A neon sign flashes the words out over the capital in colossal yellow letters: "Keep walking!"

A wry comment about the state of the pavements? Do you have to be three sheets to the wind to obey them?

Absolutely.

What a cheerful thought.

Break a leg, Johnnie Walker!

Well at least we've got that straight for the more cynical among you. No, the sign really isn't a twisted government health warning:

"Friends, Sofians, countrymen, visitors! Keep walking! It's safer than driving!"

Not on these footpaths it isn't. Take a hike.

And if the pavements are in such dire shape, do the highways and by-ways fare any better?

Er, well sorry to say this, but if roads are a country's veins then Bulgaria is a heroin addict on the scale of Joplin or Cobain.

Terrifying thought. But most of our mean streets could easily appear in a Hollywood disaster movie, couldn't they?

"The Banitsa Bull Run: Part 2. Revenge of the E666!" Mayhem in the making. A Technicolor catastrophe before your very eyes.

And, hey, the pin-ups of the show, the potholes, might even win Oscars. One for best supporting hollow space or crater in a motion picture. In this category for 2009 we have three nominees: Wacko M Jackson for his face in musical horror-flick Bad Plastic 4; blonde sex bomb Vienna Motelle for her brain and cleavage in the dull romance Pond Life Confessions; and finally the huge chasm on the B321 in Bulgaria for its smokin' special effects in the Convoy remake Total Toast.

And the winner is...

Maybe not such a crazy notion; these cavities in the tarmac are cult items after all. Fact. Read on.

In 1967, the UK Daily Mail reported that there were 4000 potholes in Blackburn, Lancashire. Lennon and McCartney picked up on this in the lyrics of The Beatles' masterpiece A Day in the Life:

"I read the news today oh boy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes
it takes to fill the
Albert Hall."

4000? Is that all? What lyrics would the Fab Four have come up with if they had been to Sofia? Enough holes to fill the moon?

Talking about stars of the stage and screen, I wonder what the average TomTom navigation device makes of these craters. I've yet to test it out but I imagine they'd start to go crazy the moment you leave your drive.

"Left in 12 nano-seconds, right in eight, dead slow, left a bit, right a bit", it instructs. Then the tension takes hold. "Slow down, idiot", TT rants as you negotiate the minefield of holes in the road, carefully trying to follow instructions. "I said left, no right, no straight ahead, no left again, you fool. Darn, my satellite brain can't cope with this. Oh no!" Doof, doof, doof, and your Japanese hatchback plunges into the void. Silence from TomTom. You're stranded at the bottom of a hole the size of the Pacific wondering what to do. Then, after a few seconds, a quiet voice from the windscreen: "I can't take it anymore. I'm sorry but I'm leaving you. Why couldn't I have been shipped to Germany? Even Benghazi would have been preferable. Why Bulgaria, oh why Bulgaria?" Crack, fizzle, phizzzzz, phhhutt...

Motoring on quickly from this ultimate screen test let's turn now to skills behind the wheel.

One would imagine that with the tarmac being such a mess, drivers would take heed.

Far from it.

In some cases they are even encouraged not to do so and to do something else instead. And I'm not talking about all the detours.

For instance, the signs on the highways crying out "Grand Prix!" should be banned immediately. They force lunatic subliminal messages into the heads of all the wrong people.

Anyhow, surely with the current state of automobile anarchy in Bulgaria it's more bumper, banger, wacky racing, isn't it? Not Formula 1!

Valid claim?

I mean, I've seen the driving in Calcutta. Only on the National Geographic Channel admittedly, but that's close enough thank you very much.

But I've never seen Bulgarian road antics on TV channels like that. Why? Because film crews want too much danger money, and some of those boys are veterans of Baghdad and Mogadishu.

And if it's that bad for them, what about newly arrived expats? Marcus Merc from Munich, Rene Renault from Reims, Len Lotus from Liverpool? But not Francesco Fiat from Foggia of course, he's quite used to the bedlam. What are the others to do, though?

Simple.

Buy a helicopter.

Failing that, pray.

Long and hard.

Nothing else you can do except go back home. But then you still have to hit the roads, if only to the airport. Catch-22?

Guess by now you are all revved up on this subject so let's cut to the chase with a "not-for-the-faint-hearted" guide to the demolition derby that is traffic in Bulgaria.

Upfront and dangerous on the asphalt is always a Dick Dastardly in, or on, his mean machine. The adrenaline-junkie, death-wish highwayman who gleefully overtakes on blind corners. Until the inevitable Veliko Turnover that is, when he's flattened like a pancake.

Close behind comes an Ant Hill Mob gunning the powerful engine of their thirsty 4 x 4 "Bulletproof Bomb" as they weave it though the melee, heads rocking side-to-side ping-pong-style. Gotta check out the chicks left to right, hey wiseguys? Well, what about the road!?

Running neck-and-neck in third and fourth places we have Petar Perfekt speeding right down the middle of the white lines (bad habit, man) in his Turbo Terrific '09, the Varoom Roadster, and alongside him Penelopa Pitstopova changing gear, 'phone and outfit simultaneously in her two-litre Compact Pussycat as she frantically tries to zoom past. Oh you brazen hussy, that's the last time we're going to tell you! Mirrors are for driving, not make-up. Got it?

