Happy Wedding Day

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  1. Happy Wedding Day

    October 1, 2010 by Christopher Buxton

    On Saturday Malinna and Richard got married.

    Meteorological felicity, Olympian logistics, adventurous guests from across the world, atmospheric venues, sartorial surprises (especially Vlad’s suit) exhilarating music and Dionysian dancing all combined to celebrate the union of this beautiful couple.

    So thank you, Julie and her mum and all her family for sharing Richard with us. Thank you Tony Glew for driving us to London and back. Thank you love-bus driver for ferrying us through such narrow traffic jammed streets. Thank you Galen and your musicians for getting to both venues in time to get our feet moving with your bagpipes. Thank you all you wonderful guests and your readiness to jump into a horo. Thank you Vlad for being so unflappably and caringly organized.Thank you Tom for the witty speech on art appreciation. Thank you Jeanette for your generous warmth and thank you baby girl in the bus for being such a receptive audience for my songs. Thank you Travel Lodge for honouring our bookings. Thank you God and the forces of nature for averting all catastrophes. Above all, thank you Richard and Malinna!


  2. It’s all very well

    September 15, 2010 by Christopher Buxton

    Bulgarian Finance Minister Simeon Dyankov woke up one morning with a good idea. One sure-fire way of getting rid of corruption, tax evasion and money laundering at a stroke would be to abolish large cash transactions.

    Easy-peasy – with an absolute majority in Parliament – you just pass a law making it illegal to walk around with over 5000 leva in your pocket. Did I say walk around? – scratch that! – substitute drive around in your street busting 4×4.

    The good idea is that everyone will use banks for their transactions – thus providing the tax collectors and police with a useful paper-trail to follow. The new law provides that anyone found with such a sum on their person will see a quarter of it confiscated. So at a stroke Dyankov has put a red cross over the steotype of fat boys in dark glasses carrying Bila bags stuffed with bank notes to pay off street runners, police informers, judges and mistresses. Ageing pop stars will no longer receive their tax free fees under the table. Everyone’s heart will now thrill to the opening of bank statements announcing the safe arrival of legal money in their accounts.

    In a society in which large amounts of cash are transported in unsuitable vehicles over potholed roads, perhaps Dyankov was seeking to reduce opportunistic crime. Recently in the Rhodop village of Musachevo, gun toting gangsters made off with all the villagers’ monthly pensions, just after they had been delivered by van. Given that information about the regular movement of cash to remote villages is easily come by, such a raid would not have required much intelligent planning.

    In Bulgaria awareness of imminent crime is fanned by the press and magnified by friends’ lurid stories of thumbless Gypsy pick-pockets. I remember the sick feeling in my stomach when buying our first flat in Bulgaria in the early nineties. This involved drawing a vast sum from The International Bank, then walking through open streets to the State Savings Bank where the money was counted three times before a receipt was issued. It seemed a very risky thing to do. Out in the street I looked at the world through paranoid lenses. As I clutched the bag of money under my arm, everyone in my field of vision was transformed into a potential robber. I should have been carrying a gun.

    At the outset of capitalism in the nineties, honest fledgeling businessmen rattled vast distances with their trabants filled with banknotes, praying that they would not be robbed.

    Since then communications between banks has improved, but payments take time and organization. Buying a car, getting insurance, buying an apartment for my mother-in-law, I have toiled through the expensive and difficult international bank transfer route, making rapid calculations in dollars, euros, levs and pounds, keeping my fingers crossed that correct amounts are landing in the right accounts. Nevertheless, this is preferable to carrying cash without body guards. But it would be even better if credit cards were accepted everywhere.

    Good ideas always raise a storm of buts. The most obvious but is that a large number of Bulgarians don’t have bank accounts. Firms used to paying their employees in cash are already complaining that the system is unworkable.

    More frustrating for non-Bulgarian residents is the unpredictability of credit card acceptance. Thus I can use a credit card to pay supermarket, petrol and telephone bills, but I can’t use it to pay my Car and House Insurance. Large bills have to be paid by multiple use of cash machines over days.

