Архив за месяц: Апрель 2020

Englishman Self-isolating in Kaliningrad

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 42 [30 April 2020]

Published: 30 April 2020

Are you familiar with that old British expression, “The pot calling the kettle black”? Case in point: Since entering the new Coronavirus Age, the British media claim that vodka consumption has substantially increased here in Russia. What the UK’s self-appointed temperance league failed to mention (and having worked in the media, I have to say that most of them are alcohol sodden (mind you, they may all be too PC for that now!)) and what has subsequently emerged in a BBC article* (no less!) is that Brit’s consumption of supermarket-bought alcohol has shot up during lockdown by a whopping great 31%.

Previous articles:
Article 1: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 1 [20 March 2020]
Article 2: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 6 [25 March 2020]
Article 3: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 7 [26 March 2020]
Article 4: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 9 [28 March 2020]
Article 5: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 10 [29 March 2020]
Article 6: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 16 [4 April 2020]
Article 7: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 19 [7 April 2020]
Article 8: Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 35 [23 April 2020]

As to whether there is any truth in the purported rise in vodka sales here, it is quite possible that the UK media has only part of the picture (not that that has ever seemed to bother them). An anecdote related to me last week told of mystified traffic police, who, having stopped a number of cars to ask the occupants where they were going (as part of the social distancing rules) and in the process discovering a strong smell of vodka, breathalysed the drivers only to find that they were sober. Apparently, the vodka was being used not for human consumption but as disinfectant!

Ha, a likely story, I thought. But then it seemed to make sense. With so much adverse publicity accruing over the dubious effectiveness of this and that disinfectant, and Trump wanting to inject us all with it, what could be more logical than to fall back on something you can trust! I was straight out and buying my extra two bottles!

Whilst there is no direct evidence to suggest that consumption of the national beverage has been coronavirusised, I have detected among our immediate neighbours what I consider to be a far more invidious addiction seemingly catalysed by the rules of social distancing, and that is an obsessive predilection for D.I.Y..

They are all at it! Apart from me. I am too busy indoors disinfecting. But there they are in their gardens digging, sawing, hammering, shattering the tranquillity of early-spring with the high-pitched rasping noise of angle-grinders and the dentistry whine of high-powered drills. Cement mixers rumble, new garden fences clank and rattle as they are bolted into place, old tiles and other neglected items are noisily removed and stacked; indeed, such is the energy expended, both in physical labour and ardour, that it is enough to make you reach for the bottle and disinfect again.

Even we had six new trees delivered and planted, but I think we got away with it, leaving payment at the backdoor and shouting merrily to the tree planters from the safety of our terrace-balcony.

Englishman Self-isolating in Kaliningrad

The man next door, whose garden has resembled Steptoe’s yard for the past 12 months, possibly more, appears to have developed one of the rarer symptoms of coronavirus, which the Daily Express expressly discovers on an almost daily basis. Why else would he cut down a tree that should never have been cut down, put up a plank to replace the tree because his cat used to climb up it and, what I really found hard to accept, removed the bog that had been lying around incongruously in his back garden?

This toilet was the sort of romanticised novelty that I had not beheld since the days of my early youth. I had been brought up in rural surroundings, in those halcyon days when villages were still villages, before that is the second-home buyers and city commuters moved in; when villages were populated by British-legacy stock, folk born in Victorian times whose families, generation after generation of them, were born in the village, lived their lives in the village, died in the village and were buried in the village graveyard. Every one of these people was a country character, and every other house in which they lived was characterised by a tin-roofed shed at the far end of the garden. Admittedly, the ubiquitous outside lav would normally be enclosed, inside four walls and with a roof of sorts, but this only strengthened my case for the retention of a toilet most unusual in mode and manner.

Englishman Self-isolating in Kaliningrad

In deference to those save-the-planet groups who, like the dinosaurs before them, used to rule the world, before that is the world decided it could stand up for itself and swept them off the streets, I like to think of this toilet as the environmentalist’s bog of choice. Lying abstrusely on its side and out in the open, it was such an inspiring sight that had I not been disinfecting I could almost have taken up easel and canvas and captured it for posteriority.

On the other side of us, the place I call ‘the commune’, rum goings on are keeping us guessing. For 14 months or so the back garden owned but unfrequented by our rock-music-loving neighbour, fondly referred to by us as Greengrass, was little more than a neglected patch of scrubland. Then, in an alarming development, a gaggle of Greengrass’s confederates, hitherto unknown to us, began gradually, very gradually, to hack down the undergrowth, clear the extraneous material and dispose of all the junk. In the process of doing so, the wilderness was turned into a place where weary cowboys can bivouac.

A camp fire was lit and, with the help of Mother Invention, makeshift seats were quickly assembled ~ a couple of planks on four piles of rock ~ and with the timely assistance of some disinfectant our auxiliary neighbours ~ seven or more ~ set about celebrating the art and science of coronavirus distancing.

Since then these rawhides have helped the neighbour at the end of their Ponderosa to put up a new fence (the irony of this did not escape me) and in a sinister development, which has given credence to all kinds of ‘there goes the neighbourhood’ theories, are constructing something around their camp fire which could be anybody’s guess, from a Russian version of Stonehenge to an outside toilet from Wigan. My money is on a coronavirus air-raid shelter, the idea being that should the Big C continue to threaten the populace with more of the same social distancing, then the entire city could protect itself by getting together in there.

Englishman Self-isolating in Kaliningrad finds outside toilet drinking den — **A Social Distancing Vodka-Drinking Shelter** (Photo credit: https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/)

Reference
*https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-52329679

“If coronavirus has taught me one thing about the human condition it is that the less sense it makes the more sense it makes.”
~ A man with an outside toilet

FAQ Self-isolating Lockdown

Self-isolating/Lockdown: Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Published: 28 April 2020; Updated 28 April 2037

Are you still unsure about what Self-isolating and Lockdown are and why or if you are doing it? Or, if you have caught yourself doing it accidentally, are you concerned you might not be doing it correctly? Before disappointing yourself by seeking straightforward advice from national helplines and not getting it, why not refer to our FAQs (Frequently Arsed-with Questions) below:

What is Self-isolating?

