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
Once you understand Ded Moroz (Дед Моро́з) and yolka (елка), you’re halfway there
4 December 2025 – Celebrating New Year in Russia: Different but Familiar
They do things slightly differently in Russia at Christmas, or rather, they do things the same but at different times and with different names.
In Russia, Christmas falls on the 7th of January, not the 25th of December; New Year is acknowledged on the 14th of January, not the 1st of January; and New Year’s Day is the 1st of January. Hold hard! I thought you just said that New Year in Russia takes place on the 14th of January? Well spotted, that man! The reasons for this ambiguity are twofold: firstly, the Russian Orthodox Church uses the older Julian calendar, not the Gregorian calendar, the older being 14 days behind; and secondly, during the Soviet period, religious festive holidays were purposefully deposed in favour of secularity. Hence, in Russia, nothing remotely festive-like happens on the 25th of December, apart from me using it as an excuse to raise a glass or two; but, as in the UK and elsewhere, the 1st of January takes centre holiday stage.
In short, both Orthodox Christmas and Orthodox New Year continue to be observed and revered religiously, but Russia’s major and most popular public holiday takes place, as it does in the rest of the world, on January the 1st.
Celebrating New Year in Russia: Different but Familiar
Though Christmas, in the sense that we know it in the West, is conspicuously absent from the Russian yuletide agenda, certain Christmas traditions, such as decorated pine trees and Father Christmas, the bringer of gifts, have been carried over to the New Year festivities, the only difference being that Christmas trees are called ‘New Year’s trees’ and Father Christmas ‘Father Frost’.
The lead-up to the Russian New Year differs little from the UK, with one exception, which is that in Russia the New Year starts 11 consecutive times. Twelve midnight New Year’s Eve happens in Russia according to the time zone relevant to each region. Yes, Russia really is that huge.
In winter, for example, Moscow is three hours in front of the UK and Kaliningrad two hours. Such differentials used to play havoc with our Russian-themed UK New Year’s parties. We had no other option but to bring the New Year in three times in a row, viz., three countdowns to midnight and three choruses of ‘Happy New Year’, followed by three champagne New Year toasts. What else could we do?
Celebrating New Year in Russia: Different but Familiar
Russia’s New Year’s Eve follows a universal template, but as it is the most significant event on the country’s holiday calendar, you will be harder pushed than in the UK to find a place in which to celebrate unless you book really early. In my experience, bars, restaurants, hotels and the like, especially those offering New Year’s entertainment, can be fully booked by November or even, in some cases, fully rebooked from the previous year.
A ghostly scene. The Hotel Rus in Svetlogorsk awaits its New Year party guests, whom now will never come.
Organised New Year parties, ie those which come with a ticket price, are not everybody’s cup of tea or bottle of vodka. The emphasis of the entertainment is not so often spectatorial as it is participatory. An exuberant master of ceremonies, with little respect for the introverted, will enthusiastically fulfil the remit for which they are being paid by getting you up on your feet and making you participate in all manner of dotty games and bizarre forms of amusement. Even small stay-at-home gatherings carry with them no guarantee that they will be impresario-free. Thus, my advice, before you go, is to brush up on your dancing techniques, and if you have any acting skills, dust these down as well. Beer and vodka aforethought are a credible solution.
Wherever you are, be it at a slick entertainment venue or in someone’s private house, the ubiquitous television is sure to play a part. In this respect, the line-up is not so different from what you would expect to find on New Year’s Eve in the UK.
Get ready for an evening of star-spangled party-style shows, a celebrity bonanza. These rumbustious, glossy, champagne-soaked events, where the in crowd get to strut their stuff or merely dazzle the camera with their august presence and famous faces, only differ from their British counterparts insofar as they surpass them. Russian New Year TV shows have never been the same for me since Kabzon left this mortal coil, but these programmes seem to become each year a little more St Petersburg to Britain’s Peterborough city centre; they have a higher buttercream-cake ratio compared to Britain’s poor iced bun.
The New Year’s Eve ritual of counting down the hours, then the minutes and seconds to midnight is no less universal. On the much-anticipated knell of twelve, up goes the mandatory chorus, ‘Happy New Year!’, glasses chink, and it’s down the hatch.
One aspect of the New Year ritual, which thankfully we are spared in Russia, is that we are not disposed to suffer men parading in tartan skirts garbed in silly long socks, not long enough, however, to conceal their knobbly knees, whilst blowing up a barbaric device which looks and sounds like a tortured cat.
The New Year cometh
Midnight strikes, revellers shout, the Kremlin clock appears large upon the nation’s screens, the skies both near and far blister and flash with fireworks, the president makes his New Year’s address, the national anthem plays – a spirit-lifting anthem – and then it’s back to doing what Gaviscon and the gleeful makers of paracetamol would probably willingly sponsor us for should we ever forget how to DIY.
Some things, it seems, are different, and others never change no matter where in the world you find yourself over the festive season.
28 November 2025 – Zötler Bier Kaliningrad: Buy One and Get One Free!
There is a place in New Orleans, but I bet you can’t buy one beer there and get one free, whereas, in Kaliningrad there is, and you can.
Not that the prospect of two beers for the price of one is any inducement, but where, hypothetically speaking, would one find this establishment if one wanted to spectate this phenomenal practice? More to the point, what is this place called?
I am itching to write ‘Zotler Beer’, but the actual name of the beer restaurant, which, when spelt Germanely using an umlaut (ö), not to be confused with an omelette, is Zötler Bier, and just to confuse you more, there are two of them in Kaliningrad: one in the centre on Leninsky Avenue and the other somewhere else, in another part of the city, on Gorky Street to be exact.
This review concerns the Gorky Street establishment. I would like to say that it is tucked away, as the expression ‘tucked away’ is such a nice one, isn’t it? But as Gorky Street is a fairly busy thoroughfare, a more accurate description would be that it’s off the predictable tourist route.
Allowing for the fact that my three visits to this establishment have been lunchtime and early-evening encounters, on all three occasions Bavaria in Gorky Street has been a lot quieter and more sedate than its city-centre counterpart. So, if you want the same, or similar, and would rather have it quieter, Gorky Street is the place for you.
Zötler Bier Kaliningrad
Zötler Bier Restaurant, both of them, in fact, are often described by trip advising and restaurant review sites as ‘offering an authentic German atmosphere’; this description is not entirely true. What you get at both branches is a themed Bavarian fantasy that owes its quintessential German impression to the caricatured Bavarian interior and the presence of often comely waitresses dressed like German Heidis. I say, chaps, we are not about to argue with that, are we!
An olde-world décor is echoed in both Zötler Bier establishments, with retro half-timbered wall fretwork, replica metal advertising plaques, shelf-displayed and wall-mounted curios and framed prints of various kinds. The dark-wood veneering of the 1980s/1990s has primarily been eschewed in Zötler in preference for a light pine or beechwood, and the salient gimmick, which is Zötler’s branding icon, is the prevalent inclusion of semi-private booth seating created in the image of giant beer barrels. The visual impact that these seats have leaves a lasting impression. I am not suggesting that you climb into them from the top; their design is cross-sectional, each with a panel cutaway, making it easier to get into them than a Watney’s Party Seven.
