London Leftovers

Hola there.

Back to the tiny world of misery and disgrace in a beautiful part of the world. Shiny Sun and drenching rain highlighting and cleaning the features of a tired city. A broken heart left apart from sweet peaches of the garden. I had a Week. A Week of joy and happiness beyond the appalling stance of my present being in Prague. London was still welcoming its lover with a huge open embrace. But the last thing I saw there re-convinced me that we all are inhabitants of a savage wacky world. I was puffing a fag by an annoying oversensitive automatic door that was interrupting our sweet-and-sour talk with a dear being.

A guy, ostensibly an Eastern European, was deeply into a bitter verbal fight with a couple of short and fat policemen. “You are not a man!”, he was shouting at one of them, trying to give the impression that the very saying presumably gives in his native language. That could be translated as “To naamardi!” in Persian that devastates the addressee. But the policeman just wobbled at his place, looked down and up again, straight at the foreigners face and muttered something upon his nose. The foreigner was not satisfied by the impression he gave him. He wanted to see a much bitter face in front of him, I assume, and he went on chopping some more broken English humiliating expressions out of his mouth. A police car arrived discreetly and pulled in. As soon as some chubby figures crept down the car two previously quiet cops started spitting out a threateningly loud “Get down!!!” and beating the foreigner on his knees to make him kneel. The foreigner was trembling under the increasing violent force upon him, but didn’t kneel at all. He was trying to keep his shaky legs steady and looking straight into my eyes as if begging for help. His vibrant voice could tell you about his shock and disbelief: “I’m OK. I’m fine… Why are you fighting?..”

“Get down!!!”, was the only thing the policemen could shout out. But he didn’t. Shaky policemen took him up to the car, put him in arresting pose, one of them was trying to reach the handcuffs stuck in his belt, but couldn’t. The other extended his own handcuffs to him to tie up the foreigner’s hands. They took him away with his rucksack. A typical English couple was watching the scene as well. The old lady smirked and mocked the foreigner and showed her disgust that “a Bulgarian!” had dared to oppose the British police. The old man smirked back and spat on the floor. A policeman explained to this supportive couple that the Bulgarian had been barred from his flight and advised to leave the premises. But he had chosen to argue for his right to fly. After pushing the unfortunate Bulgarian into the car policemen exchanged wide smiles on their satisfied faces and left the scene of crime. The crime of breaching their own code of conduct.

Tonight I wanted to write about something else. Actually about loads of other stuff, like The Da Vinci Code movie that I watched on its first day of release in London and about Craig Murray’s astonishingly revealing book called “Murder in Samarqand” to be published on 1 June. Some fragments of the latter published in the Mail on Sunday made me gasp for some air. A breath-taking jaw-dropping writing. Perhaps I’ll get back to it later on. Now I have to get my beauty sleep to face my self-proclaimed “adversaries” in the office. Ciao for now.