С большой грустью сообщаю, что наш дорогой друг Стас (Станислав Коновалов) скончался от послеоперационных осложнений во время лечения в больнице. Мы с женой Ольгой познакомились со Стасом в январе 2019 года. Нас познакомил с ним наш общий друг, художник Виктор Рябинин. Позже Стас рассказывал мне, что Виктор сказал ему: «В Калининград переезжает англичанин. Тебе следует с ним встретиться. Он интересный человек, и я думаю, вы найдете общий язык ». Я не совсем уверен, что заслуживаю быть названным «интересный», но мы нашли общий язык в нашей любви к истории в целом и в частности к истории Кенигсберга- Калининграда и его окрестностей. Важным элементом нашего общего языка было вдохновение, которое мы оба получили от нашего друга и наставника Виктора Рябинина. Вскоре после смерти Виктора Рябинина в июле 2019 года я сказал Стасу, что нашел две картины Виктора среди своих вещей в Англии. Он ответил с присущей ему скромностью, что, хотя у него нет картин Виктора Рябинина с его автографами, ему достаточно того, что у него есть «тайная гордость», заключающаяся в том, что он был «близок к этому великому человеку». «Я был его учеником много лет, – сказал он. Когда я рискнул предположить, что Виктор был его другом, Стас ответил, опять с присущей ему скромностью: «Виктор знал очень многих людей, но он, вероятно, не считал их всех своими друзьями. . Могу сказать, что я был его учеником, что я восхищался им и был счастлив в его обществе… »Затем он сделал паузу, прежде чем сказать:« Но я хотел бы думать, что он считал меня своим другом ». Стас был скромным человеком. Он скромно относился ко всем своим достижениям, даже тогда когда было совершенно очевидно, что у него было столько же, если не больше, прав их превозносить. В знак признания его достижений, я попросил Стаса написать краткий биографический отчет о его работе и жизни, в том числе о его отношениях с Виктором Рябининым, и поместил его очерк, вместе со ссылками на его практику экскурсовода на страницах своего постоянного блога под рубрикой “Виктор Рябинин Кенигсберг”. “Стас Калининград Кенигсберг Путеводитель”https://expatkaliningrad.com/personal-tour-guide-kaliningrad/ Стас очень много работал над своими проектами гида, оттачивая и совершенствуя их, снимая несколько видеороликов на YouTube и всегда спрашивая: «Что ты думаешь об этом аспекте?» “Все в порядке?” «Есть ли в сценарии видеоролика что-нибудь, что, по твоему мнению, требует пояснения?». Как и смерть Виктора Рябинина до него, смерть Стаса лишила Кенигсберг-Калининград еще одного его великого посла. Но нас его смерть лишила гораздо большего. Стас был человеком прямолинейным, открытым, искренним. Он был добрым человеком, всегда готовым помочь, он был сердцем хорошей компании. Вместе, мы делили общий язык прошлого, а я через него – общий, но очень важный язык – человеческий. В общем, Стас был самым ценным арсеналом – он был незаменимым другом, которого мы не могли себе позволить потерять.
It is with great sadness that I report that our dear friend Stas (Stanislav Konovalov) passed away recently from post-operative complications whilst undergoing hospital treatment.
My wife, Olga, and I met Stas in January 2019. We were introduced to him by a mutual friend, Victor Ryabinin the artist. Stas told me later that Victor had said to him, “There is an Englishman moving to Kaliningrad. You should meet him. He is an interesting man, and I think you will find a common language.”
I am not altogether certain that I deserve the appellation ‘interesting’, but we did find a common language in our love of history generally and specifically for Königsberg-Kaliningrad and the surrounding region.
An important element in that common language was the inspiration we both received from our friend and mentor Victor Ryabinin.
A short while after Victor Ryabinin’s death in July 2019, I told Stas that I had found two paintings by Victor among my possessions in England. He replied, with characteristic modesty, that whilst he did not have a signed painting by Victor Ryabinin the artist, it was enough that he had a “secret pride”, which was that he had been “close to this great man”. “I was his student for many years,” he said.
When I ventured to suggest that Victor had also been his friend, he replied, once again with characteristic modesty, “Victor knew a great many people and associated with a great many people, but he probably would not have considered them all to be his friends. I can say that I was his student, that I admired him and enjoyed his company …” He then paused, before saying, “But I would like to think that he thought of me as his friend.”
Stas was a modest man. He was modest about all of his achievements, when it was quite obvious that he had as much right, if not more, to blow his own trumpet with the ‘best’ of them.
Stas worked extremely hard on his tour guide projects, honing and perfecting them, making several YouTube videos and always asking, “What did you think of this aspect?” “Was that alright?” “Is there anything in my tour guide script that you think needs clarification?”.
Like Victor Ryabinin before him, Stas’ death has robbed Königsberg -Kaliningrad of yet another great ambassador.
It has robbed us of so much more.
Stas was a straight-talking, open, sincere individual. He was a kind man, always ready to help and good company.
Together, we shared the common language of the past, and I, through him, the common but all-important language of humanity.
In summation, Stas was that most precious of all commodities ~ he was the indispensable friend that we could ill afford to lose.
A sunny afternoon with Stas Konovalov, ‘Stas’, [right of picture] Kaliningrad Königsberg Guide
6 March 2025 ~ UK Zelensky Tour is a Charity Gala Performance
Having watched the spat in the White House recently, where Trump missed the opportunity to stick one on a man widely regarded as the world’s biggest scrounger but couldn’t really do such a thing whilst he was talking peace, I predicted that when the Great Z rolled into Britain, the Disunited Kingdom under the worst government since Noddy Blaire would really show us up. I hoped that this humiliation would not go further than a cuddle or two with Starmer, as cringing as that was, but no, we had to go the whole hog: a propagandist photoshoot with the King of England taking tea in the totally incompatible company of a T-shirt wearing erstwhile actor looking less like the person he is purported to be and more like one of those things ~ though considerably less well dressed ~ that keep rolling into Britain on the back of a rubber dinghy.
In a show of absolute disregard for the declining prosperity of the UK and as an insult to the intelligence of its populace (did I say intelligence?), its Davos-orchestrated media flooded airwaves, newspapers and the internet with a fulsome display of stage-managed rejoicing. With a single flick of the media switch almost every Brit in Hatebook land was once again changing their avatars and standing with Ukraine. Not that this has any significance, they would stand in a bucket of shit if that was where they were told to stand. Snap! Snap! went the whip: the Zelensky circus was back in town.
Even in these cash-strapped times, when the majority of Brits and even some migrants, but not the ones in 5-star hotels, cannot afford to heat their homes, Mr Starmer’s government, or rather the forces that control it, is pledging to donate an additional £2.26 billion to a conflict which the West should never have provoked and, as Trump is at pains to point out, if not soon brought to a halt could plausibly precipitate World War III.
In jingoistic and sanctimonious language reminiscent of that which, let’s hope not prophetically, heralded the dawn of the First World War, on the 1 March 2025 (it could be a day that will live in infamy), the UK Government issued this self-congratulatory statement, clearly intended to justify its phenomenal overspending folly whilst proclaiming itself to be the saviour of national security and the champion of democracy.
Rachel Reeves, christened by Katie Hopkins as ‘the woman with the Lego hairstyle’, and some other bod with a name that I cannot pronounce (whatever happened to Smith and Jones?), were poised to sign the grandiloquently titled Ukraine Bilateral Agreement.
Cutting through prose that reads like an extract from a classic Dad’s Army script (I mean, just look at it! I ask you!), the best of British from the worst of people is impressive but meretricious:
“A safe and secure Ukraine is a safe and secure United Kingdom. This funding will bolster Ukraine’s armed forces and will put Ukraine in the strongest possible position at a critical juncture in the war. [Fanfare of heraldic trumpets!!!]
“It comes as we have increased our defence spending to 2.5% of GDP, which will deliver the stability required to keep us safe and underpin economic growth.” ~ said Lego
What this bilateral agreement means is that instead of going for peace, Britain is going for broke. In order to keep the Zelensky show on the road and perpetuate the hostilities in Ukraine at any price, and that includes the cost in human terms, the UK Government is now pledging a whopping great £2.26 billion ‘loan’ on top of the £3 billion it already throws away each year (that’s where your tax money’s going) for Ukraine to spend on bombs and bullets. That’s an awful lot of money to give to a man with no dress sense; let’s hope he uses some of it to buy himself a suit.
[Quote:] “The Prime Minister has been clear that a strong Ukraine is vital to UK national security.” [Unquote].
How and also Why? After that statement from the PM, even those who didn’t regard him as a bit of a prat, because their fathers have always voted Labour, may hopefully have a change of heart.
Moving on swiftly from this stupendous tax on the UK’s coffers at a time when we can least afford it, the government statement is keen to head up the recently announced, but for some lefties controversial, increase in the UK defence budget.
“… to 2.5% of GDP by 2027, with an ambition to spend 3% of GDP on defence in the next parliament as economic and fiscal conditions allow.” ~ notice the qualification. Hand over your piggy banks, kids! Tax! Tax! Tax!
Let’s just pause for one brief moment and think this document through. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that a government, indeed successive UK governments, who do not give a flying fart about destroying the country they represent by endorsing and encouraging the immigrant invasion, should so solemnly be concerned with and so unswervingly devoted to the sovereignty of a country, I refer, of course, to Ukraine, which until social media exhorted Britain’s Arsebook sheep to change their pretty avatars, not one man Jack of them, or dinghy-arriving Abdul, knew Ukraine existed. According to popular rumour, neither did Liz Truss. Liz who? Allow me to jog your memory: She entered Number 10 like a queen and vanished like a magician’s assistant through the back of a magic box.
Trussed-up-like-a-Turkey had no idea where Ukraine is and, let’s be frank and honest, neither do 90 per cent of avatar-changing Brits. “Duh, let’s change our avatars. You click ‘Like’, I’ll click ‘Like’, we’ll all click ‘Like’ together.”
Giving billions of pounds a year to Mr Zelensky’s T-shirt fund has nothing to do with UK national security. We compromised that years ago when we opened the migrant floodgates, and what little we have left of it is being trampled underfoot by thousands of happy migrant feet that are wearing the welcome mat threadbare as our politically correct two-tier coppers bus them off to plush hotels.
The real threat in the UK to every man, woman and child and thus to national security is the one that nobody, except Reform, is willing to confront: catastrophic immigration. Thousands, literally thousands, of young men of fighting age, migrants from the third world, are languishing at the taxpayers’ expense in hotels and hostels up and down the country. Thanks to the loony left, bolstered by Brownshirt organisations that masquerade as equality heroes ~ who mentioned Antifa and Hope Not Hate? ~ but which are really infested with anarchists, hardly any of these aliens will be sent packing to whence they originally came. Hundreds of thousands of these lovely items are poised to be unleashed onto the wretched streets of Britain, ushering in a dark new age where holding hands and candle-lit vigils, already a British tradition, is steadily replacing all that our forbears worked for and all that they believed in: “Get your candle-lit vigil kits here!”
Of course, I could be wrong. The experiences of the past few years may be nothing at all to go by. They may simply want to hold hands with us and, like the Coke advert of old, sing in ‘Happy Harmony’.
In a further demonstration of liberal social media’s stranglehold on UK freedom of speech, Facebook, aka Hatebook, is quick to delete all and any comments that do not align themselves with the West’s ‘I stand with Ukraine’ narrative. The comments of attackers and haters are preserved in liberal vinegar; the comments of all who challenge them are swiftly siphoned away.
Two sides of the jolly old argument, ay chaps. “It is essential for democracy to listen to what other people are saying (Goodin, 2003).”
The Russian point of view: “We continue to operate on the premise that a truly just and durable peace is not possible unless the root causes of the Ukraine crisis are completely eliminated. The main ones among them include the West breaking its promises not to expand NATO and the alliance’s absorption of Europe’s entire geopolitical space all the way up to Russia’s borders, as well as the Kiev regime’s systematic elimination of everything Russian, including language, culture, and church, just like the German Nazis did in the past. The demilitarisation and denazification of Ukraine, as well as recognition of existing realities on the ground remain Russia’s unchanged objectives. The sooner Kiev and the European capitals in question come to realise this, the closer to a peaceful settlement of the Ukraine crisis we will be.” ~ Foreign Ministry Spokeswoman Maria Zakharova’s comment on Vladimir Zelensky’s voyage to Washington, D.C., 1 March 2025
The idea that the Western World’s survival hinges upon propping up the ultranational regime of Ukraine is a feebly spurious and egregious premise. The West’s proxy war with Russia has failed, so why continue the virtue signalling by showering Zelensky with false praise and filling the bottomless pit of his unaudited war chest. Bankrolling Zelensky is nothing more than a face-saving exercise, an immoral funding of loss of life destined to ensure that Ukraine ends up like a lunar landscape.