From any angle, they look like giant, wooden fairground waltzers, the essential difference being that their only motion in Zötler is when you might have had one too many, which, of course, being something I’ve never experienced, I rely on you tell me about.
Pretending that you are sitting inside a giant beer barrel is as good a reason as any I can think of for going to a particular bar, but it’s not the be-all and end-all of all reasons. For example, meat eaters, of which I am not one, are lured to Zötler by its reputation for such Bavarian-billed dishes as fragrant pork knuckle with real stewed German cabbage and delicious sausages. The sausages are big, long, curling German ones. I cannot comment on the pork knuckle, as I haven’t caught sight of it personally. I saw a lot of knuckle in Rushden pubs, but they were usually attached to the end of very large tattooed hands and arms, some of which came flying in my direction even though I am vegetarian. “You wouldn’t hit a vegetarian who would rather be drinking out of glasses than wearing them, would you?” Pass the Band-Aid.
Once upon a time, there was an advertising slogan in the UK that went something like, “I’m only here for the beer!” According to Zötler’s website, the family-owned Zötler Brewery has been providing PAs like me (PA, as you know, being an initialism for a Perfectionist Ale drinker) with mighty fine beers since 1447 – that’s a long time, and I don’t mean since just gone a quarter to three.
Unlike Coca-Cola, there is no myth surrounding Zötler’s secret to brewing beers of a superior quality. This might be because Zötler’s ‘Three secrets of excellent beer’ is hardly a secret, although they publicise it as such.
The first secret that isn’t is pasteurisation, and that secret is no pasteurisation! “After the foam is poured into barrels and bottles, it should get into the consumer’s glass as soon as possible.”
I’m certainly with them on that one!
Secret number 2: “Shivers of our own production.” That’s not ‘shivers’ in the sense of what runs through one like a lightning conductor in full conduction mode when, having signed off a publication, you notice after the fact that the name of the sponsor is spelt incorrectly. (Don’t worry about it; it’s a publishing thing.) Zötler goes on to clarify, “In order for the product to be of the highest quality, manufacturers use shivers of their own production, which are applied only once. In comparison, many breweries use the same yeast 10 to 15 times.”
We’re really talking freshness here!
Secret number 3: “The purest alpine water.” This is not the sort of thing you wouldn’t want to hear. Elaboration: “The production is located at the foot of Mount Grünten, one of the most famous mountains in the Bavarian Alps. Locals attribute magical charm to the Alps and life-giving properties to the water.”
Do you know, I’m rather pleased to hear that, for it brings me round quite nicely to my opening paragraph, in which I state, somewhat glibly you might opine, that I have discovered somewhere where when you buy one beer, you get one free. Sounds too good to be true? Well, fact is sometimes better than fiction, and truth is often more true than a lie. At Zötler in good old Gorky Street, Kaliningrad, Wednesday, all day, is promotional Wednesday: for each beer you buy, you get another one free. All that extra life-giving water free!
I am notoriously poor at maths, which possibly explains why when I ordered four pints (half-litres to be precise) of Zötler’s non-filtered beer, at the end of the evening and the next day, as odd as it sounds, I had the distinct feeling of having consumed double that amount. I cannot attribute it to the pork knuckles or to overdoing it with a large German sausage, as I only had a baked potato. Would it make me a local if I attributed the experience of drinking and seeing double to the magical charm of the Alps and the life-giving properties of their special water?
Good beer. Good grub. Great Bavarian ladies. And all to be enjoyed whilst sitting inside a beer barrel!
Zötler Bier (Beer) Restaurants. Frequentable at any time, and on Wednesdays you drink in stereo.
25 November 2025 – Kaliningrad in Autumn: Turning over an old leaf
From the earliest time of recollection, autumn has been for me my favourite season. In the days before real climate change, as distinct from the racketeering kind championed by the EU (achieve Net Zero or else!), I remember encountering glorious autumn mornings, especially at Hinwick Lodge.
With the nip of winter already in the air and thin ice glazing the puddles, often, as we emerged bleary-eyed into the early-morning light, we would be greeted by a hazy, glistening mist, hovering as an apparition a few feet from the ground and stretching into the ether to touch a barely visible haloed sun. Trying its very best to do what precedence taught us it would succeed in doing by mid-morning, eventually and at last, the sun would break through the mist’s upper opacity, evaporate the lower density and bathe the broad sweeping riding that runs at the side of Great Haze Wood in a less than powerful but brilliant light. Soon afterwards it would come to settle, pouring more light and warmth on the open ground of the surrounding meadows, reaching out with the awaited promise of a seasonally atmospheric and sensorily singular wonderful day.
Kaliningrad in Autumn: Turning over an old leaf
As with Kaliningrad, which is a tree-rich city, the preponderance of woodland encompassing Hinwick Lodge gave vent to the certainty of much variegated and enchanting autumnal leaf colour from its ash, oak and hazel mix. In Kaliningrad, it is the leaves of the maple tree, relatively large with their three-to-five toothed and jagged pointed lobes, which in autumn change from green to yellow, auburn, red and orange, that contribute most effectively to the city’s colourful seasonal character.
At the time of writing this post, the best part of our Kaliningrad autumn, when the air is at its most crisp and the ground is at its most dry, has tipped its hat and hurried past. The view from my bedroom window is certainly different from what it was just a mere seven days ago. The first thrilling moments of a bright-lit, expressively dry November have fallen back in the queue behind the ever-more typical expectations of damp, rain and lately snow, the initial sprinkle of which, announcing the onset of winter, has itself in recent hours given way to larger flakes falling for longer durations.
It’s time to don those woolly hats that mess your hair up so completely and shake hands once again with one’s thick and welcoming winter gloves. But before I pull on my thermal pants and barricade my body behind my fur-lined snow- and windproof coat, let’s take a trip together and say hello to some of the city’s transformational autumn scenes, including, where we have captured them, landmarks in their autumnal garb.
It may be autumn, but there’s still a lot of floral colour and bright red berries to complement the leaves’ complexion.
Below: Stairway to autumn
This telephone box that isn’t blends nicely with autumnThe neoclassical manor house in Youth Park, KaliningradAmusement rides in Youth Park, Kaliningrad, against an autumnal backdropCafe in autumn: Youth Park, Kaliningrad
Below: Colour coding
Autumn navigation skillsCamouflage for autumnA natural collage of autumn leavesThe old, the new and the naturalWatch the birdieYou can bank on itWrangel Tower, Kaliningrad, autumnAutumn in Kaliningrad as seen through Königsberg embrasure
Mick Hart goes back to school … again (Not before time!)
17 November – ProSchool Kaliningrad: Can Mick Hart Make the Grade?
I recently did something that I thought I would never do: I went back to school. I didn’t go back to my old school, the Prince William in Oundle. They wouldn’t have me back. Besides, I was less there when I was there than I should have been.
