Sydney with Doc Martin

Author Archive

  1. Sydney with Doc Martin

    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.

    We arrive at Circular Quay on our first day, through the precipitous Sydney Business district. We get off the bus impatient to see one of the world’s most famous views. Behind us is a wall of skyscrapers. In front is the long building that marks the entrance to the waterway hub of the city and the view.

    But just as we make our way through the crowds, a sheet of water drops from the heavens and the brief glimpse we had of the harbour bridge disappears. As soaked tourists and locals squeeze together under the shelter of the ferry wharfs, the curtains are drawn on the outside world.
    Driving in Sydney – don’t take the wrong turning you’ll find yourself in a jam on the express way with no means of retracing your steps.
    The Magic Flute featured dancers hanging from creepers in the magic forest and Masonic symbols in the temple – and a vertically revolving room in which the singers tumbled. Papegono strolled onto the stage with a six pack of Castlemain XXXX.
    To Sydney Botanic gardens to see the bats. They hang like some grotesque fruit on trees that are stripped of foliage. When disturbed there is a cacophony of shrieks and their flight is straight out of a Hammer Horror film.
    I really like lime and ginger marmalade.
    On Bondi Beach a group of young men as thickly bearded as Ben Gunn sit on the pavement on mats. One gets up and performs a party shuffle that is slow and almost menacing in its apparent playfulness. To hoots of hilarity, he suddenly bends his body and in one sinuous move he rolls onto his back and spins. It is his party piece and it never ceases to delight his friends. At last he jumps up and proffers his cap to imaginary passers by.
    There is a pedestrian walkway that takes you from the headland of the Sydney inlet along all the ocean beaches. If you want to watch the surfers the best viewpoint is from the cliffs as you have turned the point so that your eye is in line with the breakers out at sea hundreds of yards from the beach.
    Has Doctor Martin tried surfing? He nearly died. “You’ve got to do it from a young age. No-one tells you you’re up on the crest of a wave and there’s a sheer drop down to nothing. They brought a young Englishman in last week; landed on his head; he’s a vegetable now.”
    Recent Incidents of dangerous marine life – sign below The Ladies’ Beach at Coogie.
    How weird and scarey is Australian wildlife?
    The flight to Bali took us over the centre of Austrailia – unremitting emptiness just black lines in the red.
    Among the photographs of those 200 burnt alive in the Victoria fires, one face catches my eye: he poses with jaunty hat and cheeky grin, a few beers inside him and ready to yarn, have a crack at the poms, wind up his mates and pull a tipsy sheila. Rest in Peace.

  2. Bad human material, one eyed idiots and gollywogs

    February 11, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    Even from the azure waters of New Zealand I hear that Sofia’s mayor is again where he wants to be – in the eye of a mini-media storm at least within the Bulgarian Diaspora.


    Boyko Borisov, that proud Bulgarian prototype, travelled to Chicago in the belief that addressing a cross section of Bulgarian expat “great and good” would somehow enhance his statesmanlike reputation at home.


    Chicago is in the State of Illinois – reputedly the most politically corrupt state of the Union, boasting the largest number of impeached governors including the most recent incumbent Ron Blagoevitch. The city is run by Mayor Richard Daley who follows in the footsteps of his infamous father in carrying on the city tradition of Irish machine-politics.


    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 New World audience with the bulk of those living back in the home country. So he described the 7 million Bulgarian population as “bad human material”. He went into detail: what could you expect from 2.5 million pensioners so stupefied by nostalgia that they could only vote for the Socialist party over and over in the vain hope that those days of Communist wine and song would return? What could you expect from 1 million gypsies who voted for the party that paid them the most on election day? What could you expect from the 800,000 ethnic Turks who voted for the DPS no matter what? The unspoken supplementary question was what could you expect from the surviving middle class who had become so cynical that they would not vote – even for such a splendid specimen as stood before this enthusiastic audience in Chicago?


    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 Bulgaria as a toilet, there is a desperate appeal to political correctness – that most withering of EU imports.


    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 – Chicago expats or Bulgarian citizens of the EU. This is reminiscent of British 18th century politics at its most pungent and entirely suits the style of Sofia’s mayor.


    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 UK is currently covered in snow and the blood is being drawn from its cultural, financial and political life. Bulgaria can rejoice in its colour and occasional stupidity.


  3. Notes towards an aquamarine future- News from New Zealand and Bulgaria

    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 New Zealand. Annie (Ennie in Kiwi) is shocked and wants to know more about this pist. “What’s a ret?” she asks. The guide is lost for words – a European who doesn’t know what a ret is. I say the problem is that the Maoris didn’t bring any cets.


    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 Bulgaria is for once unexpectedly good. In the latest court case the demolition order hanging over Milka’s property in Vuzrazhdane 4 has been lifted – at least for the time being. At this announcement from the judges, our champion, Assen Yordanov let out such a triumphant whoop that he received a warning from the court.


    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 Bulgaria. Even though Milka’s rent from at least one part of the property is secured, the other tenants have been scared/bought off. We hope at least that Gravé’s case for compensation has now been compromised.


    Mitko Subev – we are always ready to negotiate.


  4. Merry Moments on Bulgarian Pavements

    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.


  5. More on the Ministry of Extraordinary Situations

    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..