Instead of hoodwinking gullible Brits with jingoistic soundbites and huggy huggy Zelensky time ~ quick, let’s change our avatars ~ a responsible, grown-up government, if only we had such a thing, would admit that national security is a net-zero migration issue and would be doing all that it could to slam the porous borders shut and combat the hostile hoards that are already within our midst. After all, it is they that shipped them in; the indigenous British people never went online and ordered them from Amazon.
UK Zelensky Tour is a Charity Gala Performance
The only real potential threat that Britain faces today to its national security, indeed to its very existence, is the Trojan Horse of third-world migration. It is here, now; here and happening. An insidious ticking timebomb waiting to explode. All talk of old-style threats, of invasions from abroad, are as convincing as telling a country bumpkin that if he pisses against the wind the world will be a better place. The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming! What would they want to come here for? Such megaphonic announcements are opium for the bewildered masses, many of whom are yet to wake up to the terrible state that Britain is in. Please, pass me one of their sleeping pills!
The only positive thing to come out of Britain throwing its money away and the avatar-changing farce is that Trump by word and deed has been unequivocally vindicated. By advocating a path for peace, he has already proved to the world that contrary to the deriding image that mainstream media painted of him during his first term in office, the crazed war monger never was him; it was, and always has been, the backsliding liberal left. Biden was a stooge; Obama was a black bum sitting on a fence, though they claim he played good golf; Trump, though not a peaceful man ~ he is not a lefty wimp or a wokist pushover ~ is a man who believes in peace. The clamouring desire for war, for never-ending, relentless war is an obsession exclusively liberal.
Indeed, Trump’s defiant stand for peace contrasts strongly in his favour against the liberal craving for war, which reverberates hysterically on both sides of the Atlantic. If you couldn’t see it before Trump’s sincere endeavours for peace, your vison should now be clearing. The real war mongers of the West are the pseudo-liberal cabal, the elitist globalist clan, who hide behind tired old slogans that project them as the patron saints of democracy and humanity but really who are perfectly willing to spill the blood of others in their relentless pursuit of hegemony.
These are the goons who want you to ‘Stand with Ukraine’, or rather the last thing that they want to happen is for Trump to broker a peace plan. They do not want peace full-stop, especially peace by a peace-making Trump, as this will only cement his glory, expose them for what they are, and spur him onto greater things, none of which they have no doubt will be in their globalist interest.
Standing for Ukraine, as defined by British policy, means perpetuating warfare, which, as Trump has laid on the line, could edge us closer to World War III.
UK Zelensky Tour is a Charity Gala Performance
If war does break out in Europe, and let’s fervently hope this day will never dawn, it will surprise an awful lot of idiots who repeatedly spout the mantra that nuclear war will not effect us, as the UK has its own deterrent. This might be an appropriate juncture to remind the lefty lot that it was not so long ago that they wanted to scrap our nuclear deterrent and use the money instead for welfare handouts and to fund migration.
Sing along now: ‘We can’t all live in a yellow submarine …’
Our politicians, whose only skill seems to lie in their remarkable ability to never tell the truth, should nevertheless make it abundantly clear to the obfuscated British public, particularly those who ‘Stand by Ukraine’, that the first casualty of a war that goes nuclear will be the United Kingdom. In the first seconds of a nuclear war, our little, bitty, titchy island and all who reside upon it will unfortunately but effectively be evaporated. There’s not enough room on our two nuclear subs for Britain’s ever-increasing migrant army, let alone the rest of us.
The West breaking its promises not to expand NATO and the alliance’s absorption of Europe’s entire geopolitical space …
The Cuban Missile Crisis ~ a lesson from history In May 1962, the Soviet Union began shipping missiles and technicians to Cuba. The yanks were none too pleased about this. It was the closest brush with World War III since the end of World War II.
The irresponsible to the extent of insane notion to billet NATO missile bases in Ukraine capable of carrying nuclear payloads within easy reach of Moscow is comparable to Russia siting missile bases on the Isle of Man. You just don’t do it, do you?
Forget about the government (Oh, you already have!), forget about Ukraine (You can’t! You’ve gone and changed your avatars!), what we need, and urgently, is a bomb-disposable expert, one who will leave other countries to manage their own affairs and who will focus his mind exclusively on dismantling the clear and present threat of Britain’s Migrant Doomsday Bomb.
Do I stand with Ukraine? No! I stand for Trump and peace. The rationale of my thinking being that it is hard to stand almost anywhere in a pair of smouldering boots.
“I am not crazy; my reality is just different from yours.”
28 February 2025 ~ Rabbit Hole Gastro-Bar Kaliningrad
There is a gastro-bar on Mira Avenue Kaliningrad which lies at subterranean level. At the bottom of the steps that lead down to its entrance is a sign. The sign says enigmatically: “Fall into the Hole, Get Lost in Time”. The name of this gastro-bar is unlike any I have ever encountered. How many Rabbit Holes have you frequented? Through the windows of the front door, I can see the bar itself, the thing with beer taps on it. Without a second ado, like a ferret down a rabbit hole, and what could be more appropriate, I cross the portal to the other side.
Like Alice who passed before me (Who the !*!* is Alice?), who, it has been suggested, had an addiction of her own, I find myself in Wonderland. But first a passing word, or more, on what we mean by ‘cozy’.
Rabbit Hole Gastro-Bar Kaliningrad
When people use the term ‘cozy’ they usually employ it in a complementary or even compensatory way, intimating that whilst the place they are describing may be small, it is warm, comfortable and inviting.
Before becoming a city slicker, I lived my life among country folk, whose view of the average rabbit hole was anything but romantic, and I tended to concur with them. But this strictly urbanised concept persuaded me to revise my opinion.
From the moment I entered its rarified world, I felt the urge to compare it to the British pub of yore, with its typical two-room segregation: one for the serious drinker, traditionally known as the public bar, and the other for more discerning types, which went by the name of the lounge. But the two-room similarity ends at this point of the parallel, since whilst one side of the gastro-bar has a discrete and inglenook feel and the other, being slightly larger, though not tremendously so, an aspirant sense of restaurant, neither one nor the other can be said to be less cozy.
It is the larger room of the two, however, where Wonderland is best perfected. Not exactly the gossamer Wonderland as conceived in the maze-like labyrinth of Lewis Carroll’s inventively playful, playfully odd, often obtuse and fantasy-making mind, but rather the rich star-spangled extravaganza bristling with special-effects, which, we are told at the time of writing, is the highest grossing film of director Tim Burton’s career. The framed anthropomorphist images displayed on Rabbit Hole’s walls are not the exquisite renditions of Tenniel or of Attwell, they are loud, near-modern grotesque, decidedly Burtonesque, and the looped Alice in Wonderland film shown silently on the wall-mounted screen needs no introduction: it is Mr Burton’s Hollywood blockbuster.
One of the most compelling draws of this pantheon to Burton ~ no, not a monogrammed pair of Alice’s ~ is its enticing assortment of Wonderland hats. Casually tossed in a wicker basket just below the TV screen, these simulated props, which identify with Alice’s fictional characters, enable those who are smitten by the happy-snappy smartphone age to plonk them on their bonces, take photos of each other and feed them proudly to their ‘Like-clicking’ friends, who are presumably waiting, phones in hands with nothing but bated breath, for the next instalment of lives that surprise. ‘If the hat fits, it fits’, and the management of Rabbit Hole have latched onto this modern compulsion, for it certainly fits their marketing ploy.
Wearing an Alice hat or not, there is something important you need to know about dining out at Rabbit Hole, which is that before the evening is out you will be rubbing Deep Heat into your neck. I think we can safely say that the last thing Mr Burton would likely want to hear is that his multi-billion-dollar film has been upstaged by a ceiling, but there you have it, and there it is.
Rabbit Hole’s ceiling is a work of art, an engaging, colourful illustration that wouldn’t look amiss in an early 20th century children’s story book. It is in itself a fitting tribute to the golden age of authentic Alice.
Its canvas is awash with iconic Wonderland objects, which float around in a densely turbulent space as though, caught up in the Wizard of Oz tornado, they have been flung at random and as a whole into ever-lasting affection, which, as all we avid readers know, is the library of our impressionable years to which we owe a lifelong membership.
‘Crikey!’ you might think, as you crane your neck in admiration, ‘they’ve even crimped’ the ceiling, but in this respect you’d be lavishing praise where praise is not readily due, for whilst the effect lends the images an appropriate dreamlike character, as every student of Königsberg’s history knows, or if he doesn’t should, the series of narrow arches that give the ceilings of basements and those in old industrial buildings in this part of the world their characteristic ripple, as aesthetically pleasing as they are, are principal to the fulfilment of an essential structural purpose. Having made this distinction, however, artistic concept and construction complement each other, as though their eventual coexistence had been ordained by Carroll himself. Carroll’s tale has innumerable twists, but Rabbit Hole’s ceiling has a few of its own.
If you haven’t come to Rabbit Hole to gawp in amazement up at the ceiling, the only explanation can be that perhaps you are here for the food.
Rabbit Hole Gastro-Bar Kaliningrad
I see a lot of positive comments regarding the quality of Rabbit Hole’s food posted on the internet but have failed to find anything much written about the quantity. A word in your ear, if I may. On the evening that we dined there, one amongst our group was rather disappointed that the prawn salad she had ordered only contained as many prawns ~ two to be precise ~ to justify its name and warrant its plurality. And I was not exactly impressed when the baked potato for which I had paid the British equivalent of three whole pounds was lost in the landscape of a bowl whose suspiciously disingenuous proportions could have taken a single olive and optically turned it into a melon. Taste in all things was in place and thus it goes was quality, but the whereabouts of quantity was anybody’s guess, perhaps it was off taking tea with Carroll’s March Hare and Mad Hatter.
I have no idea what brand of beer they serve in Alice’s wonderland, do you? But down in Kaliningrad’s Rabbit hole, I was perfectly happy to reprise my friendship with the ever-amenable Maisel’s Weisse, which, as every student of good beer knows, perhaps those very same students who are so up to scratch on Konigsberg’s history, is a special Bavarian wheat beer.
I would have been quite content sitting and sipping at my Maisel’s Weisse whilst gazing at the ceiling ~ pass the crick-in-the-neck cream, please ~ had it not been for my discovery of that something exciting going on at a nearby table of ladies. They had just received a wooden platter from the waiter in a bowler hat containing umpteen shots of different vodkas. You may recall, and if you don’t here is the link that will jog your memory, that I knew all about these special platters and the different vodkas they conveyed, having been bought one at the Dreadnought.
Did Rabbit Hole have a vodka or two tinctured with different flavours? Most certainly they did not! They had a vodka or 54, replied the indignant waiter, and before we could disarm him, he had whipped his phone out of his pocket as smartly would have Hickok had he possessed a mobile phone instead of his trusty side-iron, and tippy tapping away on his phone, not Hickok but the waiter, he began to recite a list of vodkas as long as Alice’s arm when whatever the potion it was she drank inflated her general stature. The only way we could switch him off ~ and here’s a mark of salesmanship ~ was to interrupt his roll call by ordering up a batch of those vodkas upon whose fragrant personalities he was so zealously expatiating.
The least adventurous of our party, and, if the truth be known, cursed by the same affliction as Wonderland’s White Rabbit, I stuck to my staple flavoured vodka, horseradish, a choice I presumed would be safe by precedent, but which, as it transpired, was nothing of the sort. The grimace on my face could, I suppose, have been mistaken for the grin on the face of the Cheshire Cat, but whatever it was that he was on, this was not my fix. I am not sure what became of the radish, but I felt the kick that came with the horse.
The next safe bet was cherry flavour, but this concoction as nice as it was being rather more sweet than I cared for, made me think that it may have been more prudent had I approached it via the stepping stones of turnip, carrot, swede and cucumber, but that my friends is what tasting is, a bit of a tightrope to getting it right, but a talking point when getting it wrong.
