How could the audience not feel the pain of a leader disappointed by his troops? It was as if before battle Asparukh had suddenly realised his Bulgar horde had sent away their horses and were squabbling over whether they should return to the Azov sea.
Describing your potential voters as “bad human material” ought to be a fatal mistake and of course leaders of the Socialist and Turkish parties have raised a cacophony of predictable protest. As with the controversy over the depiction of
However political correctness is not a feature of Bulgarian political life and there is every likelihood that the brash bold Mayor will have enhanced his reputation for the kind of straight talking usually associated with Taxi drivers. If George Bush could be elected president twice as the man Americans would most like to have a drink with – so Bulgarians may well still choose as leader the man they would most like to be forcefully interrupted by.
On Bulgarian internet chat rooms a transatlantic row has erupted as to who are the biggest cock suckers –
In contrast in 21st Century UK, right wing professional infant Jeremy Clarkson has called the British prime minister a one eyed idiot and has been forced to apologise after a storm of protests from the disabled community. Daughter of the Iron Lady, Carol Thatcher has been sacked by the BBC because in an off-air conversation she commented that a tennis player looked like the gollywog she used to have as a toy in her non-politically correct childhood.
Clearly the ethics of the Stasi are alive and well in the BBC.
The
January 28, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
Our ears are becoming attuned to the Kiwi accent. Like chords in a key change, vowels just move one sound over. Bat becomes bet; bet becomes bit; bit becomes but; but becomes bat. In the museum the guide explains how a new pist introduced by the Maoris ate the eggs of the flightless bird population in
The sky is an intense blue and at the crest of every hill in Auckland you look down to see a faithfully reflecting sea that fills the vast bay of volcanic islands, moulded into green dough cones and darkening into the distance.
Even the air tastes of aquamarine. It blows into the faces of underdressed Kiwis who stride beneath cool blue skyscrapers towards their next peak, like stars in their own health advertisement.
I have never been so aware of trees. Mossy green boughs are flung outwards to provide a child’s climbing dream. Branches twist and curl beyond the scope of the widest angle lens. Then the palms explode from their centre like showering fireworks. Slender maidens with trembling branches just budding, extend their as yet leafless fingers to flirt with the blue sky. Ancient neighbours in dark green leaf bow beneath the weight of a heavy bearded lecherous parasite that sweeps the air like besom.
Meanwhile the news from
Further whooping energy went into the making of a TV documentary. Milka now looks on Assen as the Bulgarian Martin Luther King.
None of the above changes the ground reality of the unnecessary conflict we find ourselves in with the third richest man in
Mitko Subev – we are always ready to negotiate.
January 13, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
In the spirit of Walt Whitman I sing the joy of Bulgarian pavements.
In their cross concrete eruptions, slabs tilting, rocking, soaking ankles with hidden waters, potholed, jagged, stepped and rooted.
I step I shuffle I trudge I trip I stagger I lurch I shift my gaze to my feet as they chart the three dimensional jigsaw.
I am blocked thwarted diverted by the hulks of deserted cars, black monsters that nose the walls and fences and stretch their arses to the very gutter.
They sleep in my path like bulky panthers fed on elephant, sleek in obese glossiness
I sing the community of the pavement as I pass elbows of drinkers spending whole days in bitter carousal
Hey! Gay! Come here so I can chop your prick off! A growl from a table as I weave my way. I turn to see a boy behind me flinch.
Dressed-down punk! A dog collar round his neck and faded eye shadow are the signs of his well known gayness. His step falters and he looks away. He is part of this pavement life
Drunken vituperation peters out to a low murmur to be drowned by the next pull at the rakia, the next outpouring of passion to be applauded by companions wise in their inebriation.
Turks Gays Gypsies Chicks
I pass bench after bench along the unending wall of block that rises to the sky. I am haunted by the eyes of single old women. Sit down next to me, son. I have something to say about life, about health, about the dead.
Lucky twos and threes support their chins on walking sticks and discuss their neighbours. Didn’t you know she’s the most fallen woman in Burgas? How is she not a peasant? Have you seen her white teeth?
I sing the grim determination of pavement dwellers, the Grannies and Grandads that squat all day selling flowers and pure honey, straggling herbs and accurate weight.
The seventy year old woman on the dusty rutted pavement on the edge of the complex, among trees and grass and roots and broken stones, she pushes a pram full to the handles with old vegetables. The wobbly wheels catch in holes, are stuck at steps. I have ten mouths to feed she says.
I sing the memories of dark night time wandering past low houses set in vine covered gardens where friends sat lit by single lights and drank home made wine. Whole nights of song and roasting peppers.
