Standing tall and Nelson-like upon a 40-metre high Corinthian column in Barcelona, a sober statue of Christopher Columbus is depicted holding a scroll in his left hand while proudly pointing west towards America with his right.

Well, at least that was the general idea of the sculptor. But something Spanish must have gone awry with the plans because at the last minute the bronzed explorer ended up bizarrely fingering east towards Italy for all eternity.

An early derisive soccer fan? Or was the twist in design jealously done to mimic one of Gaudi's avant garde creations sprouting up across the city at the time?

No. Apparently the powers-that-be did not lose the plot or the map during a rowdy liquid lunch. Drunken rumour simply has it that the boy chanced his arm on the fact that Genoa was indeed the great admiral's home town.

In which case, why on earth would the poor guy want to be plonked forever looking towards the darn place, given that the most famous navigator of the Middle Ages patently spent a good deal of his life trying to get as far away as possible from it in the first instance?

He must want to hang `em all from the yardarm.

Ask a Spaniard on the beach why he believes the fickle finger of fate ended up being so aimed and he will charmingly shrug his shoulders. Que sera, sera. Indeed, rather like whether it was Hercules or the father of Hannibal who founded Barcelona, no one really seems to be able to distinguish fact from fable about the "Mirador de Colon". And I get the sinking feeling no one ever will.

On the other hand, ask a Bulgarian in these times of global financial turmoil for the whisper on the street as to why the backside of the statue of the bull outside the stock exchange is aimed almost directly at the door of the joint and he will not so charmingly hawk some spit, laugh and then answer on the record and with certainty. "What else do you think the building is full of?"

Small wonder then that I am now really grappling with why Sofians say "meet you behind the horse's ass", a witty local way of requesting to "meet you somewhere behind the imposing equestrian statue of the Tsar Liberator, Alexander II". Hmm, it suddenly doesn't sound quite so appealing any more. Come on, folks, I know the cramped streets there are a bit dirty, but surely the quarter doesn't deserve to be singled out for such a cruelly disparaging sound bite. There are much worse dung heaps around the city after all, aren't there? Particularly with most of the backstreets knee deep in garbage.

Anyhow, spurred on by these droll thoughts, I recently set off in search of more wisecracking delusions about other examples of the statuary and monuments dotted here and there across the capital.

First stop is the figure of Sofia at Sveta Nedelya Square, and who else better to pay homage to her than one of the native men about town; dark glasses, lives in the gym and definitely doesn't vote conservative if his loud attire is anything to go by.

"So, what do you think of her figure, sir?"

"Sensational cleavage and love her miles of leg, but why is she flat-footed? Where are her stilettos? Or her handbag for that matter? Not sure about her hair either. I wouldn't fancy her, bit of a man-eater."

"Anything else to add to those inspired morsels?"

"Well, yes, she's obviously a high maintenance kind of girl. I mean look at all that gold make-up and as for that little black number...hardly little, is it? Must have cost a fortune! Glad I'm not the glamour puss' boyfriend. But you know, despite these trappings, she still looks a bit aloof to me. Spoilt; in pain even."

"So would you, mate, if you had to gawk at what was going on opposite you in the government buildings 24/7. Actually, it surprises me the wise one hasn't turned to jade by now actually, the owl hasn't bitten her arm of in frustration, or to misquote Jay Leno, that she hasn't got both her hands up in surrender."

The flash dude misses my point entirely. Smiling vaguely and worriedly at the lunatic expat he trots off abruptly in one direction as I head away in the other.

Next up, an eyeful of Alexander Stamboliiski's statue on Vrabcha Street.

Wow, what will strike you immediately about this portly memorial is that it somehow completely dwarfs anything around it, including the vast building it stands bang outside.

Now the gruff fellow might well have been a monumental figure of his age, depending on which side of history you favour, but did they really have to make this former leader of the "Agrarian Union" quite so lavishly well nourished in memoriam? I mean, he truly is the Colossus of the Capital. Even his massive boots are the size of super tankers.

So, truly, there is no need to eat your heart out quite yet, Michelangelo, as this cumbersome stone effigy makes it seem that the moustachioed big cheese not only headed the Agrics up when alive, he must have also scoffed up pretty much everything they produced throughout the darn country during his tenure into the bargain.

Which I don't think is quite the point they wanted to make when dead, is it? Or was he really so much of a celebrated gourmet that they just had to everlastingly characterise him in this way? A man of enormous consumption as well as conviction about to burp? Statesman or steaksman, it sure is difficult to digest exactly which from this enormous monument.

But then again, perhaps the bloke truly did love his grub on a par with his country. So my own opinion of substantial bad taste carries no weight here. I'll let the mammoth old boy heartily continue to do that all by himself.