English-language teacher Olga sprung this arrangement on me quite out of the blue, informing me that she had told her students that I would be coming into school ‘next week’ to say a few words to them. Words? I thought. What sort of words? Like, ‘Don’t neglect your studies, or you could end up like me, leaving school with zilch qualifications.’ Actually, the few words I would eventually say would be something along these lines, as the ‘lecture’ I would deliver would be a potted biography of my life during my years at school and after in the great beyond. “Good heavens,” I thought, “those Russian students are certainly in for a treat!”
The school I had been invited to is the combined primary and secondary school, Proshkola (English translation, ‘ProSchool’), which is based in Kaliningrad, Russia. You can read more about it in my previous post, Proshkola School, Kaliningrad: Inspiration in Action.
Public speaking
Although I have heard people say that I am an up-to-scratch public speaker, to be honest, I don’t much care for it. I do not mind the actual speaking — ‘It will be alright on the night’ is my fingers-crossed philosophy — but I’m not particularly overkeen on the preparation needed.
The last time I gave anything amounting to a public address was when I was required to make three on-stage appearances over a two-day period at the 2019 international classic and vintage car festival, The Golden Shadow of Königsberg. Following that event, I learnt lines for a short film in which I had a part called Last Tango in Königsberg, which ironically were overdubbed in Russian at the film’s post-production stage. Since then, my only speaking roles, if we discount pub banter, have been making toasts at Russian gatherings and eulogising when asked at funerals — something I am trying not to make a habit of.
I did, however, gain a distinction at a public speaking event in Oundle, but that was in another time and in a different world, 1970 to be precise. Olga suggested to me that I take this ‘historic document’, my public-speaking certificate, to show to the students at school, together with some school-day photos and other props that illustrated my illustrious educational history.
As the event was intended to be informal, we also took along with us various vintage cups and saucers, all bone china, of course, so that we and the students could partake of tea in the manner in which it should be enjoyed. One brave student went so far as to try tea the English way by drinking it with malacor (milk). I cannot for the life of me drink it any other way.
Apologising in advance for having the reputation of being one of the faster talkers in the West, I promised to ‘put the brakes on’, respectfully asking my young audience not to fall asleep or, should they not be able to help themselves, to disguise it as best they could. Heckling’s nothing to deal with compared to a barrage of snoring!
I prefaced my address by making what I consider to be an all-important distinction regarding my nationality and where exactly I hail from. “I am not British.” I said. “I am not from the UK. I am English. I’m from England, and that’s the way I like it!”
I could see from the look on their faces that they understood my every word!
It was a little more difficult explaining to them how I could have left school without obtaining a single qualification but would have received a doctorate had they awarded them for acting daft.
I also produced a school report from my days at Oundle Prince William School. Comparatively speaking, this report was not at all that bad — well, not as bad as some.
The report I value most, which is still in my possession, is one that I received from Oundle Secondary Modern School. (There was nothing modern about it!) ‘Chalky’ White, the school headmaster, wrote in that report, “If he would devote as much effort to his studies as he does to acting daft, then possibly he might get somewhere.” I didn’t, and I didn’t.
I left school to work on pig farms (good old smelly stuff), eventually swapping my dung fork for a sledgehammer when I embarked upon the demolition of Second World War bomber bases left behind in the late 1940s by the USAAF (the United States Army Air Force).
In 1976, I returned to education in order to take the ‘O’ and ‘A’ levels that I should have passed at school but didn’t. But it was worth it in more ways than one. My memories of Kettering Technical College, since renamed Tresham College, are better than gold-plated. In addition to fostering friendships with numerous Chinese and Malaysian students, fate introduced me to Richard Oberman, one of the most captivating and motivating English literature tutors I would ever have the good fortune to meet. His inspirational teaching and personal advice changed the trajectory of my life. He really was that influential.
ProSchool Kaliningrad
Proshkola (ProSchool) students are a commendable bunch. They indulged my efforts and never snored once. They certainly evinced greater levels of attentiveness and therefore scholarly promise than I ever aspired to when I was their age. (Belated apologies to Chris Lowe, Headmaster of Oundle Prince William School). ProSchool students and I overcame our shyness together. I in delivering my address, and they in asking me questions. Some of which I could actually answer!
I would like to offer my thanks, therefore, to ProSchool Director Alyona Pusko, for allowing me to return to school and for permitting me to strut my stuff in my own inimitable, if not flawed, fashion. My efforts did not go unnoticed. I earned myself a smiley face and the summation “his work has improved this term” on my latest report from Olga. I shall hang this document on the wall next to my public speaking certificate. 😊
Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Mark Twain, Fyodor Dostoevsky — I feel a certain intimacy with either one and all of these gentlemen, not solely because I have read and admired their inimitable works, their acknowledged masterpieces, but also from the observation that these noted writers displayed a fondness to lesser and higher degrees for alcoholic beverages. That Tolstoy did not follow suit, at least by the time of 1850, when come his spiritual transformation he renounced the demon drink, could explain the reason why I am not so well acquainted either with his works or with the life of the man himself. As in matters of race and politics, people of a certain persuasion are often drawn to one another, finding comfort and cohesion in shared identities and experience.
Tolstoy Art Café Kaliningrad
Any prejudices that I might entertain towards temperance in general and temperate people in particular were swiftly dispelled, however, upon learning of a café in Kaliningrad bearing the name of Leo Tolstoy. Not thinking to inquire whether the said establishment had outlawed the sale of alcohol in deference to its namesake, I decided, nevertheless, that since Leo’s transformation had caused him to revise and relinquish the unnecessary primordial practice of sinking one’s teeth into flesh, whilst his denunciation of alcohol could be excused as an aberration, his conscious metamorphosis from carnivore to vegetarian proved in this particular that he could not be all that bad a chap, and, even should you not concur on this point, take stock that he wrote a book or two, and that anyone in my opinion who willingly devotes the greater percentage of their little life wrestling with the written word deserves, if nothing else, to have a café named in their honour. It does make you wonder, though, about the literary prowess of McDonald. (I know his brother; he has a farm.) We are all acquainted with the adage ‘never judge a book by its cover’, and McDonald’s, of course, are not real restaurants, but having more junk-food factories named after you than Colonel Sanders implies that Old McDonald’s bruv has to be one hell of a writer. Based on the same criteria, have you ever dined at the JK Rowling?
Tolstoy Art Café Kaliningrad: It’s a Novel Experience
Anyway, burger to thoughts of that nature, let’s first apologise to Leo and then get down to the nitty-gristle: What was it that I found and liked on my maiden voyage to the Tolstoy Café?
I could say, and if I did, I would be perfectly wrong in doing so, that should you not be specifically looking for it, the whereabouts of Tolstoy Art Café would be impossible to miss. Komsomol’skaya Street, which is where the café is located, lies in what was in Königsberg’s time one of the city’s most prominent suburbs. The same rings true today.