Self-isolating, also known as Billy No Mates best friend, is a test designed to reveal to what extent in today’s rights-oriented society you have become:

(a). Completely self-centred;

(b). Utterly ignorant;

(c.) Still able to take sensible, adult advice.

What is the difference between Self-isolating and Lockdown?

Self-isolating is when the government asks you to stay indoors in an attempt to prevent the spread of a potentially lethal disease.

Lockdown is when the government tells you that you must stay indoors by law because not enough people exhibited enough common sense or self-discipline to do so for themselves in an attempt to prevent the spread of a potentially lethal disease.

What similarities do Self-isolation and Lockdown possess?

This depends on which category of citizenship you fit into. If you are a selfless, considerate, intelligent member of society, then Self-isolation and Lockdown equate to the same thing ~ a preventative measure aimed at keeping you, your loved-ones and other members of society safe.

On the other hand, if you are a selfish, ignorant arsehole, the similarities are that you will ignore both and go to Skegness for the day.

Who does it?

Everybody and anybody can self-isolate, but it is recommended especially to old people as therapy for CBPD (Compulsive Bowls Playing Disorder) or unwanted visits on Sunday afternoons to your son’s or daughter’s house.

Is it difficult for young people to Self-isolate?

No, they have been doing it for years. The only difference is that instead of sitting next to each other in bars/restaurants, twiddling on their mobile phones and not speaking, they will have to do it at home.

What can I do to prevent being bored whilst in Lockdown?

Find your brain and use it.

When is it safe to stop?

Whilst there are some that believe that the time to stop is similar to not being liberal ~ don’t start in the first place ~ the time to stop is once you have started with a bit more in the middle.

What is an ‘Exit Strategy’?

An Exit Strategy has many connotations. It thus has a ‘multi-’ prefix, which consigns it almost exclusively to a world of total fantasy. Some use it to suggest that potential deadly viruses have an identifiable and negotiable shelf-life; others, such as a desperate Labour politician, whose star has not yet ascended, and no doubt never will, use it to imply that they possess this wonderful thing called an Exit Strategy whilst the government does not, when we know they are really lying. Yet others already have an Exit Strategy, it is called No Entry, and still more exited as soon as they were told that they should not. Universally, the definition of Exit is ‘way out’; the strategy bit really depends on whether you want to walk out or be carried out in a box.

What can I do whilst I am Self-isolating?

Well, there are certain things that you can do and cannot do. For example, whilst self-isolating if you are young you may feel that you have to; but it is not advisable if you have been married for 30 years as the shock may prove too much. If you live alone, you are strongly advised not to overdo it (although you probably already have), and if you are part of a traditional family (although such a phenomenon is scarce in today’s UK) government advice is find a quiet place where you can do whatever it is you are used to doing, or, just for a change, do something entirely different. You may find that surprising yourself is really quite surprising.

I am anti-social. How might Self-isolating/Lockdown change my life?

You could start talking to yourself.

Can Self-isolating cause callouses and weak sight?

If you are not wearing plasters on your hands and you can read this, then it’s a myth. Otherwise, see ‘What can I do whilst I am Self-isolating’.

Is Lockdown addictive?

A survey undertaken at HMP Lincoln in which a cohort sample of 300 recidivists were asked to write the answer on a sheet of paper and slip it under the door of their cells would seem to confirm that it is. Although contraindications suggested that the government, police, judicial system and prison staff may have something to do with it.

Can you over Self-isolate?

You’ll know that if you step outside the front door and a hover craft zips past.

Will I be the same person by the time that I finish Self-isolating?

That depends significantly on who you were when you started and who you have been self-isolating with. For example, although our expert Dr Jekyll was not available for comment, his friend Mr Hyde reported no adverse effects. And Dr Who, who has been self-isolating since time immemorial and in a small flying box, was perfectly alright until the BBC relaxed its social distancing rules and as a result subjected him to UPCGR (Unnecessarily Political Correct Gender Re-assignment). But don’t worry, the likelihood of this happening to you can be significantly diminished by following the television watershed coronavirus (W.C.) guidelines, which recommends pre-PC safe-viewing times to be between 1956 and 1987.

How long will Self-isolation/Lockdown last?

Ask coronavirus.

Has the government provided an estimate of how long it might take?

Yes, the official estimate has narrowed it down to between 6 weeks and 37 years.

Will everything be the same as it was when coronavirus has passed?

Unfortunately, yes.

FAQ Self-isolating Lockdown — Small houses can present more of a lockdown challenge!

Endnote by Lord Wollocks

Bedside reading when in Lockdown

Panic Buying Shelves Empty

Brits Upend Social Distancing

Trapped Indoors with the Media

Coronavirus New Speech Symptom

UK Media Coronavirus Symptom Circus

UK Media Coronavirus Symptom Circus

I don’t believe in could anymore

Years ago, when I first started working in publishing, a friend and colleague of mine who had worked as a journalist on numerous newspapers warned me off the idea of ever working in that field of print myself. “Don’t do it!” he said. “You could do it just because you can, but don’t. It’s just a race to the bottom!” If I had no distinct impression of what he meant then, I think I do now.

I found the answer in the UK media’s rabid quest for new and alarming coronavirus symptoms. Two articles, which headline two consecutive editions of the Daily Impass, appear to have hit rock bottom: Look Out! for strange coloured wee’, it could be a sign that you have coronavirus; and, the following day, presumably because by then you will have got quite used to staring into the pan, Look Out! for your poo as it could be a sign that you have coronavirus.

Yes, I suppose it could; but it could also be a sign of something else, ie too much alcohol the previous evening (apparently, Brits’ alcohol consumption during coronavirus is up by 31%) or it could be due to a change in diet, ie since the onset of coronavirus you’ve decided not to buy any Chinese takeaways anymore ~ even if people do call you Donald Trump, or it could be that you are suffering from the nutritional equivalent of coronavirus embarrassment syndrome, eating all those baked beans and pickled eggs that you stockpiled whilst panic buying in an attempt to erase your shame ~ good job that you bought that mountain of bog roll too!

UK Media Coronavirus Symptom Circus

Articles such as these that ostensibly forewarn you of peculiar indications that could mean that you could have coronavirus are about as useful, not to mention reassuring, as someone telling you that if you had chosen lottery number ‘7’ instead of number ‘6’ you could have won a fortune. Expect in the coming days for the same newspaper mentioned here to offer ~ at a bargain price of course ~ Do It Yourself Coronavirus Testing Kits ~ they could, but most probably won’t.