Where are those houses now? Where are the gardens? A brontosaurus blocks my path in the dark. I thought at first it was an earth mover. A cement lorry smashes the corner curb. Scaffolding and corrugated iron surround the sites where once fig trees burst with plopping fruit. I step back to crane my neck. Another modern block to join the wall of modern blocks. I tip my hat to the past.
Tipping my hat to the past as I once danced with my special girl on the crooked pavements of Burgas! All the way home singing Hit the Road Jack in drunken harmony till all friends peeled away to their houses leaving lovers free to kiss and canoudle in the dark.
I sing the scandal of pavements even in the dark, the hushed report relayed by neighbours and relatives to her parents.
He danced with your daughter in the street. Yes Martha, Kalinka, Vitka, Bonka, Donka, Danka, Dinka, they all saw it or heard about it the next day.
He’ll use her, he’ll abuse her. How can you let them dance on the pavement? The shamefulness, the outrage! And when he dumps her on the pavement, what will you do then? Best send her away to Stara Zagora. There are no foreigners on Stara Zagora pavements.
I sing the detritus, the spat sunflower husks, the plump figs and plums dropped from trees, the plump turds dropped by dogs.
The wrecks of grey rubbish bins loom like shipwrecks. They are the haunt of scrabbling cats and ravenous paupers in ragged jump suits.
I sing myself that have learnt to walk like Long John Silver, striding the pitfalls with bags of treasure bashing at my peg legs.
I am restless, cannot sit at home, my toes tap unsatisfied, yearning for massy challenge of the wild outdoors.
Like Shackleton on the ice, I must go forth or die.
January 12, 2009 by Christopher Buxton
Extraordinary Reaction to an Extraordinary Situation by the Ministry
Leaked document shows real intelligence says unnamed DPS source
The Ministry of Extraordinary Situations is not an invention of JK Rowling but is appropriately to be found facing the church where in 1925 Communists tried to blow up King and ruling elite.
With Bulgarians used to facing extraordinary situations every day of their waking and sleeping lives it is good to know that this Ministry works tirelessly on numbers of expensive projects – the latest being the cleaning of river beds an activity so muddy that it will certainly generate fat contracts for approved firms.
However, desperate times caused by the world economic crisis and the gas cut off has necessitated an exponential increase in blue sky outside-the-box thinking.
Here are some suggested initiatives in a leaked document from the Ministry of Extraordinary Situations, which will not necessarily involve large payments to Turkish sub-contractors.
Pensioners to knit hats, mufflers, mittens and bed socks for prisoners currently freezing in Bulgarian gaols. This enhances digital dexterity and circulation while generating enough hot communal complaint to warm a residential block.
An advertising campaign popularising the exciting breeds of fish to be found around the newly fired up reactor at Kozlodui – including such cheap delicacies as the four eyed red-head, (known affectionately in some quarters as a Stanishev); the shovel-finned monster brigandfish news of whose cannibalistic feats has replaced both Voden Ziderov and Bate Boyko on the front pages of the yellow press ; and the two arsed Tsarfish whose blue caviar is the subject of a current court action likely to be decided in 2036.
An invitation to George Bush to become special adviser to the communications wing of the newly formed CRIME – Committee for the Recovery of Illegal Munitions and Explosives. This will have the dual effect of mystifying the public, too often scared in the past by over-simple stories of organised crime, and providing interpreting work for the innumerable Business graduates of Private American Universities in Bulgaria.
An exchange which will bring Prince Harry to Bulgaria as special advisor to President Purvanov on Cultural Diversity and Political Correctness. The Ministry welcomes suggestions for the fancy dress ball. In return UK citizens will get Slavi Trifonov as a contestant in the latest Celebrity (who?) Big Brother .
The rebranding of Sunny Beach as a postmodern, post-communist labour camp – where the perpetrators of economic and environmental crime are forced to rub shoulders with their most obvious criminal victims in unheated and unwanted palaces.
A new campaign by the Bulgarian Orthodox church to use its priests and monks as personal body warmers for those most affected by the cold. A slight tremor near a church or monastery will trigger an immediate bear hug from a hearty smiling cleric.
A demonstration by police in Sofia Freedom Park of the penguin method of surviving a cold winter. Pushing, shoving, swearing and threatening are all permitted methods of circulation within the huddle, but guns truncheons and handcuffs will be removed from all below the most privileged ranks.
Finally the burning of all government records. This will not only have the advantage of warming the population for the entire winter, but also ensure freedom from prosecution or press exposure for all ministers – especially those responsible for extraordinary situations..