By the end of this Rabbit Hole evening, the unpredictable marriage of Maisel’s Weisse with exotic vodkas brought me to the realisation why when Alice drank her magic infusions one minute she felt too small for the room and much too tall the next. But the sorcery hadn’t ended here. Before returning to the ground above me, I was aghast to see in my reflection that some of the vodkas had gone to my head and one ~ it must have been carrot ~ had definitely gone to my ears … Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit …
18 February 2025 ~ Ponart Brewery in the Strange Case of Creation
>> Creation — the famous exhibition from Annenkirche and the art group Grain is now in Kaliningrad! This is a biblical view of the creation of the world through the prism of modern Christian art. The exhibition is located within the walls of the atmospheric old Brewery Ponart, where the past and the present, faith and creativity, deep meaning and stunning visual design are harmoniously combined. At the exhibition, you will learn all the most important things about the days of creation. You will be able to touch God, get closer to the heavenly bodies and decide for yourself whether to bite or not to bite the forbidden fruit. Large-scale installations and aesthetic locations help to penetrate the theme and provide the opportunity for many beautiful keepsake photographs. << Translated from the exhibitor’s website
Sailing past the world and saying goodbye to the dinosaur, we entered a short, narrow section of corridor, the walls of which were decorated with multiple lights, each having flower petal shades in hues of natural green and yellow. This room appeared to represent Day 3 of God’s world creation: the introduction of the natural environment, the phenomenon we call ‘nature’.
The impact of the following room would have been awesome without comparison to the cramped and confined space of the last, but no such prelude was necessary.
We were now standing in an area of the old brewery, which once would have comprised three or four storeys but, gutted from floor to rafters, had been recast as a towering shaft, gnarled, scarred and ragged. The entire confinement was bathed in a low red glow, causing me to bookmark Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, which was a rather unfortunate negative parallel, because the huge illuminated moon suspended from the ceiling suggested that in the narrative structure by which the rooms were sequenced, we must have arrived at Day 4, the creation of the universe. Don’t quote me on this, however, as my proficiency in maths is far below the standard of the divinity’s.
A low, not humming sound, but musical chord, which wavered slightly, but not enough in noticeable degree to be called melodic, vibrated sonorously through the vertical vastness of this lofty chamber, adding audibility to its already visual awesomeness. Stunned by the giant moon, I also found myself becoming inadvertently absorbed by the many scars with which the faces of the wall were pocked and disfigured, the many uneven ledges and protuberances, the legion of empty joist holes, which reminded me of eye sockets in the face of an ancient skull.
Scaling three of the four walls was a metal staircase, linked by two horizontal platforms at higher and lower levels. This was a staircase which, if you had not turned adult, you would want to climb immediately. Up I went!
The difference in elevation of the two landings provided an agreeable variety of photo opportunities, which, have smartphone will snap, we, of course, took full advantage of.
At the summit of the steps, we passed into a small piece of truncated passageway, emerging thereafter into a great rectangular room, the installations and arrangement of which in relation to one another reminded me of the surrealist work of Terry Gilliam, Monty Python’s collage animator.
Lighting ~ green, blue, orange-red ~ bird flocks strung in mid air, paintings of beasts on the walls, a row of trampoline-seat swings and, in the centre of this row, but at the further end of the room, an enormous pointing white hand (if this had been the UK, it would have been liberal black), thrusts out of the heavens (in this case from the ceiling) through clumps of something that I am rather fond of. I was thinking ‘cauliflower’; the artistic creators most probably clouds.
“Michaelangelo!” Olga announced, annoying me. I had wanted to say it first
The next venue, the room immediately above the one containing the giant hand, was, arguably, more surreal than the last. Two rows of the same sized but differently stylised mannequin heads centred atop rectangular plinths travelled along the centre of the chamber, whose every wall had attached to them paintings of a symbolic nature depicting either variations on the theme of divine creation, Michaelangelo’s version, or unsympathetic renditions of the progenitors of original sin, the hapless Adam and Eve.
Lighting continued to generate atmosphere as it had in the rooms before, and once again could be heard that low, impenetrable but penetrating, measured background hum, which, speaking for myself, had nothing of hallelujah in it but a lot of numbing depth. It gave me grim satisfaction to note that it, and all I had experienced whilst on this voyage of wonder, accorded with my sullied view that of all God’s myriad creations, with the exception of man himself, the world is the most imperfect. Indeed, I have to say and must say, that you would need to be less receptive than deaf, dumb and blind, or a child upon a rocking horse or swing, not to arrive at the end of this incredibly evocative ghost-train ride with more of awe and wonder and less of self-possession than you had upon starting out.
True to form, there is nothing in this biblical treatise on the creation of the world that does not deserve to be called amazing but at one and the same time peripherally unsettling, and nowhere was this more apparent than in each and every one of the artistic interpretations of the spark of life and the fall of man.
The grotesque ethereal landscapes portrayed symbolically in these works of art made the scores of red rosy apples suspended on threads of different lengths, some so long that the apples attached to them descended through circular pits in the floor, wherefrom they could be witnessed hovering above a rectangular trough scattered with scarlet bricks, divine enough to test the wrath of God. This then is the thematic ethos of the exhibition’s penultimate room, where it is hats off to Creation’s creators who, by ingenuity or by accident, have made the legendary curse of original sin never seem more tempting!
I will never now be able to look again in innocence at a store-bought rosy apple or pluck one off a tree without that the act of doing so emphatically returns me to this desirous scene at Ponart Brewery, as well as to the mythological premise that almost every instinctual human act is sin wrapped up in guilt or guilt wrapped up in sin.
It occurs to me that there is someone out there who is abrogating responsibility for filling this flawed world of ours with a dynastic glut of apple pluckers. Tell me, who can think of Granny Smith when the orchard in full bloom is full to bursting with attractive distractions like Honeycrisp and Golden Delicious? It’s easy to blame it on Adam and Eve, they are not here to defend themselves.
Ponart Brewery in the Strange Case of Creation
The truth of the matter is that the biblical story of creation, that masterpiece of tragedy of which we are a part, means different things to different people. Go and see it for yourself, and ask yourself at the end of the journey, is the biblical view of our world a slice of apple pie, or does it give you the pip? One thing is for certain, Creation is an exhibition, which starts and keeps you thinking. https://zernoart.ru/creation_kaliningrad
A step-by-step guide to the six days it took to create the world
10 February 2025 ~ Ponart Brewery Creation of the World Exhibition
Holiness, theological doctrines and a biblical view of the world, these are some of the many spiritual components of our mortal existence with which, I imagine, I am rarely associated. I can think of hardly anybody among those few who think they know me, and that includes myself, who would even half believe that I would take an active interest in the genesis creation narrative. And yet, there I was ~ where, I shall tell you in good time ~ not merely taking an interest in, but following in the footsteps of, the Divine Creator’s plan.
This genesis paradigm has been used to explain why we go to, or in England used to go to, church on Sundays and why on that same day, before the evil ones changed the licensing laws, the pubs worked fewer hours, so that we, the people who used the pubs, would stay at home and rest in order to work greater hours in the restless week to come. Is nothing sacred to exploitation? The answer to that is no.
I had not been asked such searching biblical questions since I was a nipper, and, as far as I can recall, had never been asked them whilst standing in front of a giant globe of the world, lit up and suspended within a hushed and semi-darkened room, bathed in a red-filtered light, with a Lutheran priest standing before me dressed in a pair of jeans surrounded by a semi-circle of orange-painted rocking horses.
In telling you that the cavernous, scarred, hollowed out, red-brick room in which myself, my wife, the priest, the globe and the dinosaur were congregated was one piece in the mammoth jigsaw of Königsberg’s Pomart Brewery, a rambling late-19th century pile undergoing restoration and emerging from its ruined condition as a multifarious public space, those who think they know me, and this includes myself, will pick up on the one word ‘brewery’ and whisper slyly under their breath, ‘Hmm, so that’s why he was there!” But both of us could not be more wrong. Though it shames me to admit it, I was not strictly or exclusively at Pomart’s for the beer.
Not that I have not been aware of the Pomart Brewery’s existence; could I of all people be guilty of this oversight? I have known it as a historic landmark fallen into dereliction and, in more recent months, as an ambitious restoration project, complete with functioning brewery. The fact, therefore, that I have not had time to explore it in either its faded former or current glory testifies to the many things that there are to see and do in and around Kaliningrad. But here we were, or rather there we were, at last, attending an exhibition called Creation, a deceptively simple title for something of such conceptual and spatial magnitude.
Ponart Brewery Creation of the World Exhibition
The art group ‘Grain’, Creation’s creators, originates from ‘Annenkirche’ (in Russian: Анненкирхе), or the easier to relate to St Anne’s Lutheran Church in the Russian city of St Petersburg.
The group describes their exhibition as a “biblical view of the creation of the world through the prism of modern art … where the past and the present, faith and creativity, deep meaning and stunning visual design are harmoniously combined.
“At the exhibition, you will learn all the most important things about the days of the creation,” Creation’s creators promise. “You will be able to touch God, get closer to the heavenly bodies and decide for yourself whether or not to bite the forbidden fruit.”
Tempted? I wouldn’t recommend it. Although among the exhibition’s stimulating props and large-scale installations, you will find no shortage of apples, like everything else in this tour de force the apples are only as real as symbolic licence permits them to be. The creators of Creation invite you to leave this material world and sink your teeth into something that you may have bitten into before, but which lies beyond the secular yonder to which you have grown accustomed.
Ponart’s Brewery was not created as a venue for Creation, it was created for the creation of Pilsner lager (there’s no accounting for taste), but as an exact fit for Creation’s needs, it is difficult to imagine anywhere else coming reasonably close. Ponart swallows everything whole ~ you, me, apples and all, even the giant globe of the world and the looming sphere of the moon. To the exhibition’s props, the gargantuan scarred-brick labyrinth constitutes a compatible universe, an expanse in which each exhibit finds its own unique space, providing the parabolic journey, along whose line the exhibits lead you, with a transport of celestial commentary and a glimpse into your own beliefs, which, latent within your spiritual landscape, are as revealing in their intimacy as they are in cosmic proportion.
Each exhibit seems to signpost biblical images in your childhood past, which, as you are gradually reacquainted, shuffle to and fro against an ever-changing, dream-like scenery, part comprised of book illustrations, part the work of your own young hand. You can almost feel the wax of the crayons brushing against your fingers and feel the smile on your face at the Rembrandt you have created.
Creation is the kind of exhibition, the startling kind, where you can live the Earth’s first six days of life at a pace that suits your ruminations, and when you feel you have reached the seventh, you can take a well-earnt rest, for example, in one of Ponart’s relaxing bars or atmospheric restaurants.
Creation has never been so creative and Ponart’s never so tempting.
A socio-cultural perspective on Russia’s cake habit contrasted and compared with and illuminated by one or two supplementary notes about having your cake and eating it in Great Britain
Revised 4 February 2025 | First published 26 March 2023 ~ Russia’s Love of Cakes Differs from the UK’s
Cakes. I don’t imagine for one moment that when somebody in the West mentions Russia, cakes are the first thing that spring to mind. Equally, I’m willing to wager that the UK media has written precious little lately, or written little at all, about the magnificent variety of cakes in Russia and the widespread availability of them in spite of those silly old sanctions.
They certainly would never divulge that the super-abundance of cakes in Russia is part of a western plot organised and funded by the Sorryarse Open Cake Society to swamp the Federation with cakes, similar to the way in which it is suffocating the western world with boat loads of useless migrants. I am not so sure about cake, but the spotted dick that they are creating is fast filling up with gritty currants.
Whoa now! Hang on a minute! Blin, yolkee polkee and blaha mooha! How dare you lump our delicious Russian cakes in the same inflatable dinghy with a gaggle of grinning third-world freeloaders destined for 5-star hotels at the expense of the British taxpayer!
Sorry, I stand corrected and in the same breath exposed. It is true that I am no Don Juan when it comes to loving cakes. However, as one of the last of the few true Englishmen, I concede to enjoying a nice slice of cake whenever the mood so takes me and, when the opportunity avails itself, regard it to be the perfect accompaniment to the English custom of afternoon tea.
