Rainy day April 3, 2008Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: Stublić, Yugoslavia
It is taking me a very long time to come to terms with the demise of the former Yugoslavia. It was such a pretty name and the Yugoslavs were always such fun on Jeux Sans Frontières. Former Yugos are constantly trying to console me. “Thanks for trying to help, Branko,” I’ll say. “But look, Viljemka,” I’ll go on, “I just have to grieve over this in my own time.”
Of course I agree with the right to self-determination. I sent telegrams to all my Slovene friends – it took ages – congratulating them on accession to the EU and being the first of the new countries to adopt the Euro. I shuttle-diplomacied like nobody’s business when trying to make sure the young Macedonia (no FYRo for me, thank you) could find a satisfactory constitutional solution to appease a restive ethnic Albanian minority. It worked, thankfully, and I’ve been honoured with my portrait on the verso of the 5 Makedon note. (I asked to be bumped up to recto but that went to Alexander the Great so I settled for second best.) I recognised Kosova before President Tadić could even meet privately with me and ask me to delay declaring my hand, knowing the influence I had. But I stood firm. “Boris, talk to the hand,” I said.
And my Yugo-nostalgia shall peak, of course, or go off the scale, when all Europe (and Israel) (and Cyprus – Cyprus is technically Asia, isn’t it?) (and Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia – or is that area in Europe?) meets in Belgrade this May. Chuffed to bollocks for Serbia, of course, to get a chance to showcase itself – they’ve had a tough few years (it’ll take me even longer to come to terms with Zoran Đinđić’s death, actually) – but I will cry huge Yugo tears and have been sewing like nobody’s business so that I’ll be able to hang huge Yugo flags with lovely big red stars out my window.
So, at times like these, what does one do to assuage one’s pain? You go through your Yugo-pop collection of course. I’ve been assuaging like mad. Remembering the good old days. The Yugo new wave, which, I assume, we were all brought up on.
Now blogging has its limitations. Naturally, I consider every reader – even the ones who’ve ended up here by mistyping their google search and come here to find bib tits – an intimately close friend whom I would happily donate an organ to if the need arose. But sometimes, intimacy and bonds can only be forged, or, at least, are best forged, around a bonfire, under a starry European sky – sorry, non-Europeans. Your friendships just aren’t real – with cheap alcohol, guitars and enough mosquitoes to sap a blood bank. That’s the kind of occasion when you can really get down to business. When you can become true friends. When you can stroke someone’s back as they cry about their troubled past. When you can hold back someone’s hair to stop them vomiting in it. When you can discuss your favourite Jura Stublić i Film song.
And, darlings, I feel we won’t be true friends until I know your favourite. Scroll around here. I’m off to get the tissues. Poleti Iznad Grada gets me every time.