Here you will find row upon row of solid, upmarket German flats, punctuated now and again with imposing municipal buildings and villas of a stately nature. Being predominantly residential, the assumption that the Tolstoy Art Café would have no great difficulty in standing out from the crowd is to court an evident misconception. Despite the oversized painted portrait of Tolstoy’s well-known visage, the building occupied by the café, being set back from the road and, during the months of summer, being partially screened by trees, could lead without deliberate scrutiny to passing the image off as the competent endeavor of—and here I am being polite — what some would call a ‘street artist’, or, if it suits your understanding better, the work of a graffiti merchant, who, having taken his paints and spray can, has adorned the wall of a uniform townhouse with a likeness of his favourite writer.
Whether I could have found the café alone, working from directions only, is a metric that cannot be tested. I knew where I was going, as I was being taken there.
Tolstoy Art Café, Kaliningrad: A Literary Retreat
Tolstoy, I am now referring to the man, the ingenious, gifted writer, is not about graffiti, nor about temperance and not liking sausages; Tolstoy is a man of letters. OK, so the letters of which we speak don’t spell “Mine’s a beer” or “Order me up a Double Big Mac”, but they’re definitely of a type that professionally and epically, and to this I will also add lavishly, fill many a page in many a book — think of War and Peace. Thus, that the theme of the Tolstoy Art Café is irrefutably bookish is not the kind of revelation that is going to blow your socks off or knock the stuffing clean away out of your Christmas turkey. There are books at Tolstoy Art Café — indeed books and books and books — but the fact that they are there — and there, and there and everywhere — is only part of the story.
Stacked in blocks and bound in string, which once was the way of doing things when preparing books for shipment, is a nice twee touch of vintage, which the café carries off well. And books to be found where they should be, stood at attention on shelves, lend the place an erudite air. Yet, it is not books in themselves, as appropriate as they are to a café named after a famous writer, that generate true novelty. It is in discovering books where you would least expect to find them and in a capacity and aesthetic arrangement hitherto unexperienced where the known ordinary surpasses itself.
I’ll try you with a clue. Tolstoy was a brilliant writer, an undisputed literary genius. His intellect and imagination seemingly knew no heights. Millions of readers around the world admire and look up to him. In his exploration of human experience and his deep moral and philosophical insights, he stands head and shoulders above many of his contemporaries.
“Tell me something new!” you say. And as your eyes roll upwards in an intended show of exasperation, now you see them where you saw them not, up there on the ceiling.
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Books and volumes of them, some presenting their covers, some with opened, fluttering leaves; some pinned to the ceiling, others suspended at different heights by string; not just thrown together but creatively arranged, pre-planned, choreographed, artistically assembled.
The sight of so many books hovering above like words of wisdom placed inconveniently just out of reach is enough to make the dullest fellow want to say, as though he means it, “I do enjoy a good read, you know, though most of it is over my head.”
Whilst this is patently obvious in the room with its halo of books, Tolstoy Art Café is two rooms bookish. The second room has soft seats and books on shelves arranged traditionally, which can be taken down and read at leisure as one would do in a public library.
But don’t book now! I whisper. To get into this furthest room, you must pass beneath an arch of books, as though entering into a sacred chamber where scholarly miracles are performed.
Underneath the arches ...
Meanwhile, in the first room, the one with the books aloft, look for the book entitled ‘Going through an identity crisis’. This refers to the room itself. Exposed brick walls with angled lamps that play with shadows and highlights trend towards industrial chic, but a plethora of retro wall plaques, framed disparate prints and the inclusion of a parlour piano tilt the impression unevenly towards a sense of sitting quietly somewhere in Tolstoy’s living room, unlike any he ever owned but fictitiously convincing enough to urge you to respect his views on abandoning meat and booze: “Just a couple of soda waters and a vegetarian sausage, please.”
Rest assured, however, that the menu is not so Tolstoy-friendly as to predispose you to any such subterfuge. If anything, it is plainly lacking in vegetarian options, as though Mrs Tolstoy is in the kitchen cooking up things she shouldn’t. The meat options may not sit well with the man who created Count Vronsky, but I have it on good authority that they are for the most part tasty dishes, reasonably priced and pluralistic.
Mercifully, the Volstead Act that Tolstoy visited upon himself is not inflicted on the eponymous café’s patrons, thus enabling me to sample, not only sample but also enjoy, a rather moreish wheat fermentation to go with my meatless pizza.
When I am out on the town, I’m not one who watches prices, so I cannot whisper in your lug if the fare at Tolstoy Art Café was underpriced, overpriced or just about the right price {“We can know only that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom,”—so said Tolstoy himself} — but I am willing to bet my entire collection of vintage luncheon vouchers that if you are looking for somewhere different, which is also comfortable and atmospheric, a place in which to rest your bones, partake of a bite to eat, and drink a commendable coffee or (sshhh!) a beautiful bottle of beer, then, as Anna Karina once said, or was it five chapters in War and Peace, “… one must live and be happy.”
Happiness costs a mere 100 roubles (less than a quid) at Tolstoy Art Café, Kaliningrad
I am old enough to remember a time when ‘Happiness was a cigar called Hamlet”, but today, it’s a place called Tolstoy Art Café where creatives park their arts and others like to make such jokes as, “Do I need to book a table? Don’t judge it by my cover. Turn over a new leaf in your life and open a new café chapter. Bookmark my words, you’ll love it, I’m sure!
30 October 2025 – Kaliningrad Zoopark Now and Then Then and Now
On Kaliningrad’s Prospekt Mira, across the road from the city’s foremost Soviet hotel, a great imposing slab of a place called the Moscow, geometrically flanked by two curvilinear buildings, the one on the left containing the exemplar restaurant Patisson Markt, stands the beckoning entrance to one of Kaliningrad’s more exotic, historic attractions, known today as the Kaliningrad Zoopark.
Kaliningrad has had a zoo for years, even before it was Kaliningrad. The zoo came into being, took shape and became a permanent fixture exactly where it is today when Kaliningrad was Königsberg in the 1890s.
It would have to wait for more than a century, however, before Mick Hart would come along and bless it with his presence.
^ The entrance to Königsberg Zoo. How it was in 1913.
^ The entrance to Kaliningrad Zoopark.How it was in 2025.
Kaliningrad Zoopark 2001
My first visit to Kaliningrad Zoo took place in May 2001. My exact recollection of it is what you might call hazy (those vodkas the night before!), but I noted in my diary that it was an entertaining, atmospheric but rather rundown and whiffy place. To animal and zoo lovers, my appraisal of this valued institution embedded in the archived history of the ancient city of Königsberg may be considered rather unworthy, but you cannot be a pig farmer, as such was my lot in my youth, without becoming a connoisseur of the pongs of the animal kingdom, in much the same way that you cannot work in the media, as I did in later life, and not become familiar with the pong of humankind.
No longer linked with much affection to either end of the animal chain, the higher or the lower, my enjoyment of the zoo was initially inspired by its unique place in the history books, particularly that of its status as one of the few surviving large-scale landmarks not to be completely destroyed by the intense aerial bombardment and vicious urban fighting that took out most of Königsberg towards the end of the Second World War.