All well and good, but neither affrontery apologised for nor my confessed willingness to embrace the odd iced cake rather than the swarthy migrant amounts to diddly-squat when it comes to explaining the cultural differences that set cake worship apart in Russia from similar proclivities in the UK.
Cakes are cancel proof
Cancel-proof, like most things pertaining to Russian culture, as the West is finding out and finding out the hard way, Russia’s love of cakes is in a sacrosanct league of its own. For example, it is not often, if indeed at all, that you will see men in the UK roaming around the streets with a big sticky cake in their hands. There is every possibility that you will see them holding another man’s hand, or, if you are really unlucky ~ or lucky if you are a professional photographer assigned to defining British culture ~ some other part of their brethren’s anatomy, but never a cake in hand. In the UK there seems to be an hypocritical subtext, an unspoken reservation at work, which, ironically, seems to imply that even in these enlightened times cakes and men together in public is tantamount to poofterism. Alack a day, but there you have it.
Russia’s love of cakes differs from the UK’s
Having thus established that men carting cakes around in public is not the done thing in Britland (but then what is and, more to the point, who is?), we arrive at a striking contrast. I’ve lost count of the number of times when entertaining at home (dispel all images of magic tricks, juggling, charades and karaoke) that on opening the gate to greet our Russian guests, at least one man will be standing there with a large stodgy cake in his grasp. As for dining out, I have yet to go to a restaurant with my Russian friends where rounding off a meal without a sumptuous sweet, most of which resemble cakes drenched in cream and syrup, would turn an everyday event into something of a precedent. Perchance it ever occurs, it would breach the unexpected like a hypersonic missile bursting through the dream of eternal hegemony. Cakes don’t come in on a wing and a prayer in Russia; they are part of the national psyche, in which whim and caprice can play no part.
The company Cakes R Rus is yet to be incorporated. The reason for this oversight is not immediately clear when cakes in Russia attract such popularity, but the greater mystery by far must be why in Russia are cakes so popular? It is a matter for conjecture, is it not, that often what presents itself at best as a half-baked explanation turns out in the long run to be remarkably overdone. Not so when it comes to cakes. Cakes are interwoven into every Fair Isled fabric of daily, popular and expressive life. Judge this on the merit that there are almost as many traditional sayings, remarks and literary allusions to cakes, and on matters pertaining to cakes, as there are cakes themselves. We will come to that in a moment.
Speaking from experience, all shops in Kaliningrad, that is to say all food shops, except the fishmongers, the butchers and the caviar sellers (add your own to contradict me), however small the shop may be, are guaranteed to stock one, two, even sometimes three, fairly chunky, big, round cakes, whilst supermarkets routinely offer flotilla to armada volumes of seductively sumptuous cake varieties, rich, lavish, opulent and sufficient in taste, size and price to float everyone’s cake-craving boat.
For the love of cakes
In addition to these generic outlets, Kaliningrad is no stranger to the small independent boaterie, sorry I meant to say bakery. There are any number of such bakeries (I won’t tell you just how many, for if I did that would be telling.), but the most noticeable because most prolific chain is undoubtedly Königsbäcker. Why not Kalininbacker? What a silly question.
Now we have both stopped crying, I will try to explain how the Russian perception of cakes differs to the perceived role that cakes play in modern British society and why; and in the course of doing so, you may suspect that you have stumbled upon a hint that enables you to answer the question, why in Russia are cakes so popular?
Exactly how the Russian cake mentality diverges from its English counterpart is not as subtle as you might first think. So, for all you cake lovers out there, let me try to explain. Here goes!
First and foremost, bugger The Great British Bake Off, an awful television prog which is opium for the masses. Like coronavirus, which also kept people at home glued to their televisions, The Great British F!*off most likely foreshadows something more dreadful to come, such as The Great British Bake Off in the Nude and I’m A Cake Get me Out of Here, currently previewing on the Secretly Ashamed Channel.
The Great British Bake Off, which I always find time to switch off, lost all credibility for me when one of the female contestants was allegedly discovered substituting Viagra for self-raising flour. When the cake flopped, she was most disappointed. Aren’t we all when our cakes don’t rise. But her story had a happy ending, three to be precise, for when the show was over, after tea and cake with three of the show’s male competitors, she left the studio a satisfied woman. So satisfied, in fact, that she continues to pay her TV licence even to this day!
Anyway, Great Bake Offs or preferably no Great Bake Offs, my experience has it that the celebritising of cakes has very little impact on consumer purchasing habits. UKers may gasp in unison when confronted on the goggle box by Big Cake El Supremo, but it’s a different story altogether when buying down Asda or Iceland. Small synthetic packet cakes are the type that Brits on average go for, something cheap and abundant, over-stuffed with sugar and small enough to fit inside one’s pocket. (Hey you, watch out! There’s a store detective about! “And what of it! They can’t do nothin’. It would be a violation of our subhuman rights. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! He! He!”)
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake baker’s man bake me a cake as fast as you can (The cherished belief that all bakers are highly motivated individuals lends itself to scrutiny)
It occurs to me (which is the get out clause to ‘it occurs to nobody else and why would it?’), that cakes in Russia are rather more special-occasion items than tear open a packet of Kipling’s as quickly as you like and let that be an end to it!
Kipling’s individual pies are probably not as bad as so-called experts on synthetics would like us to believe, although when shady and disreputable store owners infringe the sell-by date, and this happens with greater frequency than it should in the UK, especially in shops run by migrants, the pastry tends to be dry and falls in embarrassing flaky bits down the front of your jumper. In winter, when it may, or conversely may not, be snowing, such socially unacceptable things may pass by virtually unnoticed, but once the Christmas jumper emerges in all its dubious glory into the glaring spotlight of spring, the shards of pastry in which you are covered can begin to look like dandruff. Mr Kipling may very well make exceedingly crumbly cakes, but to stop yourself from being conned and from looking more like a bit of a prick in your unfortunate Christmas jumper, particularly when it is splattered with pastry, choose your cake stores carefully and always check the sell-by-dates, especially if you have no option ~ and options in the UK are getting fewer by the boat load ~ than to buy from P. Akis Convenience Shores, a disproportionate number of which are concentrated in Dover. I wonder why that is?
Inspired by my last comment, I am tempted to ask, do you remember the 1970s’ individual fruit pie phenomenon, characterised first by square pies wrapped in grease-proof paper and later round pies presented on a tin-foil base? Tasty, ay! But, alas, like most things in life, they tended to shrink as time went by. Any road, can apple pies truly be classed as cakes? I suppose they can if you drop the word ‘pie’ and substitute it for ‘cake’, and am I stalling because I have bitten off more than I can chew in my self-appointed role as Anglo-Russian cakeologist?
Russia’s love of cakes is holistic
As I have already said (I hope you’ve been paying attention!), cakes in Russia are rather more a special-occasion commodity than tear open a packet of Kipling’s as quickly as you like and get them down you in one mouthful before the pastry crumbles. Kipling’s individual apple … (ah, we’ve already covered that …).
Moving on: I am not suggesting that they, Russian cakes, are strictly reserved for special occasions such as births, weddings and funerals, but they often come bearing people, such as to get-togethers at home, to private parties, social gatherings and events of a similar nature. They also occupy pride of place among boxes of chocolates and flowers as a way of saying thank you to someone who has rendered a kindness to another mortal soul or has performed some function in their official capacity above and beyond the call of duty.
In these contexts, the cake’s presentation shares equal importance with noshability, which possibly explains why Russian cakes, with their white-iced coverings, frothy cream crowns, candy sequins and fruit-festooned exteriors, make our traditional English jam and cream sponges look like poor relations; same bourgeoise boat perhaps but not at all on the upper-deck with their ostentatious Russian counterparts. Sigh, how ironically times can change and ostentatiously do, and with them cakes as well!
But let’s not leave it here! Whilst we, the English cannot compete with glitz, there is still a lot to be said for our good old-fashioned sponge cake, something that wants to make you sing not ‘There will always be an England’, because it’s much too late for that, but ‘There will always be a sponge cake’. There is something solid, enduring, traditional, something reassuringly staid and respectfully no-nonsense about plain, old English sponge cakes; something wonderfully neo-imperial, boldly neo-colonial, something so 1940s in the sense of stiff-upper lip that frankly I am astonished that these thoroughly English cakes have not been singled out for special ethnic-cleansing treatment by ‘take a knee’ cancel-culturists, or cast like so many heritage statuesover walls and into ponds with the blessing of the left-wing British judiciary. Tell me, is it premature of me to feel even a little bit mildly complacent about the safety and sovereignty of the patriotic British cake? I’ll take a Tommy Robinson, please, he makes an exceedingly difficult rock cake for the soft under-dentures of the British establishment.
A socio-cultural perspective on cakes
The socio-cultural and historic significance of cakes may strike you as more than a mouthful, but history is replete with examples where the icing on the cake is the role of the cake itself. Spectacles such as birds flying out of giant cakes have been going on since the time of ancient Rome (not now, of course, due to animal rights laws) and scantily clad frosted women have been leaping out of oversized cakes since the 19th century (not so much today, however, because of the feminist movement). I am perfectly aware of the existence of the Cambridge Stool Chart, but tell me, is the feminist ‘movement’ in some way linked to this chart?
And you thought they were just coming in by dinghies!!
Literary cake tropes have fared much better than their visual counterparts. Boris Johnson (You remember him, don’t you?), who had a cake named after him and in Kyiv no less ~ where else?, borrowed and modified the well-known phrase, ‘Have our cake and eat it’ in his bid to convince democracy of the benefits of Brexit. What he forgot to tell us, however, was that behind the political scenes the British and French governments had cooked up a migrant shuttle service ~ one-way ticket only ~ thus ensuring that after Brexit the cake would be ‘had’ alright, had and eaten by others, nibbled away like vermin at cheese, leaving nothing but crumbs for the British.
Slightly more famous than Boris Johnson but not, as far as I am aware, cake enriched by name, is Mary Antionette. She is credited with uttering the oft quoted and immortal phrase, ‘Let them eat cake!’, and although in all probability she said nothing of the sort, her disregard for, or indifference to, the plight of her country’s poor (typical of the French) is nowhere near as offensive as the Conservative party’s debasing betrayal of Britain’s Brexit electorate.
Boris ‘The Fruit Cake’ Johnson, sometimes referred to as ‘that Big Cream Puff’, is not the only man in showbusiness to have had an honorary cake named after him. Other cake-named celebs include no less than Elvis Presley, as well as such Russian personalities as ballet dancer Anna Pavlova and the first human to leave our world by rocket, Mr Yuri Gagarin, both of whom the West zealously tried to cancel just because their cakes were better than Boris’s, an all-show but nothing-of-substance confection cynically whipped up in Kyiv in order to keep the ackers flowing. Boris’s cake was made according to Biden’s recipe (that’s Biden as in empty chef’s hat not as in Master Baker). My question is, therefore, that with all this cake naming going on, isn’t it about time that somebody in Russia baked a cake and named it ‘Kobzon’ in memoriam of my favourite crooner? Come on chaps! How about it!
Whist I wait for this honour to be bestowed, we will hold our collective breath in anticipation of Jimmy Saville, Gary Glitter, Adolf Hitler, oh and don’t forget our Tony ~ Tony ‘Iraq’ Blair ~ having cakes named after their illustrious personages. And what about a ‘Boat People’ cake to celebrate the end of Western civilisation.
And what is so wrong about that? A good many famous people and not so famous events and places have had the honour of cakes named after them. The most obvious being Mrs Sponge, who lent her name to the sponge cake. No kiddin’! No, its a historical fact! Her first name was Victoria. She lived the better part of her life at 65 Coronation Crescent. (Source: Alfred ‘Dicky’ Bird). Crossword Clue: 7 across ‘Queen’; 5 down ‘custard’.
Another famous namesake cake is Battenberg, relating to Prince Cake, and in the towns and locale category, that is to say where places not people have given their names to cakes, we have the English Eccles cake, which obviously gets its name from Scunthorpe, and a cake we all love to bypass, colloquially known as Sad Cake, named as legend has it after the UK town of Wellingborough. It’s a ‘going there thing’: so don’t!