On the subject of gigantic sculptures, how about the monster Soviet army memorial near the university? Big or what? And what an apt name in English. I say this because the structure is so beanstalk tall the Red Army squaddie on top could quite easily reach out and grab a passing aircraft if he was unable to do the business with his rusty Kalashnikov. Surface to air missile indeed.

Like the armed forces it is a testament to, nowadays this tumbledown hunk of communist concrete and metal is in toothless tatters, however, because the cash-strapped municipality refuses to bankroll its upkeep in a bid to expel toxic old ghosts. Right on. Fair enough.

A vandalised shadow of the awesome sight it must once have been, I suppose now it will eventually just fall apart completely, chunk by chunk.

Rather than this probable fate though, beats me why the city council doesn't just throw out the rulebook altogether, spruce it up slightly and turn it into a striking tribute to sporting prowess.

For example, some of the doggedly desperate characters depicted scuffling on the bas-relief panels are magnificently fierce. So a quick touch here and there and they could easily pass for some modern day football fans stampeding into yet another dust-up with the police.

And simply swap the Kalashnikov in the fist of the swaggering wonderboy atop for a syringe and, hey presto, the country will have a fitting monument to the current Olympian sporting age. A few months ago they could even have even named it Chasing the (Golden) Dragon.

A radical idea but, on the other hand, perhaps a more appropriately cheap and cheerful approach would be to transform the tarnished, grandiose wreck into an economic shrine to commerce in the early days of Bulgaria in the EU. In which case, leave the thing as is. The machine gun and a number of the other weapons depicted are notoriously standard office equipment in some dark sectors of the economy, are they not?

Anyhow, bullet across the road from here and you will swiftly come into Borissova Gradina or "Headcase Park" as I call it, merely on account of the numerous busts of the great and good everywhere. No insult intended.

This is a superb, dignified idea. Larger than life in every sense, despite some of the big brains and bigwigs being sadly scrawled with graffiti these days. How long will it be before we see Berbatov heading the ball into goal here? Whenever, the decision will be taken at the last gasp. Of that fact be absolutely guaranteed.

I wonder if the French have an equivalent memorial about the revolution while I am on the point of mutiny. Off with my head for such a vulgar suggestion but talking of rebellion, my vote for the country's best statue is the one of a defiant Todor Kableshkov in Koprivshitsa. This brooding tribute has to be the most impressive example of a monument like this that I have ever seen anywhere in the world.

Close behind him on my list of all time greats comes the effigy of a gallant pilot in the small park flanking Parliament. Carved from black stone this flyboy with mighty fist clenched, wooden propeller under arm, Biggles cap on skull and a Buzz Lightyear look of determination on his face is utterly splendid.

Without a doubt both these memorials are powerful commemorations, moving even.

In fact call me a philistine, but wouldn't it be great if they really did move like a couple of waxworks in Madame Tussaud's, and brave Todor is seen winging some distant Chamber of Horrors mutri in the butt with a potshot from his pistol, or the plucky airman punching one's eyes out with a hefty uppercut? Slight snag here in that the country certainly doesn't need any more violence and, anyway, both locations are definitely the last places on earth for Disney-style fairground animations.

Ludicrous all this, I know, but the thought of such charades still makes me chuckle.

As do the little noticed bronze statues in the TZUM department store, or "zoom" in pidgin Bulgarian for the linguistically challenged among us.

Situated on a beam in the escalator atrium these figures portray a fearsome family of shoppers apparently walking the tightrope or a plank as they carry shopping bags full to the brim with goodies.

It is a wickedly clever image of consumerism, beautifully done. Especially if you take it with a pinch of salt...

"Shop till you drop."

What, literally?

Makes you laugh. Even more when you notice mum is wackily topless. Huh, topless? Indisputably. Even allowing for the scantily clad muttressas in the city, who on earth goes shopping like that? Beggars belief. Unless, of course, this is to symbolically assure a soft landing when she inevitably tumbles to the ground scattering groceries left, right and centre. Never fear.

I do so adore the Bulgarian sense of humour. High 5s to whoever came up with that one!

What's more, similar tongue in cheek thinking must also have definitely been in action when the city decided to erect the statues on Orlov Most (Eagle's Bridge) in 1891.
Look at these four glorious birds next time you go by.

Are these guardians of the bridge really all flapping their wings at you in welcome to the city centre?

No, it strikes me a famous pint-sized fortune teller must have been asked for her eagle-eyed, off the wall vision of the future by the sculpture before he set to on creating the masterpiece. A few hints in his ear to beat sculptor's block.

In which case, is it a finely honed optical illusion of four lame ducks turning tail in despair and fright at the terribly driven traffic, powerless to do anything about the mayhem?

Can't you just picture the wry little grin on madame soothsayer's face up there on a cloud?

Told you so!