The bottom-line is that this particular media group does seem to have an unsavoury predilection for symptoms below the belt line, since, looking back, we could grandstand ‘From the newspaper that brought you coronavirus testicular symptoms we have exciting news about wee and poo!’

The old song ‘Things ‘aint what they used to be’ has never been so applicable, and, naturally, a little awareness of the lesser symptoms of coronavirus could go a long way, but really the last thing that the very much strapped UK health service needs at the moment is 2000,000,000 telephone calls, “Help, my wees turned straw coloured, my poo looks like a boot-polished bowl of mushy peas and my balls hurt.”

UK Media Coronavirus Symptom Circus

Is your daily paper or media group plumbing the depths of coronavirus symptom depravity? Is it scraping the bottom of the barrel, or, more appropriately, your gran’s old tin bucket that used to sit in a shed at the bottom of the yard? If so, you could do a lot worse than whiling away those extra hours that Boris has given you in lockdown flicking through the media pages whilst playing ‘spot the could competition’. And when you are done, take heart from the lyrics of one (Roger) Getonyour Wicketer. He didn’t ‘believe in If anymore’, and neither should you concern yourself too much with the UK media’s over-reliance on the ‘no news get out clause’ could.

Coranavirus New Speech Symptom
Positive Outcomes from Coronavirus
UK Police Lockdown Enforcement
Trapped Inside with the Media

Diary of a Self-isolator in Kaliningrad

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 35 [23 April 2020]

Published: 21 April 2020

I am sitting here on day 35 of self-isolation feeling all retrospective. Since I cannot comment on what is going on outside at present, as I am not getting out as much as I used to, my mind decided to do a Henry David Thoreau and wander off at will. It led me by the hand to the last days of December last year and from this point in time pushed me forward to a day in the past, two weeks ago, to be precise 7 April. More on that in a moment.

Diary of a self-isolator in Kaliningrad

It has been a bad winter; by bad I mean nondescript; lots of rain, no snow; it has been dank, murky, wet, unpleasant.

At the risk of being accused of typical British understatement, I think most people would agree with me that Kaliningrad is not at its best during periods of near perpetual rain. When the snow comes it cloaks, muffles and hides the flaws and imperfections. It is to Kaliningrad what a dose of Botox is to a weathered and wrinkling face. It disguises the wrongs of time, at least for a while.

On 30 December 2019 I had travelled back to Kaliningrad from Gdansk Airport, crossing the Russian border from Poland by taxi. Peering through the taxi window as we approached the city outskirts, I ruefully observed the pitted roads, distorted sidewalks, rusting and buckling metal fences, dilapidated buildings and winter-abandoned building plots, all thick mud and heavy-plant-machinery tracks pocked with bomb-crater pools of water. I do not know whether I love Kaliningrad in spite of its imperfections or because of them. “Ahh, it’s good to be home,” I sighed.

Diary of a Self-isolator in Kaliningrad

In the past few days, whilst we, other realists and most people with a social conscience have been hiding indoors, spring has arrived in Kaliningrad. With flagrant disregard for self-isolation rules, buds and blossom are out and social distancing is out the window, as sprigs of small green leaves gather on the trees and small groups of bright blue flowers, wild and gay (in the non-PC sense) congregate at the edge of gardens and the roadside verges.

Kaliningrad is a green city, and very soon the trees that line the streets, the public spaces and parks will soothe and soften the urban landscape.

As this happens and the weather hopefully improves, the grim phantom of coronavirus will seem even more unreal to us at the other end of the nature spectrum ~ the unpredictable human end ~ and will surely test our resolve.

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 35 [23 April 2020]

On 7 April (doesn’t time fly ~ all over the place ~ whilst in self-isolation), we had to answer a call ~ not of nature ~ but of a bureaucratic kind, which would winkle us out of the house and make us trek, on foot, of course, across the other side of the city to fill in yet another official document and receive yet another official stamp.

Although serenaded by a beautiful spring day, gloriously sunlit and dry, and whilst I welcomed the chance to walk, two weeks of isolation harnessed to ever-more disturbing media content on the seemingly invincible march of coronavirus had increased my perception of risk and hardened caution against anything other than excursions into the outside world deemed vital or essential, such as trips to the local shop for beer and vodka. But ‘needs must when the Devil drives’, so out and off we went.

It was early days for self-isolation, but we had not been out for a week or more so it was interesting to see what, if anything, had transpired from an increased knowledge of the virus’s escalating incidence and its possible deadly consequences and also whether the advice from central and local government for self-isolation and social distancing had been received loud and clear or whether some people still had a sock stuffed in it.

Around the lakeside there was no diminution of people, but there were less people on the streets and less traffic. Nevertheless, the city was far from deserted. Traffic lights were still needed and at main bus stops groups assembled. Public transport had taken a hit, but still had enough passengers to make it profitable and questionable. Mask wearers existed in a ratio of about 1:7. We were not among them yet, as I could never get on with masks, which I have had to wear on occasions whilst working in dusty environments. I was forever adjusting them, which means running your fingers around your face; they make your face hot and sweaty, thus acting as a particulate attraction, and, in my experience, as they still permit the ingress of a small amount of dust, visible on the mask inside after 30 minutes of wear, I remain unconvinced of their virus-halting efficacy and cautious about the possibility that they may, in fact, heighten the risk of inhaling the great Big C.

Diary of a self-isolator: should I wear a mask or not? — (Photo credit: National Archives. Link: https://www.flickr.com/photos/nationalarchives/3182090361)

Masks and gloves

Arriving at our destination, like them or not masks had to be donned. We had been given strict instructions that we would not be allowed on the premises without masks and gloves. My wife had both, but the surgical gloves that a friend had acquired for us were too small for my manly hands, so I just stuffed my hands in my pockets. We did have a mask apiece, but that is what we had ~ one each and no more.

In ordinary circumstances, we would have been considerably more nervous about today’s toxic environment, an enclosed space where there was no possibility of distancing ~ we had already had the dubious pleasure of this experience at another official establishment, thank you ~ but we had been led to believe that there would less people present today.

Olga was well and truly flustered. She had donned her green-blue facemask and I, complaining bitterly, put mine on as well, as we waited outside the office building for someone to open the door.