The metropolis has its own cake, historically known as the White Iced Empire but renamed in recent years, if not entirely rewritten, and consequently referred to by those who would rather it remained as it was as Double Chocolate Black Forest Ghetto. Also known as Chocolate Woke or, by those who have not had their brainwashed heads thrust right up their arses (This is the BBC!) as the Liberal Upside Down cake. It is often confused with the Fruit-Bottom cake which, though far from all it is cracked up to be, sells like proverbial hot cracks during Londonistan’s Gay Pride month. If you have the extreme good fortune to be in the UK capital during that poof-pastry period, do make sure to skip lickety-split down to London’s Soho, the geographical and moral-less centre of LGBT fame, and treat yourself whilst you are there to a slice of the famous Navy Cake from Hello Sailor’s bun shop or a ‘once tried never forgotten’ Golden Rivet Muffin from the café El Bandido’s.
All of this, I am pleased to say, is a very long way away from Kaliningrad and its culture, and everybody who lives in Kaliningrad is also pleased to say, may it, with the Good Lord’s help, long remain that way.
Meanwhile, whilst you sit there wondering which of the world’s biggest cakes ought to be named after you, if there is anything in this treatise on Russian/British cakes which you think I haven’t covered, if you really feel that you must, then jot down the one or two points you believe I might have missed and consign your trunk full of comments to ‘Care of the Cake in MacArthur Park’ . It’s only right and proper since ‘It took so long to bake it …’
Please note: At the time of writing, Starmer hasn’t had a cake named after him yet, but according to one political commentator, a man who narrowly escaped debasing himself by appearing on the Great Bake Off, who understandably wishes to remain anonymous, when that great cake day eventually dawns Starmer’s cake is bound to be called something resembling CurranT, with the capital ‘T’ standing for ‘Taxes’ and some of the letters in between omitted. That one’s got me really foxed?
Vintage sponge cake: I found this image at <a href=”https://freevintageillustrations.com/vintage-sponge-cake-illustration/?utm_source=freevintageillustrations&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=downloadbox”>Free Vintage Illustrations</a> / https://freevintageillustrations.com/vintage-sponge-cake-illustration/
Nursery Rhyme Baker’s Man: I found this image at <a href=”https://freevintageillustrations.com/pat-a-cake-nursery-rhyme-illustration/?utm_source=freevintageillustrations&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=downloadbox”>Free Vintage Illustrations</a> / https://freevintageillustrations.com/pat-a-cake-nursery-rhyme-illustration/
Craft, Imported and Specialty Beers: Double Mother T.
Mick Hart’s difficult job of reviewing craft, imported and specialty beers in Kaliningrad
29 January 2025 ~ Double Mother T. Double Chocolate Stout Rewort
A brother of mine who came and stayed in Kaliningrad refused to drink and eat with us at the restaurant of our choice. He claimed it was too expensive. He ate and drank in a place overlooking the Upper Pond. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he chided. “You get a big pot of green tea and a large burger for next to nothing. It’s f*cking handsome!!”
Unburdened by his eloquence, I am not about to say the same or even something similar about Rewort’s Double Mother T. For starters, I wouldn’t dare, as the tin leaves me awestruck.
Mary Teresa Bojaxhiu MC, better known as Mother Teresa or Saint Mother Teresa was, I’m sure, a dear old soul, but whatever is she doing staring out at you like that from the side of a lowly beer can?
Unless you are one of the chosen devout, and if you are, you most likely frown on the wickedness of beer drinking, purely in brand marketing terms the presence of dear Mother T is not arguably a horse you would willingly back, and yet the one thing it doesn’t do, this image, is put you off enough to prevent your curiosity from taking the can from the shelf.
Let’s pause here a moment to reflect on the packaging. It is purely and simply a work of art, not just in its visual makeup but also in its tactility. If you see this can in a shop, you will feel the need to pick it up, and when you feel the texture, you will feel the need to buy it. After all, if it tastes as good as it feels, you are on your way to a winner.
Double Mother T. is sometimes described as an imperial stout. There are two stories circulating in Russia’s beer circles pertaining to the genre imperial stout. The romantic one has it that imperial stout was commissioned by the Russian Imperial Court, brewed in Europe and then shipped to Russia by sea. The legend goes that the brew owes its strength to the safe passage of the beer, which needed to be highly hopped and amply infused with alcohol to preserve it on its long sea voyage. Story number two is somewhat less adventurous. It suggests that the Russian Imperial Court liked its beers rich and strong, and wallah! Mother T!
I confess, and I felt the need to do so as soon as I saw the tin, that I prefer the sea-salt legend, with its accent on discernment, rather more than I do the notion of the Russian Imperial Court looking for a recipe on which to get pissed quick. I could go on to gild the lily, alluding to sailing ships of oak, the billowing of the unfurled sails, the splashing foam of the ocean waves as the bow cuts through the silver-blue briny, but all of that means nothing to me. I am a steadfast landlubber, who is not fit to shovel (Could you help with a rhyme?) coal from one ship to another.
I confess, however (I’m at it again. It’s that picture of Mother T.), that when it comes to sinking beer, I’m an admiral in this league.
Piping myself on board, therefore, which is something I do with aplomb, almost with as much dexterity as when I blow my own trumpet, although the packaging of this brew both worried and attracted me, I was not altogether convinced that Double Chocolate Stout x 2 would partner well with crisps and peanuts. Would it be, do you think, as chocolate as double chocolate could be?
The answer is ‘Yes, it would!’ You can say what you like about this stout, using predictable beer-reviewing words such as ‘notes’, ‘hints’ and ‘tinctures’, but I am willing to swear on a stack of Mother Ts that when I pulled the seal from the can, chocolate, no, double chocolate, enveloped my old olfactories, just as it used to do when I lived in Norwich and regularly parked my car outside the since defunct chocolate factory; Rowntree’s, I think it was.
It was chocolate in the can; chocolate up your nostrils; and with some, as it turned out to be, unnecessary trepidation, it was chocolate in your mouth. And if you were clumsy and spilt it, it would be chocolate down your trousers.
I deduce, like Sherlock Holmes (I’ve got his hat!), that a single version Mother T. would not be as deep as the double version and also less in strength. At 6.9%, Double T. delivers a clout, but its gloves are lined, made of silk and black, so you do not see it coming (a bit like being mugged in Brixton) and when you do eventually feel it, the blow befalls you like a gentle caress (which is not at all a bit like being mugged in Brixton).
The finish is chocolate; the aftertaste ~ you’ve got it! ~ that is chocolate too. The cunning combination of chocolate, beer and alcohol makes for a strongly addictive beverage. “Whatever next!” I hear you cry, “Cigarette-flavoured beer!”
The all-round from start-to-finish taste is inescapably rich, so forget about winning the lottery. And each successive sip pays dividends; it just gets richer as the can goes down. I could drink this anytime, but preferably in winter when the nights are drawing in and the fire is blazing cozily in the hearth, but I would not want to drink it with a bowl of trifle in one hand and a chili sandwich in the other just before going to bed. How you could do this anyway, unless you had a third hand, is a matter for conjecture, preferably undertaken when wearing Sherlock Holmes’ hat whilst sipping upon a glass of imperial stout.
You have to hand it to the Rewort Brewery, when all is said and done, their Double Chocolate Stout is, with due respect for piety, one helluva beautiful beer!
My apologies to Mother T.
BOX TICKER’S CORNER Name of Beer: Double Mother T. Brewer: Rewort Where it is brewed: Sergiev Posad, Russia Can capacity: 0.5 litre Strength: 6.9% Price: It cost me nowt ~ it was a present; average price 210-290 roubles (£1.72-£2.38) Appearance: Jet black Aroma: Chocolate on chocolate Taste: Chocolate Fizz amplitude: 0 Label/Marketing: Different ~ to say the least Would you buy it again? Yes, yes and yes
Beer rating
The brewer’s website has this to say about Double Mother T.: Unfortunately, it doesn’t have anything to say. But here is the website: https://rewort.ru/
Wot other’s say [Comments on Double Mother T. from the internet, unedited] 🤔Unfortunately, no. A very sweet aftertaste that does not hide a dense body. The double is not felt at all. The last similar one that comes to mind was a brulock with condensed milk. But there was a good stout and quite cheerful and recognizable condensed milk. This one is somehow out of place. [Comment: Do you know what he is talking about?] 😲Not bad at all, but there’s a shitload of yeast floating around, that’s a minus, of course. [Comment: There’s a ‘shitload’ of something floating about, and it’s not yeast!] 😑 Dark chocolate with coffee, thick, but has a slight heavy aftertaste, not something you can drink often. [Comment: Often, yes; a lot of, no.] 😂This stout was a lot easier to drink than the image on the can is to look at whilst you are drinking it. [Comment: No comment.]
It’s quite simple, really: If you love marzipan, this is where to go
23 January 2025 ~ Resort Shop Zelenogradsk a Must for Marzipan
The reason why many people have never heard of Königsberg is that in 1945 it ceased to exist. Very few people make the connection between the Königsberg that was and the Kaliningrad that is.
One chap, for example, on espying my Königsberg baseball cap perched on my head in the pub, insisted that Königsberg is a city in modern-day Germany twinned with the UK seaside town of Cleethorpes, and he wouldn’t take ‘niet’ for an answer. Learning something new every day is an occupational hazard when drinking in English pubs.
But even those who are acquainted with Königsberg, who know something of its history, the existence of its cathedral, that it was once home to the German philosopher Kant, and that it was, in WWII, reduced to ash and cinders, are probably none the wiser regarding the city’s reputation as an erstwhile-prized production centre for an exceptional kind of marzipan.
For the uninitiated everywhere, marzipan is a sweet whose primary ingredient is almonds. It is a versatile confection, taking many shapes and forms, and is more likely than not these days when found in general retail outlets to be a chocolate-coated version companioned by other candy bars.
Königsberg’s marzipan history kicked off in the first decade of the 19th century. The main players were the Pomatti brothers, who, because of the exceptional quality of their marzipan goods, were among the first confectioners in Königsberg to be granted a Royal Warrant of Appointment, effectively establishing them as approved suppliers of marzipan products to Königsberg’s royal elite.
As the taste for marzipan grew, Königsberg’s stable of marzipan makers increased in line with trends in neighbouring countries, leading to the production of different kinds of marzipan each endowed with their own regional character, each prepared and baked in a style which identified their origin, and which eventually became the trademark of a particular type or variant.
Although traditional Königsberg marzipan does not share the elaborate traits of marzipan originating from the German city of Lübeck, its scrolled ‘C’ and ‘S’ shaped sweets, tartlets and jam-filled confections are immediately identifiable by the toasted, crispy, golden-brown finish imparted to the marzipan’s surface by preparations and techniques that remain a secret to this day.
In taste, Königsberg marzipan is further distinguished by the incorporation of less sugar and a dash or two of rose water to the quality almond paste, which, together with the toasted topping, infuses Königsberg marzipan with an unmistakeable flavour.
Resort Shop Zelenogradsk a Must for Marzipan
Today, Königsberg’s successor, Kaliningrad, continues to purvey an eclectic range of marzipan products in many different forms and flavours. However, whenever I need my marzipan fix, I toddle along to the simply named, but not to be underestimated, specialist ‘Resort Shop’ (Kurortnaya Lavka as it translates in Russian), which is located in the high street of the pretty Baltic coastal town named Zelenogradsk.
Unassuming but attractive, this cozy and compact shop is a shrine for marzipan pilgrims. Its diverse array of almond-based goodies, in ready-to-eat chocolate-bar form and presentation gift packs, many of which are slanted towards a nostalgic Königsberg theme, offer a spoilt-for-choice selection that any marzipan addict will find difficult to resist.
Putting it another way, if it’s marzipan you’re after, either for yourself, or as a souvenir for a special other, Zelenogradsk’s Resort Shop is the place to find and buy it.
Another feather in Resort Shop’s cap is that offers you the opportunity to augment your confectionary purchases with novel souvenirs and ~ surprise, surprise ~ items of silver jewellery, as well as walking away with, after you’ve paid, of course, one of several or even several exciting tea and coffee blends.
And then there’s the economics of it. For an independent retail outlet geared to the tourist market, the prices at Resort Shop are really rather reasonable.
Resort Shop Zelenogradsk
I cannot walk Zelenogradsk high street without responding to the urge to call into this shop to furnish myself with a marzipan treat and, as I become notably fussier about the coffee that I drink, to unite my marzipan fetish with my rediscovered beverage hedonism.