In 2001, the year when I crossed the zoo’s threshold for the first time, the main attraction was its resident hippopotamus. The connection was, and is, a historic, romantic and deeply iconic one. It follows the poignant story of Hans the Hippo, one of only four of the hundreds of animal inmates to survive the devastation wrought by the siege of Königsberg and the vicious hand-to-hand combat that took place in the grounds of the zoo itself.
^ It’s difficult to imagine, and you don’t really want to, that a fierce and deadly battle took place here, in what today is one of the most quiet and tranquil spots in Kaliningrad. This memorial commemorating that struggle reads: “On April 8, 1945, Hero of the Soviet Union, Lapshin, and his rifle platoon launched a surprise attack from two sides of the zoo, taking the bridge, killing 30 Nazis and capturing 185 more. This action decided the outcome of the Battle for the Zoo.”
It is not readily known what happened to his fellow survivors, a deer, a donkey and a badger, but Hans, who was found badly shot up in a ditch, was lovingly nursed back to life by a Russian military paramedic using that cure-all of all cure-alls, vodka, which he administered to the wounded hippo in copious amounts.
^ A hippo, a deer, a donkey and a badger This statue, constructed from metal plates and rods by a team of 15 different artisans belonging to the art group San Donato, commemorates the four that survived the wartime battle at Königsberg Zoo.
Having beaten all the odds, Hans went on to symbolize both life’s fragility and durability, becoming and remaining the zoo’s fabled hero and its number-one attraction until his death in 1950.
Since the passing of Hans, Kaliningrad Zoo has always had a hippo. I tried to unearth the name of the hippo residing at the zoo contemporaneous to my visit in 2001. Unsuccessful in this enterprise, I nevertheless have fond memories, all be they rather distant, of an enormous set of open jaws eagerly catching fish tossed between their gaping hinges from a keeper’s plastic bucket.
History of the Zoo The origins of Kaliningrad Zoo predate my arrival on the scene by something more than a century. Conceptually they occurred in 1895, the year that saw in Königsberg, on the site where the zoo stands today, a German industrial craft exhibition. At the close of this event, it was suggested by the organiser, entrepreneur Herman Claesson, that the wooden pavilions erected for the occasion not be deconstructed but remain where they were in situ and the site that they currently occupied be used in the creation of a zoological garden under the auspices and administration of a group specifically founded for this purpose, which eventually would be known as the Tiergarten Society.
Initially, and throughout the early years of the 20th century, the zoo became a major attraction and flourished in every sense. But this golden age would end abruptly, as did so many other things, with the outbreak of World War I.
Despite reopening when the hostilities ended, in the depression-riddled years that followed, the zoo never fully recovered the popularity it had once enjoyed. The Tiergarten Society, which had successfully founded and run the zoo from the moment of its inception, was dissolved in 1938, and on its dissolution the administration of the zoo and the future that awaited it passed into the hands of the City of Königsberg.
They loved a zoo and a circus in the late 19th century
The latter years of the 19th century witnessed international animal trade on an unprecedented level, supplying zoos and circuses with a source of public entertainment, an educational resource for the scientific community and a lucrative business for entrepreneurs.
When Königsberg Zoo first opened its gates, it offered its awestruck audience the opportunity to come face-to-face with something of the order of 900 different kinds of animals curated from no less than 260 global species. Although figures vary from source to source, estimates of the number of animals held by Kaliningrad Zoo today cite something in the region of 2,300, drawn from as many as 300 species, comprising mammals, reptiles, birds, fish, amphibians and invertebrates.
Whilst Königsberg Zoo, based on its animal population, was, at the time of its incorporation, by no means the largest zoo in the world, with 40 acres of land at its disposal, it was no diminutive enterprise. That figure has remained constant, but the increase in its animal populace is matched and superseded by its daily bipedal visitors.
On 11 October 2025, it was announced on a Kaliningrad News* site that the next 956 visitors would take the zoo’s visitor total to an impressive 700,000. The zoo’s director, Svetlana Sokolova, wrote in her Telegram channel that the 700,000th visitor could expect to be a prize winner.
Kaliningrad Zoopark Now and Then Then and Now
Considering the extent to which Kaliningrad itself has evolved over the 25 years that I have known it, it comes as no surprise that in composition and infrastructure the zoo’s improvements are commensurable.
Such development is not solely reflected in the facilities of the animal kingdom but also in the amenities for those people who come to the zoo to be stared at by the animals.
Today’s Kaliningrad Zoopark, as well as showcasing creatures great and small, also presents the perfect habitat in which to unwind and relax. Beyond the city’s hustle and bustle, the secluded grounds of the zoo stand as a parkland haven, a nuanced natural retreat replete with tree- and shrub-lined walkways, quiet meandering paths, quaint historic bridges, green and floral sheltered spaces, and, depending on what time of the year you visit, pumpkins.
^You’ll turn into a … Either a lot of Cinderella coaches or Stingy Jack’s secret stash; whatever the allusion, who could resist a photograph with so many lovely pumpkins — certainly not our Olga.
Kaliningrad Zoo is a family venue, catering for young and old alike. There are plenty of places to picnic in and, if making sandwiches is not your thing, eateries of various kinds. Plus, in the unlikely event that your offspring should get bored, there are swings, slides and other playground distractions that ought to be more than enough to keep the little darlings occupied and prevent them from behaving like grizzling grizzly bears.
On the subject of bears, grizzled or docile, a series of dramatic declivities sloping down to the winding channels that follow the flow of the Pregolya River are an invitation to explore the zoo on foot. They provide the route to the bear enclosures, a rugged quarter of rock and gullies, mined with caves and passages in which, should the fancy take them, the bears can take refuge and hide (bears can be self-conscious too, you know). There are also plateaus at different levels where they can lounge, lie, preen and pose quietly to their bear hearts’ content.
A little further on this descent, at a point where the path zigs left at a zag of 90 degrees, a large compound presents itself for inspection by the curious. It is about the size of a football pitch but asymmetrical by design, and on all but one of its four sides has steep, overhanging cliffs. The side where it is cliffless has, in place of a wall of rock, a natural tree-trunk frame containing a viewing window, presumably made of reinforced glass. It explains itself in an instant. Lying but a few feet away on the other side of the glass is a lazy, lounging lioness. She is staring away from the window, seemingly oblivious to the meaty snacks observing her, but the thing to remember with predators, be they animal or human, is that though the eye of instinct may be closed, it rarely ever sleeps.
It is quite a walk, this walk to the base of the valley, but once you’ve hit rock bottom, there is space enough to catch one’s breath on any one of the Zoopark’s little curved bridges. Here, you can rest for a while, and gazing into the trickling water, ask yourself the question, because it is so tranquil, did a desperate, violent struggle for life, a dreadful and bloody war, really take place where I am standing? The answer seems to ricochet across the time that’s spent, tearing a piece of complacency from your tiny moment of living consciousness, making life all at once both undeniably precious and, should you dwell too deeply on it, undeniably senseless.