A rather large, somewhat buxom lady had been assigned to our case, and we followed her into one of the small offices where she checked the sheath of documents Olga handed to her, and after holding my breath for the inevitable conclusion that we did not have all of the paperwork we should have, I was pleased to be proven wrong. The lady with the largest handed Olga two documents plastered with questions and answer boxes, saying, at the same time, “Roochka?” I’ve been swotting up on my Russian language, and I immediately recognised this as ‘pen’, or rather by intonation, ‘have you got a pen?’ (It is a funny thing this Russian language, as she could just as well have been asking ‘Have you got a door handle?’.)

We vacated the small office and went into the service area beyond, where, sitting at a small oblong ‘stol’, Olga proceeded to huff, puff and grimace her way through the form-filling process, predicting that she would get it wrong and have to do it again, which became a self-fulfilling prophecy. Then she started to get all nervous, stressed and sweaty, removing the face mask as she could not breath in it. I kept mine on, but I had noticed that the lady who was catering for us had her facemask slung over her large double chin. This woman did not inspire confidence. She too looked hot under the gills, and I noticed that she was continually sniffing!

On the streets

Not wanting to take a taxi ~ or rather wanting to but not doing so ~ we trudged back the way we had come on foot.

In the new Coronavirus Era everybody you meet takes on a sinister dimension, and they are to you as you are to them ~ you can see it in their eyes, especially in the crab-like eyes that peep warily and frightened above the line of their masks. Fear stalks the streets as if the Grim Reaper is on his heels. The irony is that the least affected, and therefore the most relaxed and complacent, are drunks, who continue to assemble and congregate, share their bottles of hooch and pass their cigarettes as if the world is as it was ~ before along came a minuscular round thing with trumpets stuck all over it.

A little bit of fear can go a long way; like Mary Poppin’s spoon full of sugar, it can assist quite considerably in helping ‘the medicine go down’, so that when we are told not to touch our faces, as the Big C can be transferred from surfaces to our vitals by this route, we remember the consequences. The Grim Reaper is waving his scythe at you.

When out and about, I try to keep my hands thrust inside my jacket pockets, but you can always be sure that the more conscious you are that you should not touch your face the more certain you can be of that itch developing around the edge of your nostril or your eyes and the growing insistence in your brain to scratch or rub it. I suppose that there is a little bit of Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Imp of the Perverse’ in all of us.

Coronavirus New Speech Symptom

Coronavirus warning: Speech impediment could be new dastardly coronavirus symptom

Published: 20 April 2020

Scientists on holiday in Brightlingsea say a number of people who have not been tested for anything could have a speech impediment together with other indicators, although some will have no symptoms whatsoever, which could make them very suspicious ~ if not of everybody else, at least of themselves.

Along with other indications, such as a sore throat, cough, high temperature, a nasty rash, hives, breathlessness, a pain in the neck and almost everywhere else, sore feet, rings through your nose, tatts, loss of taste, smell and your wallet in Peckham, The Twice-Daily Recorder previously reported that Peter Horn from Scunthorpe had a verruca on his foot and a ‘fizzing sensation’ in his Andrew’s Liver Salts.

Coronavirus New Speech Symptom

The impediment, which is accompanied by a bitter taste in the mouth and an ardent wish that you had not bought their newspaper, been on Google, checked your emails, seen social media or got out of bed until it was all over, is characterised by a pathological urge to babble. A spokesother for Chas & Dave colloquially referred to the symptom as ‘rabbit’, with those affected and affecting intelligence rabbiting on about new symptoms, no symptoms, police states, totalitarianism, and, in the case of one man with a name like Queer Stammer, making false promises (again) about what his party will do for the health service.

Queer, who is Chairman of Exit Strategy UK, and has an alarming amount of likeminded people behind him ~ right behind him! ~ is demanding that the virus pack it in. In a moment of pure perspicacity, “Enough’s enough,” he said, and is calling for a ‘People’s Vote’ ~ a referendum on whether we should leave the house or not whilst telling the virus it has gone far enough. It is thought that Vexit will take place as soon as they have worked out how to rig the electronic voting system.

Whilst this latest symptom ~ mindless babbling ~ seems to be concentrated among media employees and second-rate celebs, the WHAT (World Health Absolutely Trumped) was about to report (but now cannot afford the printing ink) that a virus might happen soon, but is not saying WHEN (World Health Eventually Never).

New Coronavirus Symptom? — A new coronavirus symptom is getting drunk whilst wearing a silly hat in lockdown ~ or it might just be the onset of insanity
*(Photo credit:* Museums Victoria on Unsplash)

Boot on the other foot ~ could this be a new symptom?

An interesting but none the less disturbing permutation of this symptom is the UK media’s hysteria that each time senior ministers in the government open their mouths they are not putting their foot in it nearly as often as they would like. One media group, The Onguardism, (which always write its headlines in advance, according to the old policy of making news instead of reporting it) has this to say: BoJo’s Pandemic Policy Hampered by Foot and Mouth, but since it has not happened as scheduled they have simply decided that they will put the boot in at every opportunity.

A vaccine against this contagious nonsense could be ready as early as September, with a betting shop in Oxford giving it an 80 to 1 chance, and the British media saying on Mondays to Wednesdays that ‘it will take at least two years to develop’ and on Thursdays to Saturdays ‘it will never happen’ and on Sundays (when, unless you are The Independent, you have a very big newspaper to fill) a series of in-depth analytical pieces over several pull-out supplements will tell you nowt but come in very handy when your stockpiled bog paper runs out sometime in 2025 ~ and there’s a clue?

And if you do not have this latest symptom, do not worry, the British media is desperately searching for one that is tailored made for you.

In Mondays sizzling, action-packed The Twice-Daily Recorder, which is out on Thursday, we make up the latest symptom of the sexist, ageist, racist coronavirus and ask the tantalising question, have you got an underclothing illness due to baked beans and Brussels sprouts?

This article represents the views of our inhouse expert Billy Bullshitter and any resemblance to you is purely coincidental ~ or is it?

Victor Ryabinin Artist Historian

Victor Ryabinin the Spirit of Königsberg

by Mick Hart

Published: 18 April 2020

I first met Victor Ryabinin in the spring of 2001. A friend of my wife’s, knowing how much my wife liked art and how fascinated I was with anything to do with the past, suggested that we meet this ‘very interesting’ man, who was an artist and a historian.