For marzipan hunters anywhere, Zelenogradsk’s Resort Shop takes an awful lot of beating, which is why I am banging its retail drum.
Time for a coffee, methinks; pass the marzipan, please.🙂
Revised 19 January 2025 | First published: 16 June 2022 ~ What makes Kaliningrad Flea Market a Junk Buyers paradise?
NOTE>: Kaliningrad flea market has moved! Follow the link to the new location here. Use this article to gain an insight and overview of what the market has to offer. The address of the new location can also be found at the end of this post.
In 2000, the first time I set foot on Kaliningrad soil ~ a giant step for a man who had never been to Russia before ~ one of the major attractions very quickly became the city’s flea market or junk market, as we like to call it.
In those days, the junk market was located at the side of Kaliningrad’s central market, a monolithic and cavernous complex consisting of all kinds of exciting combinations of traditional stalls, purpose-built units and multi-layered shops, selling everything from fruit and veg to jewellery.
To get to the market we would cut around the back of Lenin’s statute, which occupied the place where the Orthodox cathedral stands today (irony), and making our way along a make-shift pavement of boards raised on pallets, often treacherously slippy as winter approached, we’d pass amidst the wagon train of covered craft-sellers’ stalls, trek across the city’s bus park and, on the last leg of the journey, sidle off down a long, wide alley, which had rattling tin on one side and a towering building on the other. I have no idea why, as I was often in Kaliningrad during the sunny seasons, but my abiding memory of that alley was that it sucked wind down it like the last gasp of breath and was never anything other than cold, wet and raining.
Another ‘in those days’ was that the junk market extended along the side of the road, which is now a pedestrianised space between buildings ancient and modern and the latest super monolithic shopping centre.
Dealers could be found in an old yard opposite, plying their trade from a shanty town of stalls, all higgledy-piggledy, thrown and cobbled together, whilst public sellers set up shop on a narrow sloping scar of land, a grass verge at the side of a pavement worn down over the years by the restless itinerance of junk-seller hopefuls.
In our militaria dealing and 1940s’ re-enactment hey days, we bought twenty pairs of sapagee (high leather and canvas military boots) from a bloke stalled out on this piece of ground over several consecutive days. We also bought his Soviet military belts, the ones that he was wearing. On the last day of purchasing, we would have had his belt again had he more to sell, but all that he had left by the time we were through with buying was a piece of knotted string, which he needed to keep his trousers up.
When we left Russia at the end of a month’s visit, this was in 2004, border security couldn’t help sniggering when they found inside our vehicle twenty pairs of old Soviet boots, rolled up tightly, lashed down with string and packed away in bin liners. But he who laughs last, laughs longest. We hadn’t sneaked off with an icon or two or anything of any great value, but boots bought for a quid a pair that we could sell on in the UK at £35 or more a pop to WWII re-enactors and members of living history groups was unarguably lubbly jubbly. Whilst we wouldn’t get rich on the proceeds, it would certainly help to offset the cost of our trip to Kaliningrad. Dear, dear comrades, it shames me to admit what a despicable capitalist I once was.
When I first came to Kaliningrad (2000), I was buying stuff mainly for myself, but as I turned dealer, as most collectors are obliged to do to reclaim the space they live in, I did what all collectors must when the fear of decluttering wakes them in a cold sweat from their slumbers: I went out looking for more clutter, the justification being that I was no longer buying it for myself but selling it on for profit.
Believe you me, sooner or later (usually later), every junk hoarder arrives at a critical stage of consciousness, when they finally have to admit to themselves that buying old stuff is not just a compulsion, it is in fact a disease. After confession, however, absolution swiftly follows and, like all professional sinners, hoarders quickly learn that regular sin and regular confession go productively hand-in-hand. Thus, wherever it was we travelled to ~ be it Lithuania, Latvia, Poland or Odessa in Ukraine ~ the story was always the same: junk markets and antique shops loomed large on the itinerary.
What makes Kaliningrad Flea Market a Junk Buyers’ paradise?
Be it ever so difficult, if not impossible, for the likes of us to understand, but accumulating old stuff is not everyone’s cup of tea. Thus, the first victims of the development and progressive gentrification of Kaliningrad’s market area were the junk sellers. Speaking euphemistically, they were ‘politely asked to move on’.
I must admit (there you go, I am at it again, confessing!) that when I discovered their absence, I was truly mortified: new shops, block-paved walkways, tree-inset pedestrian-only streets ~ to be sure an incredible face lift, which no amount of Botox or timely plastic surgery could hope to emulate. All, I suppose, applaudable. But oh! Wherefore thou goest junk?!
As it happened there was no cause for alarm. All I needed to do was go around the bend, something that I am known to be good at, and there it was, as plain as the specs (the vintage specs) on your nose.
The precise location of the junk market was ~ I use the term ‘was’ because rumour has it that the purveyors of indispensable high-quality items and second-hand recyclables may be made to move on again to make way for further civic tarting ~ parallel to the road at the back of Der Wrangel tower, thereupon extending at a right angle, along a sometimes dusty, sometimes muddy, tree-shaded stretch of embankment, skirting a remnant of Königsberg’s moat.
The better-quality items ~ such as militaria and Königsberg relics ~ are generally to be found on the stalls lining either side of the pavement. Here you can discover gems, although not necessarily, or regularly for that matter, at prices to suit your pocket.
The pavement-side sellers are mainly traders, people ‘in the know’, who are hoping to get at least market rate for their wares or substantially more, if they can wangle it.
Experience has taught me that in dealing with these chaps movement on prices is not unachievable, but don’t expect the sort of discounts that are possible to negotiate at UK vintage and boot fairs. Sellers in Kaliningrad are skilled in the art of bargaining and are seemingly absolute in their conviction that if you don’t want it at the quoted price some German tourist will.
A busy Saturday at Kaliningrad Flea Market
If you are after military items, especially those relating to WWII and to Königsberg’s German past, then it is here, along this stretch of pavement, where most likely you will find them. Badges, military dog-tags, Third Reich medals and weapon relics are often quite prolific in this quarter, as is cutlery, ceramics and ceramic fragments, many backstamped with political symbols and the insignia of Germany’s military services.
A word of warning, however. For although Kaliningrad’s German heritage and the fierce battles fought there during WWII would reasonably lead you to expect a preponderance of genuine military relics, as anyone who collects Third Reich memorabilia and/or deals in this specialised field will tell you, counterfeit and reproductions abound. German WWII relics, both military and civilian, bearing ideological runes attained collectable status almost before WWII had ended, and a thriving market in quality replicas to service this growing interest emerged as early as the late 1940s.
Party badges, military decorations, particularly of the higher orders and those associated with the German SS, have been faked and faked extensively, and faked with such credibility that it is difficult to distinguish, sometimes almost impossible, the later versions from the real McCoy, particularly since many were struck from the same dies and moulds that were used to create the originals.
The rule of thumb when hunting out Third Reich bargains from dealers’ stock is that you are less likely to get a bargain than to experience a hard bargain, as the pieces acquired by dealers will almost certainly have been exhaustively studied and meticulously researched. However, if you are tempted to buy, pay attention to the item’s appearance. Remember that genuine military items dating to the Second World War are now well into their dotage ~ 80-years-plus ~ and just like ‘mature’ people will generally exhibit significant signs of age, age-related wear and tear and sundry other defects from natural use and handling.
The other thing to watch out for is a proliferation of similar items at any one time. When in the UK, I was a regular attendee at the Bedford Arms Fair, then held in the now demolished Bunyan Centre, you could guarantee each year that a ‘bumper crop’ of something or other would mysteriously materialise. What an alarm bell that is! For example, one year it was German army dress daggers. Every other dealer seemed to have some and all in mint condition; the next it was German flags. These looked and smelt the part ~old ~ with the exception of their labels, which did neither. So, beware! Before you part with your cash or touch your card on the handset, remember these two wise words: Caveat emptor!
When I buy German these days I do so not to sell on but mainly for nostalgic reasons, and because I am attracted by the historic value only, I am content to purchase military pieces, decorations, party badges and anything else that appeals to me that have been dug up out of the ground. Naturally, condition ranges from considerably less than pristine to battered, biffed, corroded and poor, but an item in this condition is more likely to be the genuine article than one that might be described as ‘remarkably well-preserved’. Moreover, you can usually buy such items at a price that won’t break your brother’s piggy bank (is that another confession?).
The same can be said for architectural pieces such as enamel and metal signs that are Königsberg in origin. Signs ~ advertising, military, street plaques ~ whatever they might be, are personal favourites of mine, since they make historically interesting additions to any thoughtful home design. In purchasing relics of this nature, the same rule applies as the guiding one proposed for determining whether militaria is genuine or not. Signs, whatever their type and whatever material they are made of will, in the main, have been used, thus commensurable indications of use and age should be apparent.
In the past four decades, as original signs, especially enamel ones, have grown in popularity and correspondingly price, various retro companies have been successfully plugging the gap in an escalating market, meeting demand with repro goods. Some of these shout repro at you from a telescopic distance, but as techniques in ageing evolve, it often can be hard at first glance, even after several glances and even after a detailed study, to separate the wheat from the chaff, particularly when impulsiveness knocks caution quite unconscious. And signs are not the only things that are being skilfully ‘got at’. I recall a ‘19th century ship’s wheel turning up at our local auction house. It was so well aged and distressed that were it not for the fact that it was so thoroughly convincing, you could easily have talked yourself Into disbelieving that it was anything other than the genuine article.
This is what to look out for: Signs that are ‘uniformly’ aged or show wear and tear in places where you would most expect to find wear and tear but not to the extent that it dissuades you from going ahead with a purchase are to be placed at the top of the suspect list. The last thing you want to discover, after years of gazing lovingly at the antique sign in your home, romancing on the fancy that this was once on a Königsberg shop front, long imagining how eyes like yours lost in time and to memory alighted on it as yours do now, is to learn that your treasured piece of history was in fact knocked out in China less than a week before you bought it.
Original German/Königsberg signs(photo taken Victor Ryabin Studio, c.2010)
Once authenticity has been established, anything to be had forming a direct link to Königsberg can only be irresistible, not just signs but home appliances, kitchen ware, tea sets, ornaments, furniture, garden tools, anything in fact, especially when that anything bears irrefutable provenance in the form of a maker’s mark. Metalware and ceramics embossed or printed with commercial references, ie references to memorable brands or specific retail outlets, are desirable collectors’ pieces. Old ashtrays, many of which are inventive in shape and size, are top whack in this category. Even if chipped and cracked, they still command high prices, and as for the best examples, which are usually in the hands of dealers, after you have exclaimed with astonishment, “How much!” in those same hands they may well remain.
For a less expensive and in-profusion alternative, you could do far worse than plump for bottles. Bottle bygones are dug up in their hundreds, possibly thousands, in Kaliningrad and across the region, but as there are as many different shapes, sizes and hues as there is quantity, it is not unreasonable to discover rare, curious and even exquisite bottles rubbing shoulders with the more mundane.
In the UK, old bottles from the end of the 19th century to the 1960s are as cheap as chips (used to be, before the West sanctioned itself), but Kaliningrad is not the UK, so don’t expect to get bargains on a par. The trade here adjusts the market price according to the needs and instincts of German visitors, many of whom are easily swayed to part with more money than they seem to have sense for a fragment of their forbears’ past. But “Ahh,” I hear you say, “what price, philistine, can anyone put on nostalgia?” Must I confess again?
I have been known to part with as much as ten quid for an interesting and unusual bottle when it has caught my fancy, but this kind of impetuosity acts in defiance of common sense. If you haven’t got the bottle to part with that much, and you shouldn’t have (Frank Zappa: ‘How could I be such a fool!’), when visiting Kaliningrad’s ‘flea market’, turn 90 degrees from the pavement, head along the well-worn and sometimes muddy embankment, and there you will find bottles and a vast range of all sorts, spread out on the ground on blankets, perched on top of little tables, hanging even in the branches of trees, for this is the market’s bargain basement, home to mainly domestic sellers.