    With the French Ambassador demanding that the Bulgarian Government appoints a Minister for Gypsies, a further interesting point arises. How will the black economy now function for this illiterate minority who depend on it?


  3. Bad human Material or in need of a good seeing to

    August 22, 2010 by Christopher Buxton

    The Politics of bad manners

    Tell the Bulgarians that they are “bad human material” and you go on to win a landslide election. Boyko Borisov can only conclude that blunt brutality combined with as many photo opportunities as possible guarantees entry into the history books as Bulgaria’s Most Popular Politician. (BMPP)

    The problem for BMPP is that he has to find ministers capable of filling the corners of Government that with his busy press schedule he is unable to reach. Once we get past the mournful Minister of the Interior and the keen bespectacled Minister of Finances, his team looks pretty thin. But one of his most extraordinary decisions was to turn a History Professor into a Minister in his government.

    Anyone who’s been to university knows what History Professors are like. They sit in their book-lined offices and pontificate about the past. They are waspish and they brook no dissent. They are jealous of their colleagues and know that their reputations depend as much on outrageous eccentricity as academic output.

    Bozhidar – the name means Gift of God – Dimitrov – a name he shares with Bulgaria’s first Communist leader – fits this stereotype. With his careerist background in the Communist party, BMPP’s decision to make him a minister had many Bulgarians gasping in astonishment and a few rubbing their hands in anticipation of many embarrassments to come.

    For Bozhidar Dimitrov was to be a Minister without Portfolio – a delightfully mysterious position – rather like a libero in an Italian football team, allowed to play his own game. Liberos though are not meant to score own goals, but it took the peppery minister a matter of days before he managed to upset the Macedonians, the Turks, Bulgarian Moslems and the extreme nationalists in his own constituency of Burgas. Still with enemies like these, you can get to be quite popular.

    Sensing a rival, BMPP moved quickly to clip his wings and define his responsibilities. Dimitrov was to become God’s Gift to the millions of Bulgarian emigrants living outside Bulgaria. These Bulgarians, who regularly send large sums back to the motherland, would now be able to turn to the Professor for help with notoriously unsupportive embassies. The problem of passport renewal gave the Minister the opportunity to share the frustration of his emigrant countrymen. However complaints about embassies merely drove him into a rage. Bulgarians in Argentina, USA and Australia should stop whingeing, take unpaid time off and get their sorry arses back to Bulgaria, if they wanted to renew their passports.

    Upsetting the diaspora is unlikely to be noticed by the locals, who face their own problems with renewal of passports. But as the Professor proved a week ago he can go the extra mile when it comes to abuse.

    Perhaps the irascible minister was trying to imitate BMPP’s calling-a-spade-a-spade approach when he called his fellow Bulgarians “This fucking nation” and went on to compare Bulgarian women with Russian prostitutes.

    It should have been so different. In his capacity of Greatest Living Historian he had come to view the casket discovered in Sozopol, and back the claim that it contained the remains of St John the Baptist. The cause of his intemperate outburst was the persistent questioning of a TV reporter daring to quote archaeological experts who had cast doubt on the greatest discovery of the 21st Century. In the ensuing rant he implied that it was typical of the fucking nation that instead of universal rejoicing at the discovery of Christ’s precursor, knives were being sharpened by fucking jealous colleagues.

    The minister’s bad mood was not improved by the sight of nubile Bulgarian women pressing into the Sozopol church, eager for a sight of the reliquary casket. It was a hot day in the seaside resort and our Minister without Modesty was quick to notice women’s nipples poking through scanty off shoulder tops in church. Out came the hurtful comparison. Russian women – even “the greatest whores” – cover up their breasts with a shawl when they enter a church.

    This lack of tact has led to a predictable outpouring of fury from the “uniquely long suffering” Bulgarian nation and an immediate appearance in the Burgas main street of grim faced young men from the Young Socialist League calling on all true Bulgarians to sign a petition demanding Dimitrov’s resignation. Spokeswomen are never hard to find and so a representative of Bulgarian womanhood has demanded a groveling apology from the minister. Bulgarian women didn’t go through five hundred years of Turkish misery to be compared to Russian harlots.