When somebody prefaces an introduction with ‘you’ll like him/her’, the Imp of the Perverse often ensures that you won’t, but there is no doubt in my mind, or memory, that I warmed to him immediately. This surprised me, because I am naturally, or unnaturally depending on your definition, cautious when meeting someone new, and I am somewhat selective when it comes to making friends. But Victor won me over in an instant.

How much of his good nature, depth of intellect, openness and sincerity were perceived at that moment is open to question, and I am sure that the surroundings in which I found myself contributed not a little to my relaxed frame of mind, but I still recall that overriding impression of being in the company of someone very special.

The Studio: Victor Ryabinin Artist Historian

We met in Victor’s studio ~ a small, wedge-shaped room at the top of a non-descript concrete Soviet block of flats. Little did I know then as I climbed the tier upon tier of crumbling steps leading to his studio, how many more times over the next 18 years I would climb them or how enthusiastically.

As an inveterate collector of vintage, antiques, junk, and having been obsessed with the past for as long as I can remember, at least from the age of four, Victor’s studio was an absolute paradise. It was a cornucopia of relics, a living memorial to the past splendour of Königsberg, a stimulating reminder of its World War II legacy and its subsequent reincarnation as the Soviet city Kaliningrad.

The back wall of the studio alone was worth travelling one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five miles for! It had been clad from floor to ceiling with a carefully orchestrated mosaic of old enamel advertising, information and military signs, some from pre-war Königsberg, others of wartime origin, identified as such by the presence of the Nazi swastika.

Victor Ryabinin Königsberg Kaliningrad ~ Artist & Historian — **Victor Ryabinin & Mick Hart in The Studio, Summer 2015**

The back wall of the studio alone was worth travelling one thousand, one hundred and seventy-five miles for!

Everywhere else there was stuff: bottles dug out of the Königsberg ruins, the corroded remains of wartime weapons, vintage Soviet uniforms, metal wall plaques ~ including profiles of Hitler and Stalin ~ German and Soviet military helmets, plates, cutlery, bits and bobs of jewellry, fragments of porcelain, bottle tops. Everywhere ~ on tables, shelving, walls and floor was stuff ~ relics from a dissolved city, sublimely intermingled with Victor’s works of art-history: symbolic paintings, surreal sculptures and unique subliminally haunting ‘assemblages’.

Living history: Victor Ryabinin Königsberg Kaliningrad

In one corner, by the wall, there was a set of old wooden steps that led to a small gantry, which had a slatted rail to the front. When we first visited the studio, this rail was adorned with one or two vintage flags and three or four military visor caps. In those days, the ‘upper storey’ had been sufficiently empty for Victor to bed down there if the mood so took him. When we last visited in 2019, however, the entire front rail of the gantry was obscured with all manner of flags, hats and other items and the gantry itself was full. This, as they say, was a man after my own heart! The studio was a nostalgists heaven! And a work of living history to a city that had ceased to be.

Flags inside Victor Ryabinin's art studio — Victor Ryabinin’s Art Studio 2019: Victor Ryabinin Artist Historian, Königsberg-Kaliningrad

On our first visit to the studio, we had taken with us a ‘picnic’: some meats, cheeses, salad items, crisps, olives and pickled gherkins. We had also taken some vodka and sat around the small rectangular table shared by all sorts of interesting bygones, including the busts of Karl Marx and Lenin, who were watching us intently. This set in motion a social ritual which would be practiced many times over the next 18 years.

Artist Historian Victor Ryabinin Königsberg Kaliningrad

On my office wall, in the antique emporium that we used to run in England, I had a framed photograph of myself and Victor taken during a rainy day on Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) beach in winter 2004, together with a framed printed plaque of Lenin, which Victor had presented to me in the form of a spoof award. On this plaque he had written the presentation in beautifully scrolled and flowing calligraphic script, and because he did not know my last name and as at the time when he produced the plaque I was living in Bedford, he wrote the dedication to me in the name of ‘Mick Bedford’.

Victor Ryabinin on Svetlogorsk beach with Mick Hart 2005

Victor Ryabinin in true form discards his umbrella on this cold, wet day: ‘Ne problem!’

{January 2005, Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) }

These two items were guaranteed to raise questions from friends and customers alike, and I was only too happy and extremely proud to introduce them to my friend Victor, a Russian from Kaliningrad who was an accomplished artist, philosopher, historian and a wonderful human being.

I would show them the many photographs of my trips to Kaliningrad, when we were in Victor’s presence, especially photographs that had been taken in the studio, and I would say to them, “It is worth going to Kaliningrad, just to meet this man.”

Sometimes I liked to add a touch of mystery. Just before I left for Kaliningrad, I would drop a hint that I was off on holiday. Where too? they would ask. My answer: “To the Shrine to Königsberg.” ~ Victor’s studio.

Art Studio Königsberg — **Fragments of Königsberg in the company of one of Victor Ryabinin’s symbolic artworks: Victor Ryabinin Art Studio**

Victor Ryabinin Artist Historian: Königsberg

Whenever I holidayed in Kaliningrad I would make the most of it, staying there for four or five weeks at a time. Victor and the studio were constantly top of my itinerary list, and I have lost count of the number of social evenings we spent in that hallowed place, the studio, and, later, the excursions we went on, both around Kaliningrad itself and further into the region. Suffice it to say, they were wonderful times.

We had begun talking about moving to Kaliningrad as far back as 2015, although I do not think that I had any intention of committing myself at that time. However, Victor’s enthusiasm, positivity, indefatigable interest in novelty and his sincere affirmation, ‘of course you could live here!’, must have worked its magic behind the scenes of consciousness, for, one day, when my wife and I were discussing the prospect more earnestly, it suddenly dawned on me that if I did move to Kaliningrad I would be living in Victor’s city, the city that was his life and his life’s work.

That I believe was the defining moment; that was when I made the decision to move. I looked upon the possibility of living in Victor’s Königsberg to be an honour and a privilege. I could hardly believe that by doing so I would be able to associate with him more often and looked forward to more historical excursions around the city and region and, under his tutelage, developing my historical knowledge of the city’s past. I was also looking forward, of course, to those evenings of camaraderie, sitting in the atmospheric studio, the Shrine to Königsberg, relaxing in the company of mutual friends, chatting whilst drinking vodka or cognac.