I have bought all sorts of things from this part of the market that I never knew I did not need, not to mention clothes that I have never worn and never will wear. For example, I was once obliged to buy an old tin bucket, and I would not dream of wearing it. It’s far too nice a bucket to use as a bucket should be used; so, there it sits in our dacha full of things that one day I possibly may go looking for but will never dream of looking for in that old tin bucket. It’s the sort of bucket that dealers such as I typically find in house clearances ~ a bucket of flotsam and jetsam left behind by the owner when he up and decided to die; a bucket of odds and ends destined to take up valuable space; the accidental contents of which having absolutely no value at all, I would never be able to give away let alone turn as much as a penny on. I sometimes wonder if this is not the only logical reason why people fill their houses and barns with junk, viz to make more work for those poor sods whose job it is to clear them after they, the owners, kick the bucket. And what a lovely bucket, my bucket is!
Now, where was I? Ahh, yes wandering around on the bank mesmerised by matter.
As I said at the outset of this post, Kaliningrad’s ‘collectors’ market’ is on the move again. Please don’t quote me on this! As Elvis Costello said, it could be ‘just a rumour that was spread around town’, but its veracity is tied to the echo that the strip of wooded embankment roaming along by the side of the Königsberg fort may soon be hosting its last tin bucket. There is a whisper in the air of landscape reincarnation and the rustle of leaves in a public park.
Likewise, I am not entirely certain where this cornucopia of memories, this junk market par excellence, is now officially bound, although the wind in my tin bucket tells me that it may be somewhere not far removed from the city’s botanical gardens.
To be perfectly honest with you (another confession may soon be required), I really harbour no desire to know the new location ~ what the eye doesn’t see the heart won’t pine after. Thus, the next time that I wake up at the market handing over my roubles, I won’t be able to blame myself for going there deliberately and for buying things on purpose. Take a leaf out of my well-thumbed book: never leave chance to anything else but intention ~ you can always confess in the fulness of time.
The line up of commentators includes Chris Phillips, former head of the National Counter Terrorism Office, ‘terror expert’ Philip Ingram, Professor Paul Rogers, Emeritus of Peace Studies at Bradford University, Anthony Glees, director at the Centre for Security and Intelligence Studies at the University of Buckingham and Former UK army commander Colonel Hamish De Bretton-Gordon.
In the aftermath of the vehicle attacks in Germany and the United States, the consensus among the experts is that a terrorist attack in Britain is ‘likely’.
A cornerstone key word in this article*, and the many articles like it, is ‘vigilance’.
“Public vigilance is critical to our efforts to keep our communities safe, and we continue to ask people to report anything that doesn’t feel right to police”*
Rather impractical, don’t you think? Since the last time anything ‘felt right’ in the UK, Winston Churchill was prime minister, and nothing has ‘been right’ in the UK since the Immigrant Coup of 1997.
Easy to say and sounding good, just as impractical and also impossible, is the nice and simple notion that vigilance alone is all we need to protect us. Perhaps if we were less busy disproportionally observing ethnic sensibilities and watching our ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’ for fear we may offend those whose mission it is to destroy us, we might better spot the buggers before they mow us down in trucks.
The takeaway from the cited GB News article would seem to be that what we need to be vigilant for is the waving of the ISIS flag, since the focus of this article, not the editorial focus but that of the security experts, is the resurgence of, or the ongoing threat from, ISIS ~ which it is, I am not quite sure.
However, the real threat is broader than that and also more endemic. For whilst terrorist organisations like ISIS have mass recruitment appeal and structured network resources, the crux of the terrorist problem, as it applies to Britain, lies in the sheer and growing number of migrant hostiles and the imported terrorist mindset that has taken root in British soil and is spreading like a pestilence across a land once green and pleasant.
By adopting the simple but incontrovertible maxim that if we didn’t allow the terrorists in then they could not do what they do, the gateway to the problem is brought sharply into relief. Either by failure, collusion or both, Britain’s liberal political elites have ignored the lessons of history, lowered the drawbridge and let terror in, and now everything they say, such as the paltry ‘you must be vigilant’, and everything they do, which is nothing or not enough, is akin to closing the stable door after the horse has bolted ~ or should that be, leaving the harbour gates open for the boats to come streaming in?
Brits told Be Vigilant
Vigilance is and has always has been a crucial survival pre-requisite, as life is a dangerous place in which to suddenly find oneself, but I belong to a generation that is old enough to remember a time when one could walk the streets of Britain with a vigilance commensurable with civilisation going forward, that is before the open-border fiasco and social engineering programme reversed the trend abruptly, throwing us back into a new dark age.
There is a certain secret satisfaction manifest in the irony of so-called ‘progressive’ liberals shunting civilisation backwards into a medieval turpitude, where the first casualties from harsh reality are destined to be their naïve doctrines and then their gullible selves, but beyond that there is very little to smile about.
You only have to compare the image of Britain’s 21st century police officer, encased in body armour, toting a submachine gun, with the iconic 1950s’ one of the British bobby with his little blue helmet and nothing more to protect himself with than the truncheon in his pocket to gain an understanding of just how radical, dangerous and inherently unstable British society has become under the suicidal postwar stewardship of the loony liberal left.
I for one need no reminding of the ever-present terrorist threat. I see it all around me, each and every time I walk a UK town or city street. But there is only so much vigilance one can openly indulge in before being hauled before the judges of the kangaroo court of social media and condemned for spreading conspiracy theories. Besides, how many different directions can we be vigilant in at any one time?
Chris Phillips, former head of the National Counter Terrorism Office, is quoted by GB News* as stating that it is impossible to protect against a threat where someone jumps into a car and drives it at the public, that “Intelligence is the only … way to stop an attack like this, before they [the terrorist] get into the vehicle”. But this is not as admissible as it sounds, as jumping into a car and driving through the public could be as random and spontaneous as taking a knife from the kitchen drawer and charging through the public. Spontaneous, random, unplanned attacks fly beneath the intelligence radar and therefore are unstoppable.
Thus, we return again to the simple but commonsense maxim that if they were not in our country, they could not be doing what they do. Prevention is better than cure. It is way past time to pull up the drawbridge and deport, deport, deport …
In modern-day, mixed-up Britain, ISIS and the like is not all we have to worry about, nor is becoming skittles for ideological fruitcakes flying at us in trucks and cars. We also have to be vigilant for all manner of other crazed MFs running around with bladed weapons from butchers’ knives to machetes, and occasionally, when they have nothing better to do or nothing much to live for, exploding themselves all over the place. Remember the Monty Python’s sketch: “Oh mother, don’t be so sentimental. Things explode every day.” Even Monty Python, as ahead of their time as they were, could not have had any idea how the premise of this surreal skit would take on a sinister irony in the state of things in Britain to come.
The potential threat of terrorism is everywhere. They are all around us, sewn within the fabric of our lives, and thanks to the ‘small boats’ crisis, the threat grows exponentially.
Brits told Be Vigilant
“The ongoing small boats crisis presents a significant security risk,” states Anthony Glees*. Britain must strengthen its border controls, he warns, to prevent extremists from entering the country.
GB NEWS is one of the very few media outlets that has the balls to tell us this. Most mainstream media corporates would rather tie themselves in knots in an attempt to mislead, appease and capitulate; anything, in fact, to perpetuate false ‘positives’ of the catastrophic diversity myth, rather than fess up to the unpalatable and exposing truth that diversity is our nemesis. Like those in authority who are culpable facilitators in the nation’s grooming scandal, yet another curse visited on us by the twisted desire to uphold the enrichment myth, the collusive concern of mainstream media is with keeping up appearances ~ multiculturalism isn’t it great! ~ rather than admit to the painful ~ and to most of us ~ glaringly obvious truth that it’s all been a terrible failure and that the number-one priority is now to stop the boats, or rather stop their contents from spewing out onto our unguarded shores.
Not that I count, but if I cared to count, I would by now have lost count of the number of times Britain’s media has sought to dodge the issue of the indefensible link between the migrant invasion, multiculturalism, the rising tide of violence raging on British streets and the ever-worsening incidence of terrorism. Nowadays, nearly every reported violent attack in England carries the cynical caveat ‘not terrorist related’, even sometimes when they obviously are, and pathetically there are those amongst us who are all too ready to jump through hoops to swear it’s ‘never migrant related’. But the old tried and tested excuse, the media’s favourite get-out clause, is the ‘don’t panic ~ mentally ill’ routine, which conveniently allows media and government to neatly file attacks away in the ‘not terror related’ cabinet ~ and what a whopper that cabinet is!
Are those who ram cars into innocent people really mad, unhinged? Well, if you consider that over the Christmas period, normal, mentally healthy people, the victims of these killers, were going about their daily business doing no harm to them or for that matter anyone else, then the layman’s answer has to be yes. Those who commit such crimes are unequivocally mentally ill; they are cuckoo, quite deranged, the layman would say, but their mental illness is one brought on by who and where they are, and, when the ‘who’ and ‘where’ are taken as one together, their ‘psychopathic’ behaviour tells us they are exactly where they should not be.
Don’t worry it’s only a madman
The UK media’s brand of obfuscation may be unbelievably brash and simply unbelievable. It is overarching and yet transparent, but in the wider world of disinformation as propagated by liberal sources, it is certainly not alone.
In the wake of the Magdeburg Christmas Market attack, you could almost hear the collective sigh of relief deflating like a bout of bad wind through the corridors of power in the liberal media’s yarn department, as the line was quickly grasped that building a psychological profile of whatever it was behind the wheel was as complex as it was baffling and that the motive for the attack could not be readily determined.
The New York Times reported “The authorities said they were struggling to understand the motives behind ramming a car into a Christmas market in the eastern city of Magdeburg…” ~ ‘Germany Tries to Untangle Complex Profile of Market Attack Suspect’, (22 December 2024).
It would seem that the German public have an entirely different take on the matter.
Would it be just too cynical to rewrite the headline of that piece to read ‘Liberals struggle to put spin on …?’ Well, hows about this one then: ‘History repeats itself, so why are they letting them still flood in?’
^We very friendly. Just want 5-star hotel and then want work McDonald’s or NHS^
As these copycat killings are copied time and time again, the questions we should be putting to our political leaders are: “Why are these people here? Why are they in our country? But more and most importantly, knowing who and what they are, why are you letting them in, and letting them in in their thousands? “Not all of them are terrorists!” an irate liberal fulminates. No, but if only one of them is, it’s already one too many.
Brits told Be Vigilant ~ look out for him!
The first suspect at which to point an accusatory finger is the darling of the liberal-left, the man they love to describe as a philanthropic billionaire with humanitarian motives. Whenever I hear this man’s name, I see a winged armchair, a man with his back to the camera, identity concealed, and the goal of the plot world destruction.
Real, genuine, authentic philanthropists with hearts of gold and souls of milk and honey, would surely pour their ill-gotten gains into developing those poor countries where development is urgently needed, not devote their over-rich and presumably idle lives to moving third-world jetsam and flotsam around the map of western Europe, as if they are frightened of dying too soon before f*cking the world right up.
But one man, for all his evil intent and disproportionate wealth, cannot hope to succeed without that he works in concert with the pseudo-liberal elite, which only goes to show that were you daft enough to trust them in the past, now is the time to stop. Come the next election, give the two old parties, both Labour and the Cons, the Order of the Boot, the big, the royal, the final heave ho. Push them out, be rid of them. As Elon Musk succinctly puts it, Britain’s last hope is to vote Reform.
In CNN’s ‘Coverage of The Germany Christmas Market Attack’ (21 December 2024), Chancellor Olaf Scholz is quoted as saying, the German people “need to stick together as a country and not let hatred divide us.” Well said that man! But hatred is not the dividing factor; the problem lies unfairly and squarely on the overstressed and wobbling shoulders of hegemonic diversity and the lies by which it is sold to us.
Terrorism in the UK, as in Western Europe generally, is inextricably linked to the failure and collusion of elitist liberal politicians to exercise due diligence in the matter of immigration. The potential threat of migrant terrorism is everywhere and more, and thanks to the ‘small boats’ crisis, the threat grows exponentially. The boats just keep on coming, bringing with them new recruits to ensure that candle-lit vigils retain government-sponsored popularity well into the dark abyss of an unforgiving and nightmarish future.
I cannot begin to imagine, and don’t particularly want to, how difficult it must be to explain to a seven-year old, brought up to perceive the world as the softness of a cuddly toy or the encompassing safety of his mother’s arms, that his little sister or brother has been taken from this world, destroyed by a hoary-faced, crazy-old-imbecile with his heart full of hatred, his mind full of jealousy and whose only escape from himself and his cult is death.