Now that you are where you are, all you need to do is climb back up to where you were. With 40 acres to traverse, the way to spare your legs is to hop aboard the zoo park’s train. This little colourful engine, with its open-sided flatbed platform, doesn’t rely on tracks for navigation. It trundles along on a nice set of wheels, effortlessly transporting effort-avoiding paying passengers around the park from A to B and to almost every other letter in the Zoopark’s personal alphabet.
The Kaliningrad Zoo, the one that I knew back in 2001, is not the zoo that I know today. On reprising my visit last autumn, in September of 2024, I was, I admit, quite frankly surprised by the extent to which I enjoyed the experience, both the animal exhibits and the off-the-beaten-track sojourn in the idyllic parkland gardens. However, had Hans the hippo’s ghost been present, I am sure he would have been less than amused by the greeting proffered by his modern successor. It really was a case of “Do you think my bum looks big in this Zoo?”
^I genuinely believe that they are trying to tell us something? I wasn’t sure if I had missed the notice on the way into the zoo which explained that today was a special themed event run by the animals entitled ‘Turn the other cheek’, or whether their unified display of wildly, and sometimes widely, differing sized posteriors was a planned act of concerted cheekiness. My first prize goes to the cuddly bears; my second to the bare-arsed cheek with which we were presented. As the zoo is billed as a family experience, please feel free to ignore this remark.
^Are you looking at me?!
Tanked upWhat a whopper!Small frySmaller frySwimming zebras
^Something fishy going on Some fish can be quite frightening, can’t they? There are so many fishermen in Kaliningrad, I was rather surprised on entering the aquarium that there weren’t some in here dangling their rods.
^ Refreshments Kaliningrad Zoopark is not a refreshment-free zone. Unless you have eaten alreday in Patisson Markt, you will find no excuse not to take some sort of refreshment during your stay in the park. I like the way in which the zoo’s serveries, such as the one shown here, echo the distinctive architectural style that once was Königsberg’s signature.
Gorgeous Gothic finialsGreen and peacefulNo time like the pastNothing quite like a park benchLeafy vistasThe Kaliningrad Zoopark ticket officeNow …… and then
^Last two photographs If your Russian is not as rusty as mine, and your eyesight younger, you may be able to make out from the photographed information board what exactly this building, reconstructed as a faithful replica to its lost 19th century origina,l was. You can’t? Well, take a look at the pictures. The original was constructed in 1903.
^ It’s green and it’s woody No prizes for guessing why Kaliningrad Zoo is called Kaliningrad Zoopark. It’s green; it’s woody. There are lots of benches on which to sit and lots of trees to sit next to and under and lots of shrubs to admire. Kaliningrad Zoopark sits where it does; a quiet, natural, leisurely retreat in the middle of a modern city teeming with life and traffic. The zoo takes you off the streets and keeps you out of mischief.
Edited 30 September 2025 | First published: 3 July 2022 ~ Life in Kaliningrad Russia under threats and sanctions
It cannot be pleasant being the least liked prime minister in British history, but it should be remembered that Kier Starmer and his crew are only where they are today as a result of 14 years of Tory ineptitude, non-stop party infighting and off-the-chart bungling and incompetence. If the Cons hadn’t been so obsessed in beating Labour at its own wokist game, and Badenoch is a symptom of this absurdity, the foundations that they laid which paved the way for Labour’s accession would never have lost us our country.
This post, originally published in July of 2022, was a response to two inseparable misconceptions: first, that with work Boris Johnson could overcome himself and somehow run the country; and second, that Western sanctions would critically undermine Russia’s economic stability, which has proven to be far more resilient than the UK and its allies evidently anticipated. Here is that retrospective.
With Lithuania threatening to blockade Kaliningrad by restricting transit of goods from mainland Russia by train, the Latvian interior minister gleefully announcing that this proved that the West was poised to ‘take Kaliningrad away from Russia’1 and the prime minister of Poland making so much noise that it is difficult to tell whether it is his sabre rattling, his teeth chattering or something more personal knocking together, it looked as though once again the storm clouds had begun to gather over the former region of the Teutonic Order.
I cannot, however, say with any semblance of sincerity that, as the shadow slowly dispersed, the Kaliningrad populace breathed a sigh of relief, for, quite frankly, and not flippantly, but wanting as always to tell it exactly as it is, nobody — meaning nobody with whom in Kaliningrad I am acquainted — seemed to give a flying f*ck!
You can put it down to whatever you like: the Russian penchant for c’est la vie, faith in themselves and their country, a growing immunity to the West’s mouth and trousers or perhaps the absence of a corporate media that makes its fortune by pedalling fear, but, whatever you attribute it to, if the residents of Kaliningrad were supposed to feel concerned by the slew of sanctions and the threat of isolation, then think again, as it didn’t happen.
Perhaps the intended fallout never occurred because we were all too busy laughing at Boris Johnson’s jokes. For example, the one about the conflict in Ukraine, which, says Boris, would never have happened had Vladimir Putin been a woman. Woked the Downing Street clown, It’s the “perfect example of toxic masculinity,” causing me to ask myself what exactly is masculinity when it is detoxified? Is it where you rove around without wearing any pants with your gonads painted rainbow colours, or when you go into hiding like President Turdeau does whenever he hears a trucker’s horn?
To increase his chances of success in obtaining future employment with Robert Brothers’ Circus, Boris jocularly suggested during the G7 Summit that the leaders of the ‘free’ world (free with every packet of neoliberal dictatorship) should, to equal the manliness of Vladimir Putin, take off all their clothes, to which President Putin replied, and I think this is something we all can agree on, “I don’t know how they wanted to undress, waist-high or not, but I think it would be a disgusting sight …”2 It certainly conjured up an image far more frightful than any threat that the collective West had yet devised and had a far more psychologically damaging impact than the predictability of waging war with the globalist weapon of choice — sanctions.
Alack-a-day, as unthinkable as it is, if Boris wasn’t joking, then his latest remarks well might be some of the most stupid things he has ever said. However, it doesn’t necessarily follow. Occasionally, but seldomly, and most likely accidentally, Boris proves to himself, and others who care to listen to him, that if he tries, really tries, he is capable of utterances that seem at face value to make some sense, not much and not often, granted, but like miracles and wishes that sometimes can come true, the fantastic has been known to happen, which is more than can be said for anyone in the Labour party ~ or about any and all of the Labour party’s supporters.
Nevertheless, Boris old boy, you must admit that some of the things that you have been blurting out of late do have a rather silly public schoolboy wheeze about them. Now, were you the current President of the United States at least you could plead senility or, failing that, insanity. But be careful and beware! Keep on behaving in this childish manner and you’ll make yourself the perfect candidate for filling Biden’s boots when in a not long time from now Biden’s booted out.
Life in Kaliningrad Russia under threats and sanctions
I suppose that in moments like these, those of us who are old enough to remember, should simply take a step backwards and give thanks that we lived in the England of old, in the days of pre-gender bending. And though for most Winston Churchill has passed from living memory into history, note that the great man himself was endowed with more than his fair share of so-called ‘toxic masculinity’, even more, perhaps, than that which queerly circulates among whatever it is that charges around playing women’s rugby. And heaven be praised that Winston Churchill was such a toxically manly man, for had it not been so, we’d all be speaking German now. Mein Gott!