From that moment, it was no longer a question of should I move, but how quickly could I move?

Unfortunately, the practical aspects of relocation took too long and by the time we arrived in Kaliningrad in December 2018, unbeknown to us and to Victor himself, Victor’s life was ebbing way and in seven months’ time he would be dead.

Victor Ryabinin Königsberg Kaliningrad

Victor Ryabinin was, without question, one of the finest people I have ever known. He was an exceptional human being. In the words of a mutual friend, “I am proud that I was close to this great man”.

I admired him for his artistic talent; I respected him for his phiIosophy; I adored him for his love of history; I loved him as a person.

When he died, last July (July 2019), of cancer, it was a great personal tragedy for me. Apart from my wife, Olga, he was the single most influential person to tip the scales in favour of me coming to live in Kaliningrad. If he was here today, he would correct me at this juncture ~ “Königsberg, Mike!” In fact, this became something of an in-joke. I would purposefully refer to the city as Kaliningrad just to have him correct me. He continues to do so. I think he always will.

Victor Ryabinin was not just an artist-historian. He was far, far and away beyond that. He was a time traveller: a man who could talk to the past, empathise with the past and commune with it.

He was a man of small stature but great presence. He had an aura about him, a magnetic personality and was thoroughly and utterly engaged and engaging. The magic ethos with which Victor was infused stemmed from many sources. His personality was one of calm and calming repose. He was good natured, good humoured, his sense of humour was playful but never acerbic. His philosophy of life seemed to be based on two short words: ‘ne problem’ ~ things could be an ‘issue’ but never ‘a problem’, and issues could always be resolved, or would resolve themselves in the fullness of time. This reassuring attitude, this positive philosophy made Victor’s company always good. No matter how you felt before meeting with him, you came away from his company with an overwhelming sense of wellbeing. Victor’s company had the feelgood factor.

The Spirit of Königsberg

As an artist and historian, there was profundity and depth, but they were free from the heaviness and pretentiousness by which these qualities are so often confounded. Victor practised humility and was never confrontational. He would express himself and then move on. He never forced his point of view upon you.

The magnetism of his innate character came from a spiritual energy, which I believe was made more potent as it was drawn from the same source, the same well from that which Königsberg drew its spiritual energy. Victor was not just one among a number of talented people who originated from or who worked in Königsberg, he was the Spirit of Königsberg.

Last but by no means least, there was Victor’s inquisitiveness. It was one of his most endearing character traits.

At the gathering of friends and family after his funeral, Victor’s nephew said of Victor that he had a childlike inquisitiveness, a curiosity to know, to learn, to explore and that this quality remained with him throughout his life. It is true that Victor exhibited profound and sincere astonishment at every new revelation. He was a keen observer of life for whom everything had an intrinsic interest; nothing passed him by. As Boris Nisnevich records in his article An Artist Who Can Hear Angels Speak, Victor himself said, “I can only guess what boredom is”.

“I can only guess what boredom is”.
Victor Ryabinin

Another of his friends claimed that ‘Victor created his own reality’. I suppose that each and every one of us does this. Victor’s reality is possibly best summed up in the name he gave to one of his final compositions (‘assemblages’, as he liked to call them). He called it The Relics that will Save my Soul.

In the last analysis, it is impossible to extricate, separate or divorce Victor Ryabinin from Königsberg. Whenever I see the word Königsberg and whenever I hear it, it is impossible not to think of Victor. The two were, are and always will be synonymous.

In the work that follows, a biographical essay of Victor’s life and the experiences and influences that informed his art and love of Königsberg, Boris Nisnevich celebrates the life of a unique artist-historian and an exceptional human being.

Victor Ryabinin could talk to angels, there is no doubt about that, and through his work and in his memory those angels speak to us.

I miss him.

Victor Ryabinin, Artist, Historian, Philosopher ~ The Spirit of Königsberg
{17 December 1946 ~ 18 July 2019}

Königsberg Offensive Revisited

Königsberg 9 April 1945 / Kaliningrad 9 April 2020

Published: 12 April 2020

10:30pm: As tired as I am, and I am, I had to write this. In about one and a half hours from now, Otto Lasch, Commandant of Königsberg, sitting in his command bunker at the heart of Kaliningrad, will sign a document the contents of which will change the course of history here forever.

By now he must have been agonising over whether to give the surrender order or not, particularly since Herr Hitler had strictly forbidden him to do so and knowing that whilst further resistance was futile the grim alternative was to hand himself and what was left of his army over to the Soviets, from whom he could expect very little leniency and possibly even less humanity.

This haunting train of thought was set in motion by a chance comment from my wife, Olga, this morning, who happened to mention that today, 9 April, was the last day of the Königsberg Offensive (WWII).

I had other things planned for today, but, thought I, perhaps I should put something together for my blog to acknowledge the historic significance that today’s date has to Königsberg’s demise and Kaliningrad’s existence.

At first, I was not sure what form the essay would take and mulled various options, some quite elaborate, too elaborate. I could write, for example, from the perspective of a time traveller, which would allow me to write a dramatic account and, as a shadowy figure from the future, flit about at will from one location to another over the four-day period that the assault took place. Or, I could write the piece as if I was an on-the-spot reporter, using short, dramatic and punchy sentences (why, now that would be a change!). But what decided against these novelties was time and the need to gen up on the historical facts first. If I wanted the article to be posted on my blog by the end of the day, I would have to read, digest, select, condense and then write.

The form which my modest contribution to this awesome day took in the life and death of Kaliningrad and Königsberg respectively, worked itself out whilst I was taking notes from my readings. After all, I would be content, for the time being, to precis the salient points from the four-day invasion and epilogue it with a time-travelling postscript, enunciating the contrast between this warm, sunny and relaxing day of 9 April 2020 with the noise, mayhem, pandemonium, pain, suffering, horror, fear, bloodshed and death which characterised today’s date 75 years previously.

Königsberg Offensive revisited

In the course of compiling this little work, my research tripped the switch, and, short-circuited emotionally, my imagination stole off to do some unauthorised time travelling of its own.

