Georgi CHANKOV
The beloved grandmother of all Europeans landed at the Plovdiv airport after an hour and a half of desperate attempts by Bashirov and Petrov to break her broom in motion. However, due to their proverbial incompetence (we remember that they starved Skripal's cat and poisoned Navalny's pants), the landing took place on schedule. In fact, it went so smoothly and without external irritants that the head of the airport did not notice anything wrong.
He could at least, out of politeness, have heard the desperate cries that came from the basement of the Commission on Dossiers without a repeater. Their source would do well not to read the Financial Times while sipping his broccoli soup. He may suffer the fate of Bon Scott, and that will be a sad day for Bulgarian democracy.
The important thing is that the visit passed in peace and love, with love prevailing. The loner from Bankya delicately touched his lips to the grandmother's surface, and observers noted a certain progress in style, different from the unadulterated direct approach to the unwavering Mrs. Hero of the time. This man's loneliness is more than enough – there is no one to bring freshly baked banitsa in a peignoir for baklava early in the morning.
The European grandmother probably doesn't know the recipe, but that's none of her business anyway - her job is to sprinkle holy water on the new factory for bandages, bibs and other cotton products. We are a front-line state, after all, without us the victory over the Dark Side of the Moon will never come. And Mrs. Cornelia is nervous in vain - the same loner will probably write down the third weapon for Ukraine in his notebook, next to the three suspended Russian energy projects. He knows how to cope if, contrary to the Decree of History, the north wind unexpectedly blows the bottom of his trousers. He will put another dog in his pocket and fly off to the Kremlin to beg. If the doorman doesn't let him in, he'll wait barefoot for three days outside the doors, eating only kvass and dumplings, like Henry IV in Canossa. Finally, he'll kiss a pinky or a ring (by no means a neck!) and successfully lead Bulgaria through the whirlwinds of World War III.
But he won't have to. As Uncle Mitko, the director of the Bulgarian banking waterfall, noted, the euro, which "requires... consent" (but does it really?), is "an anchor for our European future." Very true! Under the conditions of a currency board, we are in a small boat tied with a thick rope to the ship of the eurozone and we follow it obediently through all the whirlwinds of the crumbling Bretton Woods system. Until now, we still had the freedom to cut the rope in case the ship ran aground on a rock in the ocean of budget deficits. We are now giving up this opportunity with national jubilation and are climbing straight on board, accompanied by brass bands. There we will remain anchored for all eternity in the harbor of European imperial complacency, which believes that the sun rises in the West and illuminates the battlefields of Donbas through crooked pasta.