Right on the heels of these whizz kids, desperate Neanderthal men at the helm of Bouldermobile trucks burning rubber and other road users as they shoo their 20 tons over the bumps at a terrific rate of knots al the while chewing Yorkie bars by the dozen.

Further back let's not forget the Professor Pat Pendings at the controls of their Convert-a-Ladas. DIY types who rebuild the motor every weekend from scratch and scrap and still do repairs running along at 50kmph. Pull that bit of string hard,mate, we've got to brrrraaake! Blimey, that was close.

Then well to the rear come the Lazy Luke drivers in their propane powered Chuggabugs. Yes, the village gypsy with cash. Those hillbillies seemingly asleep on rocking chair seats, feet up on the steering wheel. Blubber, the nervous dog, goat or sheep tucked in beside them as they career along country lanes and by-ways. "What in tarnation is goin' on here, Blubber?" The only words exchanged when they hit a giant crevasse in the track or run over a cow and the gas tank explodes.

And in last but obviously least place, the ditch, more often than not, we have the Toads of Toad Hall. The rich, brown-nosed businessmen who have crashed six cars, been hospitalised three times, and spent a fortune on fines. All within the past week.

Recognise these characters? Ring a bell? Sound a horn?

Anyway, almost to a man or woman they all invent their own rules of the road. Generally this is a sadistic version of chicken, especially at pelican crossings, which here are optional rather than mandatory extras to your average driver. Just try crossing a street. You'll soon discover overdrive has a unique meaning in this part of the world. Bulgarian Roulette, anyone?

One thing all these drivers do, to be fair, is flash their headlights when the boys in blue are up ahead.

Yes, the BG equivalent of CHIPS, the BLIPS: the Bulgarian Leva In Pocket Service. Can't ignore them, can we? They are always here, too. Pounding (actually all currencies are accepted) the streets, sweet ice cream lollipop sticks in hand.

Funny instruments. No wonder people take these guys with a pinch of salt.

Wand while we're on the subject of taking them seriously, is their case really helped by the fake police cars parked under billboards on the main roads?

Umm...fooling who boys?

Certainly not the hookers who are like mosquitoes by the side of the roads on a hot day. Some of them even use these cardboard cut-out squad cars as HQ, I'm sure of it. Fancy a quick one on the back seat? Mind the nettles, sir…

Gives service stations a new meaning, doesn't it? Still, the roads are supposed to get you somewhere, even an instant stag party if that's what turns you on.

What happens when you finally get to your destination, though? Where do you park, for God's sake? Seemingly anywhere you can. Pavements, up a tree, on top of another car, wherever. It's a free-for-all.... just send that text! But then you get towed away by over-zealous clampers, so maybe it's actually better to save the hassle and park in the pound in the first place. It really is true that when Solomon said there is a time and a place for everything he certainly hadn't encountered parking in Sofia.

Ok, with all these bad roads, bad drivers and bad parking, perhaps it's better simply to take a taxi. Not one of those tiny ones with a sewing machine engine, though. Nicknamed in our house a "head-butter'" getting into them gives you a hernia. Then you have to sit bolt upright like you're in an electric chair even though common sense and the fact that the suspension gave up the ghost months ago suggest you duck. But the straitjacket seats make this impossible, so you end up with a headache, having cracked your skull off the roof umpteen times, however short the journey. All this to some weird musical accompaniment or even TV, yes TV! Eyes on the road, boys, eyes on the road or its RIP for us all! Actually, on the subject of cabs and RIPs, OK SuperTrans are super and OK SuperTaxis are anything but. The latter definitely get the thumbs down from my wallet. And dodge any gold cabs. There's a reason they are gold, and it's not because of the service you get.

But Hackneys are out, then how about a bus or tram? Maybe. I like the look of the new ones, very smooth. But take your meds before getting on one of the older versions. Metal and driver fatigue can happen in step. I have witnessed it and no magic sponge will save you from catastrophe if this class of Armageddon happens when you are on board.

All in all it's easy to see why ministers, mayors and municipalities love to glorify the launch of a newly resurfaced road these days. They just love the odd photo-shoot on the fresh blackstuff, don't they? Except if it's too hot of course. Then the tarmac melts and ruins their Guccis in the goo.

A new surface is still a rare occasion so maybe a song and dance should be made of it. Just trust free booze isn't given out at the reception as the proud mayor shows off his latest political "baby to kiss" and celebs in a fanfare of glitz to the press. Shows off that is until someone points out to him or her that the new rush-job road has been tarmacced with a slight tilt to the left, not flat as advertised, which will cause yet more collisions than before.

Even on this very page. Right here! Right now!

Yes a mental crash between we the drivers, and you the road bods who pocket the funds from the EU meant for fixing the blacktops.

It's a real mental fender-bender for our brains because we can't see the logic.

I mean presumably you do buy goodies with all the cash you filch.

Cars, for example. Nice cars, too.

And then what do you do? Ruin them in all the potholes of course.

Hmm.

A higher form of intelligence that we are dealing with here obviously.

I for one can't figure them out.

Can you? Can they?