Apart from odd air raids by the Soviet Air Force, the real terror and horror of war began for Königsbergians in the August of 1944, when two consecutive nights of heavy bombing orchestrated by the RAF blew the guts out of the city. Why it had not occurred to me before I do not know, but the occupants of Königsberg, those who had not been blown to pieces, crushed to death or incinerated in the allied air attacks, would have eight months more of waiting, watching and fearing to do before their worst fears were to be realised.

Königsberg Offensive Revisited. Königsberg in ruins. — *Königsberg in ruins as a result of Allied bombing. (Photo credit: Dylan Mohan Gray. (Public Domain*))

As now, with the coronavirus scare, there must have been the usual suspects who were in denial or just plain blasé, but for the realists one can only imagine how the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds passed as they waited and watched for Hell to announce itself.

Königsberg 6 April 1945

Having sneaked off on its own accord, my imagination arrived in the East Prussian region on the dawn of 6 April 1945. It was sun-up and the artillery onslaught, which would last for three hours, was well underway. Then came the surge of the ground troops.

This was not something that had happened in some far flung corner of the world of which I had heard but little and to which I had never been, it had happened here, in this little corner of the world, and would have taken in and effected the district of Kaliningrad where we now lived, the streets outside these windows and the very house in which I am sitting. And now came the questions, one after the other, following in quick succession. Was there anybody living here at the time of the assault or had they perchance been fortunate enough to have fled on one of the refugee ships? If not, who were these people? What were their thoughts, their feelings, their conversations to one another? What did they hear, smell, see? How did they react? And, of course, did they survive or were they murdered?

The researching and writing part of me toiled on throughout the day, but my imagination was busy elsewhere, amongst the heavy artillery explosions, the echoing chatter of machine guns, the shouts and cries and the screams of pain, the mighty explosions, the sounds of crashing buildings. It was with the Soviet troops as they scrambled through the dust and broken masonry in a fierce endeavor to rout the enemy; it was with the German defenders, each and every one I suspect endowed with the imminence of their own cruel fate; it was here, above all, it was here ~ in this very house, within the four walls of this room, helpless in its observation of the cowering, terrified inhabitants, their own imaginations mercilessly fueled by tales of Soviet barbarity (true or false) which had been unleashed on other towns and other unfortunate victims en route to the great prize itself, Königsberg.

Königsberg Offensive Revisited. The aftermath of bombing. — *Königsberg* ~ the aftermath.
(Photo credit: *Sendker – altes Foto, Public Domain, <a href="”https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6601474″">Link</a>*)

Historical record has it that Otto Lasch, the Commandant of Königsberg, officially surrendered to the Soviet forces in the city’s command bunker a few minutes before midnight 9 April 1945.

For the rest of my evening the two of us, the working me in 9 April 2020 and my temporarily estranged imagination in 9 April 1945, peeped into and hovered around the bunker of Otto Lasch. I looked at the computer clock, and I wrote: In about one and a half hours from now Otto Lasch, Commandant of Königsberg, sitting in his command bunker at the heart of Kaliningrad, will sign a document the contents of which will change the course of history here forever.

I did not wait up for my imagination. Longstanding association and a comprehensive understanding of all my many dualities assured me that this would not be necessary, futile even.

Suffice it to say we would meet tomorrow, when all this would be over, back in the past where it belongs ~ or so the present would have us believe …

Battle of Königsberg

On This Day

Published: 9 April 2020

9 April is a very significant day in the history of this city and region. It was the last day of a siege that had begun in January 1945 as a successor to heavy bombing by the RAF in August 1944; it was also the first day of Königsberg’s last day ~ if not in spirit, at least in form.

(Photo credit: *By Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-R98401 / CC-BY-SA 3.0, CC BY-SA 3.0 de,* https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5368820)

Battle of Königsberg

The actual Battle of Königsberg lasted four days only, but it was a bitter and bloody battle. The encircled German forces put up stiff resistance bolstered by Königsberg’s formidable fortifications, a defence system comprising three rings of forts which had been constructed at the end of the 19^th century, some modernised and reinforced, and all heavily supplemented with anti-tank systems and landmines.

The assault began at dawn on 6 April 1945. Intense artillery shelling, which followed several days of bombing by the Soviet air force, was the immediate precursor to the first stage of the city’s invasion. By the fourth day of the attack, 9 April 1945, the Soviet army had breached the enemy’s main defences and in a punishing feat of urban warfare ~ building by building, street by street ~ was bearing down on what remained of the enemy entrenched at the heart of the city. Although both in numbers and fire power German resources were not yet totally depleted, Otto Lasch, Fortress Commandant of Königsberg, in direct contradiction of Hitler’s orders, realising that all was lost, initiated his army’s surrender. Negotiations were implemented and the surrender of the defenders of Königsberg and Königsberg itself was finally ratified just before midnight in Otto Lasch’s control bunker.

Battle of Königsberg

By the time the assault was over, 80 per cent of the city had been obliterated, partly as a result of earlier aerial bombing raids, later soviet artillery action and the urban warfare that followed. Whilst statistical records differ it is widely held that the Germans suffered between 40,000 and 50,000 casualties and between 80,000 and 90,000 Germans were taken prisoner. Of Königsberg’s civilian population, estimated pre-war at 300,000, 200,000 survived but were subsequently forced to leave the city and region. Soviet casualties over the four-day assault is said to number around 4000.

Kaliningrad 9 April 2020

It is hard to believe as I sit here on this beautiful spring day in Kaliningrad, buds and leaves returning to the trees, flowers in first bloom, azure blue sky above, birds singing, that 75 years ago the very building that I occupy and the cobbled streets outside would have been ringing with the sounds of gunfire, the last fading echoes of a seemingly apocalyptic onslaught which had left thousands dead, dying and maimed, hundreds of years of history shattered, a once grand city reduced to ruins and an entire culture and its adherents teetering on the brink of expulsion.

Some say history repeats itself, others that it never goes away. One thing is sure, the present is with us a lot less longer than the past. In less than two hours from now, Otto Lasch will put his signature to a document the contents of which will seal the fate of this city and change the course of history here forever.