Vigilant we have to be, it is the necessary evil to an unnecessary evil, but it is no more answer to the problem than the repetitive staging of candle-lit vigils. Stopping them coming in and deporting those already here, whilst that may not be the answer either, as things have gone too far, will certainly help to even the odds should it ever come to the civil war that Elon Musk predicts. And as things are going now, it seems, unfortunately, that it might.
Well I’m about to get sick From watchin’ my TV Been checkin’ out the news Until my eyeballs fail to see I mean to say that every day Is just another rotten mess And when it’s gonna change, my friends Is anybody’s guess
So I’m watchin’ and I’m waitin’ Hopin’ for the best Even think I’ll go to prayin’ Every time I hear ’em sayin’ That there’s no way to delay That trouble comin’ every day No way to delay That trouble comin’ every day
Trouble Every Day — Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention
Please don’t misunderstand me. There is absolutely nothing wrong with properly thought-through immigration: immigration properly controlled, immigration carefully administered, but with one unnegotiable qualification: that those who immigrate integrate.
Short of this, it needs to be stopped – yesterday.
31 December 2024 ~ Georgian Restaurant Kaliningrad the Magic of Kavkaz
Like many towns and cities in Christendom, the centre of Kaliningrad undergoes a magical transformation over the festive season. Victory Square becomes a yuletide theatre, a stage of glittering silver motifs, including a life-sized Santa’s sleigh with reindeers and a larger-than-life iconic assemblage of 2025 numerals. A lofty, conical Christmas tree transitions through a dramatic series of illuminating colour contrasts. The commercial buildings that border the square are, for want of a no less appropriate term, all lit up like Christmas trees, whilst the municipal building facing the square takes the Christmas biscuit, with its symmetry of grazing lights gently and slowly ringing the changes in complementary hues through a violet, blue and turquoise spectrum.
We were on our way to the Kavkaz Restaurant, and our route would take us across this bewitching bespangled world. I had one eye on the white magic and one eye on the black. In England, this is de rigueur nowadays, especially during the festive season, for every day and every way is a possible Christmas Market. Happy Christmas (and every day) from Britain’s politicians.
With no discernible goblins grabbing at the ghoulies, I felt safe to take my camera out and shoot some snaps for the folks back home. It was then, at that moment, I saw her: a Christmas angel with very long legs, wearing a skirt that was far too short for winter ~ whatever could she be thinking of? ~ and a pair of black leather boots. As amazing as she was, she was just another stocking filler. The real angel was yet to come. She was waiting for us in Victory Square, silver-white with wings to match, a tribute to the Christmas props with which she was surrounded. She was poised in the centre of Victory Square: a photograph waiting to happen.
“Oh, please take a photograph of me, next to the angel!” Olga pleaded. She knows that I have a limited tolerance to taking smartphone photos for the sake of harvesting ‘likes’ on social media. But that is part of the magic of Christmas, the willingness to make concessions for no other reason than because it is Christmas.
It was hard to resist the angel. She looked the perfect angel, with her voluminous white and silver wings, and here I am confessing that for all my reservations about incessant, gratuitous photo-taking, I myself was beyond redemption to get in on the act. The angel must have had some inkling of her photogenic allurement, as she had thoughtfully brought along with her a second set of wings, not so big and so bold as her own, but like the halos she also carried, convenient and prop sized.
When your halo is a permanent fixture, you have no need for apparatus, but I was chuffed about the wings. I never knew until I watched Frank Capra’s Christmas classic, It’s a Wonderful Life!, the most highly rated Christmas film of 1946 and notably of all time, that angels have to earn their wings, although I have often paused to wonder why mine are so long coming.
The angel, like angels should be, was only too pleased to oblige when we asked to take a photo with her. But just before we assumed the position, she whispered the secret to us that even angels as endowed as they are with all their celestial powers needed to keep the wolf from the door, so a small charge, a small gratuity, 200 roubles in fact, would stamp the seal on the deal. What is 200 roubles, I thought, in the collection box of Christmas. Is it not better to give than receive!
So, with the contract duly signed, Olga and then myself, encouraged by the angel, adopted various angelic-hugging poses, whilst first one then the other snapped away with my mobile phone.
At the conclusion of our photoshoot, we took out our 200 roubles only to be angelically told that we had run up a bill of 1000 roubles, as the going rate for angels was 200 roubles a photograph and not, as we had thought, 200 roubles a sesh. Well, blow me down with seraphim wings, you do learn something every day.
A thousand roubles lighter, we took three or four more photographs without the angel within the Square, which only cost us our time, and then we muggered off to Kavkaz restaurant.
Kavkaz Restaurant revisited
Cool in the summer, both kinds of cool, Kavkaz is in winter forever warm and welcoming, and now with its twinkling Christmas lights festively fondling the susceptible cockles of a receptive holiday heart, no less tender from having been shared with the angel, we were pulled with the ease of a Christmas cracker into Kavkaz’s spellbinding charm.
In an instant and magnificently, staff within this palatial place are swarming all around you: a small, attractive attentive army, ones very own personal retinue, whose task it is to get your clothes off and get you into a seat.
Once divested of your outer garments, you are ritualistically led away into a cavernous mesmerisation, where upmarket, hip and trendy live together in perfect harmony. You mean like Sir Paul McCartney’s ‘ebony and ivory’? No, I don’t mean that at all.
In a kitchen part exposed to view, white smocked chefs are wocking it up as if there is no tomorrow, whilst waiters hither and thither fly. The voices of the seated, who are already pleasantly wining and dining, form a mood-inspiring background murmur, akin to the sound of soothing white noise blotting out the primordial row of that noisy neighbourhood dog.
If ever the Wizard of Oz had owned a palace like this, it could not have been half as entrancing.
Would we be led to the left, or would we be led to the right? On this occasion we are led to the right and given a table for two. My back is against a solid brick pillar, just the way I like it. Seats in restaurants and bars, just like friends and angels, are meant to be chosen carefully; if you don’t feel comfortable where they’ve put you, you won’t enjoy your meal; in fact, the entire evening could be ruined. If you don’t believe me, ask Wild Bill Hickock.
We had dined at Kavkaz before, and the first reason for returning was that Kavkaz serves good food at value-for-money prices, but I was also there on a mission. We have a project pending, and I could think of no better place than Kavkaz to consolidate our knowledge of shabby chic design. From my vantage point, with my back to the wall, I had a commanding view of all that I wanted to see.
The place was busy this evening, the only available seats were on my left and these, too, would be taken later. A squadron of waiters and waitresses, dressed in their becoming livery of tan trousers and matching waistcoats, flitted swiftly from table to table. The restaurant is so vast that every waiter is wired. Ah, the wonders of the electronic age. Wherever would we be without a plug stuck in our ear or a smartphone in our hands!
The buzz it was a happy one. It had that unmistakeable festive feel that Christmas brings to the better world of Christendom. Long may it prevail. An atmosphere like this, which is to say comfortable, requires a specific beer, and the atmosphere this evening seemed to be calling out for Maisel’s Weisse, but first the waiter brought to our table a complementary carafe of water (you have to drink it sometimes) infused with a sliver of cucumber. That sure was a new one on me!
The beer was fast on its heels, and not long after along came our meals. The restaurant may have been busy, but the service as always was slick and swift.
At half time, who should arrive but Father Frost and his daughter. Shimmering silver and white, they passed from table to table, with a Ho! Ho! Ho! and a Snovam Gordam (Happy New Year), handing out small presents to children, who were wreathed in smiles, with sparkling eyes and amazed and enthralled expressions. Call him Father Frost, Father Christmas, Santa Claus, call him what you will, it’s a non-negotiable fact that the world needs a lot more of him.
To even up the score, there was another, a dark and mysterious figure, wandering amongst us, looking as if he had just stepped off a Roger Corman film set. This sinister apparition, a man we must presume, or something of mortal substance, was dressed from head to toe in black. The hood, or cowl, that he was wearing, completely obscured his face, turning his eyes and thus his soul invisible. If one was to level one’s own eyes to a point at which they strained, one could just make out whatever it was inhabiting concealment, peering out from behind an obfuscating curtain of gauze, an almost impenetrable barrier, which must have dramatically altered the hidden incumbent’s perception of anything outside his inside world.
Perched upon his shoulder, above a hooked, outstretched and angled arm, was an ugly looking so-and-so, which, every now and again, according to its will, would home in on a table of quietly seated innocent folk and invade their zone of comfort. Who was this mysterious stranger? And what was his purpose here, tonight?
Nobody seemed unduly perturbed by the presence of this denizen duo. In fact, wherever the two would wend, which was everywhere, they seemed to raise a smile if not a laugh. But the black veil and swooping creature had an entirely different effect on me. Give me Father Frost and his delightful daughter any day of the week, rather than this Soros hobgoblin and his blighted bedighted funereal future. But I ask you to forgive me. My imagination has a reputation for being overly sensitive and has been known to play tricks before. And yet I did have an auntie called Clair Voyant, and my uncle was blessed with crystal balls … It was enough to make me want to order, in fact I felt I had to order, another pint of Maisel’s Weisse.
When eventually ~ eventually being of no greater duration than possibly two minutes, although to hypersensitive senses it seemed there was nowhere he could not be for any length of unspecified time ~ this ominous be-gauzed spectre of inauspicious things to come, and his malevolent menacing mate, left the spot where they had been preying, my clarity was restored.
I took a gulp of Maisel’s Weisse ~ what nectar! ~ and afforded myself the luxury of staring into the middle distance, freely.
Mirror Mirror on the wall do you tell the truth at all?
Between the wall and the open room, an altitudinous wooden screen of shelving had, in the imaginative Kavkaz manner and by considered intersection, created a narrow corridor, leading away from the dining area down to the gents’ and ladies’ loos. A very important direction.
At the end of this long and narrow walkway, mistaken by some for a models’ catwalk, stands a large, tall, gilt-framed mirror. People walking towards it react to its presence in different ways: some gaze directly into it, in the hope of receiving their own approval; others seem to fall shy of it, briefly looking then looking away, but often casting a sideways glance before they turn the corner, as if by failing to do so, they might lose sight of their very existence; and still others stop in front of it, forced to a halt by their own adoration.
One young lady was so enthralled by whoever it was she wanted to be, whatever it was she wanted to see, that she walked that way several times and even, on one occasion, brought her friends to look in the mirror with her. I wondered what it was that each of them could see and if they saw the same as one another. What was that mirror showing them? Was it their present, their past or their future? And would that mirror still be there, say in 50 years from now, should they ever return to Kavkaz, which reflection would they see: the one they had left behind today or the one which they would bring with them?
The time would come this evening when I would have to walk that way myself, and that time inevitably came halfway through my second pint.
What, I thought, was this mirror up to, so bold, so brash, so strategically placed that in any age more primitive it could have been mistaken for a portal to your soul. In Kavkaz, as in life, this is a mirror you cannot avoid. When you have to go, you have to go. But when it was my turn, I wilfully looked away, not completely sure, however, who or what the mirror had captured, or if that something had looked like me had it been grinning as it went past? Mirrors can be funny things. Things funny be can mirrors. Is it little wonder that vampires seldom use them?
Georgian Restaurant Kaliningrad
Back safely at our table the spirit of Christmas welcomed me in the form of a Georgian special. I found a glass of chacha, a Georgian pomace brandy, sitting next to my pint. I had not yet had the pleasure of sampling such a rare intoxicant and was surprised, as much as a vegetarian can be, that I took to it like a hungry shark in a swimming pool, so much so in fact that I had to have another. The fermentation was truly delicious, but I threw myself a lifebelt after the second glass for fear of becoming a goldfish in my reckless Christmas ocean. Sam Cooke knew a lady who couldn’t do the cha cha cha, but that was his problem, not mine. My problem was that I could, but knowing I could, I shouldn’t.
The one thing that I should be frightened of, but, alas, forsooth, am not, is turning into a pumpkin. It is hard to get me home once I have found a hospitable place. But all good things, as we are told, and told, and told, and told … must, and do, come to an end, even a night at Kavkaz.
Leaving the Kavkaz is never easy, particularly when it is still in motion and more so particularly at this time of year. Yet, like all the best and worst of villains swear when their time is up, “You haven’t seen the last of me! I vow I shall return!”, the same was singing in my ear.
And that’s the way it always is, and that’s the way it should be, whenever you go to Kavkaz.