We don’t. And the dark clouds over Kaliningrad, like all the threats and nonsense leaching out from the G7 Summit, were nothing but storms in a teacup. The only positive outcome for those of us in the West who are rapidly losing faith in ever being blessed again with a real man for prime minister is that Boris kept his trousers on.
And yet, so as not to be accused of having been economical with the truth, I can confirm that a storm did break. After a glorious week of glorious weather, Kaliningrad and its region were suddenly plunged headlong into the most frightful and persistent series of electric storms imaginable.
For three days and as many nights, the firmament’s guts growled flatulently. Sheets of livid light flashed across the sky and, lying there in bed unable to sleep because of it, it was easy to imagine that the entire world was forked ~ forked, that is, with lightning!
Olga was in a right old tizz. To her it was a celestial sign, unequivocal confirmation that her tarot-card readers, crystal-ball gazers, soothsayers and the like, whose predictions she believes implicitly and to whom she refers collectively and in glowing terms as esoterics, whom I call snake-oil salesmen, had got it bang to rights: change was in the air; portentous and tumultuous change; a new bright dawn was coming.
Life in Kaliningrad Russia under threats and sanctions
As strange as it may seem, our normally vocal cat Gin-Ginsky had nothing to say on the matter, or if he did, he was keeping it to himself. He is a rather diplomatic cat. He doesn’t make jokes like Boris Johnson, which means he remains in favour and, unlike Boris Johnson, makes him rather easy to live with.
Considering him to be a little less slim than once he probably was, Ginger, not Boris Johnson, we recently changed his food to a brand called ‘Food for Fat Cats’, as recommended by those in the West who keep their clothes on at G7 Summits.
The word ‘light’ on the packet implies this food has dietary benefit. Ginger seems to love it. He scoffs it twice as fast as he did when eating his former brand and in ever-increasing quantities. Every now and again he will look up from his bowl and fix you with his ginger eyes as if to say, “Fat cat, indeed, I’ll show you!” Perhaps, the meaning of ‘Food for Fat Cats’ is ‘Food to make cats fatter’? I must remember to warn him that if he ever attends a G7 Summit not to take his shirt off!
Those of you who in the West, especially those among you who changed your Arsebook avatars to the colours of the Ukrainian flag and are now ashamed you did but never will admit it, are dying to hear, I know, how badly the sanctions are biting in Kaliningrad. That’s why I mentioned the cat: he’s biting into his grub. But I would be Boris Johnson should I lie and say that the price of cat food has not increased incrementally since the waving of the magic wand of sanctions. What other things have gone up recently (ooerr Mrs)? Have all of us in Kaliningrad been forced to change our diet? Are we all eating cheaper brands of cat food?
I know that an interest in this topic exists because lately a lot of people have been tuning into my post Panic Buying Shelves Empty. I can only presume that this is down to Brits kerb-crawling the internet in search of hopeful signs that western sanctions don’t lack teeth.
Instances exist, I will admit, when we, like our cat, are biting these days into different brand-named foods than those in which we used to sink our gnashers before sanctions were pulled from the hat. The reason being, I suppose, because the brands that we used to buy belong to manufacturers who have been forced into playing Biden’s game, Exodus & Lose Your Money.
Price increases in some food categories have been duly noted. Pheew, what a relief, I hear you say. If this was not the case, then the sanctions’ ideology would be more embarrassing than it already is for leaders of western countries who are ruining their own economies by having introduced them.
Were we talking beer? If we weren’t then, we are now.
With the advent of the sanctions, some beer brands are noticeably absent, although the earlier gaps in shelves have since been filled with different brands from different brewers from different parts of the world. Those brands untouched by sanctimonies, which is to say those that still remain, do reflect a hike in price, but as prices fluctuate wildly here during the best of times, it is simply a matter of shopping around as one always does, sanctions or no sanctions, for products that do not mug your pocket.
So, there in essence you have it. Not from the bought and paid for UK corporate media, agenda-led by globalist moguls, but from an honest-to-goodness sanctioned Englishman reporting from Russia’s Kaliningrad, who is willing to swear on a stack of ale casks, with one hand on his heart and the other on his beer glass, that life in Russia’s exclave under threat and sanctions has changed so little as to be negligibly different to life as it was in the days when sanctions were but an evil twinkle in the eyes of those whose machinations have ultimately let them down.
If you wanted to hear that the sanctions are working, I’m sorry I disappointed you.
Not to understate it too much, but, I say, Sir Kier, is that armada of boats steaming towards the UK from Palestine?
25 September 2025 – Palestine What a State! By the UK in a State!
If you are a liberal lefty, a member of a certain ethnic group embedded in the UK or part of the applaud-everything topsy-turvy left-wing press, you are most likely celebrating Starmer’s decision to recognise Palestine as a state. There are many others, however, which include, not surprisingly, Israel’s Netanyahu, who regard this latest suspect move by Starmer as hoisting up the white flag to terrorists and their aims. ‘Netanyahu slams Starmer as ‘rewarding terrorism’ — The Sun.
The left-wing governments of France, Australia and Canada would argue differently. They are not recognising Palestine as a virtue-signalling gesture to consolidate the leftist vote or to appease ethnic groups of whom they are frightened shitless (it’s much easier to pick on and intimidate ‘unprotected groups’, ie white British); neither are they doing such to win votes in the future from this rapidly expanding ethnic tribe. Their message to the world is, ‘We are doing this for humanity.’ It’s very much the same message as one we are more familiar with: we are standing with Ukraine in the name of sovereign democracy.
Their now follows a small, but significant cough, ‘Ah, hem!’ Not to be confused with Amen, because that’s something in the West that very soon we will not, along with a whole lot of other things, be permitted to say, although now we have started to say what we should have said but didn’t a long, long time ago, of course, we’ll go on saying it.
Here’s a man who knows his onions!
“Britain only recognised Palestine because it is ‘flooded with foreigners’” — Marc Rubio, The Telegraph
My concern is that shortly after Starmer’s announcement, I heard what I thought was an ill wind, or was it the sound of dinghies inflating somewhere in the desert?
Excuse me, Mr Starmer, sir, does your recognition of Palestine mean that we can expect to see in the not-too-distant future a flotilla of refugee boats crammed with Palestinians bearing down on Dover?
Palestine What a State!
Everybody knows what the UK corporate media wants them to know about this momentous conferment, but has anyone asked the terrorists living and thriving in the UK what they make of it all? Are they eternally grateful for the fair play and moral decency exhibited by Keir Starmer and his western cohorts? “What jolly good fellows they are! Time to play the white man!” Or are they much too busy patting each other on their backs for what they regard as a job well done, celebrating the rewards of terrorism, and interpreting Palestine’s new-found statehood as a reassuring sign of weakness, of Starmer and the Labour Government’s willingness to bottle it, back down, capitulate and ultimately surrender?