*German POWs in front of the King’s Gate*, *Königsberg*, 1945. (Photo credit: *By Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-R94432 / CC-BY-SA 3.0, CC BY-SA 3.0 de,* https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5368764)

Positive Outcomes from Coronavirus

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 19 [7 April 2020]

I can put up with the coronavirus conspiracy theories that are doing the rounds ~ just; it is the self-righteous, sanctimonious, crypto-religious revenge scenarios that really chafe. You know the sort of thing: it is payback time for the human race for all the ills that we have visited upon this wonderful world, from factory farming animals to environmental abuse, from decadence to hedonism. These Puritanical killjoys, the ‘serves us right’ disciples who judge everyone else from a Sodom and Gomorrah perspective since they live such dull lives themselves, some in greenhouses from which they throw stones, some who have never lived at all, would like us to believe that we are going to hell in a handcart because we have lost our moral compass, because we have sold out traditional values such as decency, respect, civility and so on for the false Gods of mobile phones, computer games, social media and similar fripperies ~ and, of course, they have a point.

But on the other side of the ‘I told-you-so’ receiving end of this, there are those who dare to talk about something good coming out of the coronavirus crisis. At the illogical extreme, in predictions that overlap with some of the crimes logged against us to which I have referred, is the wishful thought that somehow after all the uncertainty, fear, lifestyle change and death, a revolution in human nature will occur that will change the way we think about life, the way we relate to one another and ultimately the way we think and relate to the natural world around us. How does that expression go, ‘If wishes were horses beggars would ride’?

Positive outcomes from coronavirus

However, that is not to say that some good cannot come out of self-isolation and social distancing. For example, several friends with whom I have spoken this week ~ by telephone, I hasten to add ~ have reaffirmed my trust in human capacity for self-improvement.

One of our associates is taking up where he left off learning to play the piano, another is improving his knowledge of French, one is reading classic literature, which he has never read before, and yet another has taken up painting when the only thing he could paint was walls, and another is using the time to develop his DIY skills when the only thing he could do was paint pictures.

As this is just a sample of self-improvements cited at random among some of my social circle, one can only imagine the scale and diversity of new interests and leisure pursuits blossoming around the world.

Taking this into account, we could arguably emerge at the other end of this global crisis not merely intact but so much more informed, artistically turned out, practically minded and equipped with skills and aptitudes of which before we could only dream.

Conversely, taking my own circle of friends as an example, you might have a lot to come to terms with ~ off-key piano recitals, being spoken to with every third word in broken French, having to listen to plot lines and character appraisals from novels you do not want spoiling, having to pretend you like badly painted paintings, having to pretend you like poorly painted walls and endless accounts of DIY accidents ~ by people that you always presumed never had it in them (must remember to put that on my ‘things to do whilst isolating list’ ~ distance course in diplomacy).

In the meantime, whilst it is possible to define the benefits of social distancing, even the joys of self-isolation, we still cannot escape the relentless intrusion of social media, even when we do not subscribe.

I lose count of the number of times in a day that my wife asks me to ‘look’ at something or someone doing or saying something on her mobile phone of which, up until that moment, I was happily oblivious.

Positive outcomes from coronavirus

But then who knows? Once we have got this virus beat, placated the conspiracy theorists, disappointed the divine retributionists and thrilled to their crystal balls the prophets of good things to come, perhaps someone can start working on how we can shoot the satellites out of the sky. Should this and this alone be a byproduct of the coronavirus lockdown, then we can truly say that something good has transpired from bad, and all will be serendipity.

[Photo credit: https://www.rawpixel.com/image/390420/your-head]

Kaliningrad Top of Self-isolators

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 16 [4 April 2020]

Published: 4 April 2020

As you probably know, my wife and I have been self-isolating for a number of days now. On 28 March we were joined by a lot of other people in Russia, not at our residence I hasten to add but throughout the country, as it was announced that the period from 28 March to 5 April would be a paid ‘holiday’, the qualification being that the holiday be taken at home in the interests of self-isolation.

The situation here, as far as we can tell (because, it’s a funny thing, we do not get out as much as we used to, would like to, should), has shifted up a notch. Disinfectant trucks spray the streets regularly, more and more people peep out from behind face masks and speaker vans roam back and forth reminding people to stay put.

Kaliningrad Top of Self-isolators with loudspeaker vans — For illustration purposes only.

Indeed, as I write this, I can hear the solemn, almost monotone, reverberations from the public address systems on wheels echoing through the streets of Kaliningrad. The deserted streets and echoing voice evoke memories of 1950s’ apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic films and TV series such as Quatermass and Day of the Triffids. Eerie and strange to think that in the space of a few short weeks we, or rather the world as we know it, have been diverted into an entirely new, unprecedented and hitherto unimaginable reality. It is as if we all went to bed one night and woke up the next morning in an old black and white episode of The Twilight Zone.

The virtuality continued on the street, where two days ago it had been summer but now it was snowing like Christmas. That was either Father Frost in that plastic outfit or a large man in a red protective suit with an oversized white facemask.

At our local shop, where we had gone to purchase our weekly provisions, all the staff were wearing surgical masks and standing well back, as if they had just lit a firework. For those of us who simply cannot get on with masks and are unconvinced about their efficacy, all we can do when anyone gets too close is the quickstep, the tango for about-face movements and once we have paid at the checkout the foxtrot. At least the dancing lessons have paid off.

Call us paranoid, but as nobody seems to know how long the coronavirus ‘bug’ can sit around smirking at us on surfaces, we have adopted the practice of leaving our shopping in quarantine, stacking the bags out of the way and emptying the contents sometime later. Our cat is clearly perturbed by this but keeps well back from the bags as if he instinctively knows that they’re dynamite.

There are times, however, when you just cannot go on without that oatmeal biscuit, so it is on with the Automobile Association gauntlets, out with the disinfectant, wash the hands, fumigate the house … again

Kaliningrad Top of Self-isolators

One feather in the Kaliningradian hat is that it shows the highest level of self-isolation among Russian cities. Apparently, this data was published on a special Yandex service on the morning of Tuesday 31 March. According to the report*, Kaliningrad scored 4.7 points out of a total of 5 in the self-isolation index, which is the highest score among the cities of the country.

**On the 2 April we heard President Putin’s address to the nation telling us that the paid holiday will be extended until the end of April.

Meanwhile, the world sits and waits indoors for something out there to happen that will ‘take us right back to the track, Jack!’