    For some, the speed to take offense exceeds that of an overtaking driver swinging out against oncoming traffic and flashing his desperate lights at death. Who would dare to deny Bulgarians the right to be angry? They have been fucked by successive regimes for the last hundred years. That’s even before we get to the previous five hundred.

    At the same time comments added to newspaper web pages show an equal number of Bulgarians eager to offer their support to the embattled Minister. What’s the fuss? He’s telling the truth! These are the self flagellating cries of the execrable tribe school of critics who are forever lamenting the shortcomings of their nation.
    Meanwhile Bozhidar Dimitrov has now been renamed Shibidar Shibinov or Fuckhead Son of Fuck. His lack of portfolio now seems irrelevant. He is just Minister without any self control or manners.

    Under attack he has fallen back on my Grandmother’s classic defense when her sharp tongue caused a massive family row. They’ve taken me up all wrong! First, he wasn’t talking about the whole nation – just the tribe of archaeologists. Second, it’s all a case of semantics.

    The Professor explains. He had used the word shiban. My Bulgarian- English dictionary gives the English equivalent as fucking – or even fucked as it is a passive form. Bozhidar states the word was not meant to be taken as pejorative. He is after all a Professor and in any unfucked nation, Professors demand respect. According to him shiban comes from the verb shibam which means to beat with a cane – nothing at all obscene!

    Well that’s all right then. Nothing wrong with a bit of Corporal Punishment. The Bulgarian nation is bent over ready for the cane, and who better to wield it than BMPP!


  4. On being invited to be a VIP book seller in Helikon Burgas

    August 19, 2010 by Christopher Buxton

    What bookshops mean to me

    I had a largely solitary childhood. My family moved too often for me to form many friendships and so I quickly gained a reputation as a voracious reader. From the age of seven, my mother would take me on her weekly shopping run to the city centre and leave me in a friendly bookshop. There I would pick a book, find some unobtrusive corner and read for the hour or two it took my mother to buy the weekly groceries. The bookseller was wise enough to recognize an addict in the making. He knew that I would save my pocket money to buy whatever took my fancy.

    So my bedroom filled with books. Christmas and Birthdays, I expected book tokens.

    As a child, I would often feed fears. Lying in bed at night, I would imagine a fire breaking out in the house. Panicky parents would be shouting to evacuate. Forget clothes and slippers! How many books could I take with me in my bare foot dash to the garden? I would imagine myself outside shivering in my pyjamas, holding desperately to my bundle of favourites, not letting them drop into the wet grass and looking up as the house burnt down, taking with it all the books that I had cruelly abandoned.

    In my teenage years I discovered second hand bookshops – the kind housed in old sixteenth century buildings with a bell on the door frame, many rooms and rickety staircases. Through the light of tiny windows I would sit on the wooden floorboards and read and read books that had long been forgotten by mainstream readers. I developed eclectic eccentric tastes.

    I love bookshops that incorporate darker corners and shelves filled with books where only the spine is visible. If a sales assistant asks me what I am looking for, I shrug happily and say I don’t know. The thrill is in finding something quite unexpected. Of course I understand that every bookshop must display its best sellers in full frontal display, but there should always be spaces for explorers like me.

    I love the new design of Helikon in Burgas and Plovdiv. Past the display tables, the packed shelves and intimate spaces offer the thrill of a treasure hunt.


  5. Student song

    August 16, 2010 by Christopher Buxton

    Buy me a great big gun
    Mummy Mummy
    Buy me a great big gun
    Mummy Mummy
    Buy me a great big gun
    I’ll go and shoot Elena down
    She had to go and cheat on me.

    Buy me a second gun
    Mummy mummy
    Buy me a second gun
    Mummy mummy
    Buy me a second gun
    I’ll go and shoot fat Georgi down
    He had to steal my girl from me.

    Buy me a third big gun
    Mummy mummy
    Buy me a third big gun
    Mummy Mummy
    Buy me a third big gun
    I’ll go and shoot myself because
    I let Elena slip from me.

    I won’t buy a great big gun
    Never never
    I won’t buy a great big gun
    Never never
    I won’t buy a great big gun
    ‘Cos we all believe in peace
    And a world that’s weapon free.