And if perchance this is their reaction, and there’s a good chance that it is, to what extent, I ask myself, has this latest leftist folly empowered and emboldened those who choose the path of terrorism to threaten our existence?
Hang on in there, Britons! It looks like it’s going to get a whole lot worse before it, if ever, gets better.
Thought for the day … and every day from now on Headline: ‘Sir Sadiq Khan has lashed out at Donald Trump, calling him “racist, sexist, misogynistic and Islamophobic”.’ — GB News
Comment: Apart from saying how original was that (I bet you’ve never heard those words before [lefty in a tantrum]), in this day and age, as things stand and are about to fall in the UK, being called any or all of these things must be treated as a badge of honour, provided they are directed at you by someone who thinks they are liberal, and particularly if that someone is the Mayor of Londistan, Sadiq Khan.
Something to remember The liberal media is at pains to argue in its defence of Khan and immigration that crime rates in London, although they have increased, are significantly lower than those in most major cities in the U.S. This is a meretricious comparison, because crime rates in US cities have always been significantly higher than in their UK counterparts. If you don’t believe me, ask Al Capone.
The comparison that needs to be made is that of crime rates not only in London but also across the UK in the decade preceding the year 1997, which is the year when that nice Mr Blair opened the floodgates to mass immigration, and the incidence of crime since, and, where London is concerned, the crime rates in the capital before Mr Khan took office and the levels of criminality under his stewardship as mayor of London. It would also be of interest to gain access to official records showing serious crimes committed in London and the UK as a whole, broken down by ethnicity. A similar breakdown of criminal acts committed at public events like rallies, demonstrations and riots based on the same criteria, with an additional reference to political groups, would also be a useful indicator of the direction Britain is going in terms of nationwide law and disorder, although due to political bias and partisan reporting, a statistical record of this type would have questionable validity.
The Great God AI tells us: Migration Watch UK is an independent, non-profit think tank and campaign group founded in 2001 that advocates for lower, more controlled immigration levels in the UK, arguing that current levels are unsustainable and put excessive demand on resources. The organisation conducts research, provides analysis, makes policy recommendations, and engages with the public and policymakers to reduce net migration and ensure it is properly managed.
Here is their website > Migration Watch UK You can read candid and authoritative news here about Britain’s mass immigration fiasco and sign up for Migration Watch newsletters to keep track of the lunacy as it unfolds and escalates. It may help you to plan your escape!
*Epilogue: The humanitarian motives for recognising Palestine as a state are, of course, quite laudable. However, even though the significance is purely symbolic, it’s how your more-than-average terrorist chooses to interpret the reasons behind the UK government’s actions, and the influence it brings to bear on the terrorist mindset going forward, particularly in its ramifications for future terrorist attacks perpetrated on British soil, that remains the worrying factor.
We thought it. Elon Musk said it. He said it at the Unite the Kingdom Rally
21 September 2025 – Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve
The British establishment and its leftist media were clearly stunned by the huge number of British patriots who gathered in London last week to voice disquiet, dismay and disgust at the political elite’s indifference to, or perceived complicity in, the erasure of the UK’s culture by the immigrant tsunami. They were also mortified when Tommy Robinson, recently released from what some have described as Britain’s Gulag, bounced back into the limelight to be joined on stage by Elon Musk, the richest man in the world, who, guested in by satellite link, warned the British nation in no uncertain terms that their once revered and illustrious country is on the verge of collapse and that every Briton should be prepared for the violence that is coming.
Unite the Kingdom Rally
Unite the Kingdom was without question the largest and the most successful anti-immigrant rally ever to hit Britain’s streets. Both the liberal political elite and their media cronies were caught with their pants down, most likely in the same room.
Usually, over-vocal and brimming with far-right cliches, on this auspicious occasion, the shell-shocked liberal media seemed to be having difficulty in deciding what ammunition to use.
The rally’s composition alone, full of happy, cheerful British folk, including mums and families, many bedecked from head to toe with colourful Union Jacks, and the carnival atmosphere of it all, tossed the media’s only grenade, the one that goes off with a far-right phut, squarely back into the lap of the propaganda arsenal from whence it had been half-heartedly thrown.
A re-arming exercise would take place later, but during the rally’s opening salvos, the biased UK media and London’s leftist hordes were hopping around on a lame back foot.
Naturally, once the crowds had dispersed, it was time for the usual roll call of how many law-enforcement officers had been injured in the line of duty. Correct me if I am mistaken, I think it was 26. (How can anyone do that job, bound and hamstrung as they are by our insufferable climate of woke?!)
Britain’s poor, old, beleaguered bobby Sympathy where it’s due, please. Unlike our police force of old, today’s police are as much victims of a dysfunctional ideology as the rest of us. They have a very difficult job to do under the cosh and jackboot of woke. The coppers that I have talked to cannot wait for the day when the force becomes a force again instead of being a cross between a public relations bureau and a branch of the social services. The UK police force like the UK education system urgently needs to be rescued from the weed-ridden liberal landscape that Britain has become, pruned downwards from its political top and replanted in unpolluted soil. The police that I have talked to are as desperate for change as you and I.
In the days following the most successful anti-immigration rally in British history, much would be made of the injuries sustained by the boys who were once in blue but who, like most of us in the UK today, would feel considerably safer on Britain’s streets if permanently clad in full body armour.
The injuries that the police sustained at the Unite the Kingdom rally are, of course, deeply regrettable, but they pall into insignificance compared to the year-on-year assaults which occur as regular as clockwork at that vicious, vile, stab-happy fest, the murderous Notting Hill Carnival — the public disorder event of the year, which carries on regardless for reasons that must be obvious to you.
The Villains and the Victorious
The biggest villain at the Unite the Kingdom rally was not the odds on favourites, Tommy Robinson, nor Katie Hopkins, who with customary zeal and vigour delivered to the establishment the kind of resounding kick in the nuts which the establishment having duly received would like to pass on to Elon Musk. Yes, you’ve got it, children, the naughtiest man at the rally was Uncle Elon.
It is, however, one thing, to put the ideological boot into a working-class lad like Tommy Robinson and to threaten and intimidate a woman (although, I, for one, would not want to try to intimidate Katie Hopkins!), but quite another altogether to attempt to muzzle and bring to the liberal heel one of the world’s most prominent figures.
Apart from daring to show his face at a media-proscribed ‘far right’ rally, speak candidly with its attendees and on their terms, understand the fears that bind them and align himself with their noble cause, Elon had the brazen temerity to vocalise in public what every Briton thinks but many are afraid to say — such is the yoke of liberal woke — that racial-religious-leftist violence is coming to Britain’s streets big time and that something like a civil war is imminent.
The UK media were quick to twist the words of Mr Musk, disparaging him for inciting violence, when all he said, in fact, was that given the state of Britain today violence seems inevitable, and when that violence comes all one can do to survive is respond to it in kind. Elon said nothing more than any self-defence instructor tells his practitioners every day: when there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, when your backs against the wall, fight or die are your only options.
Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve
Elon Musk’s prediction of violence coming to Britain because of deep and divisive cultural changes inflicted by mass immigration, in which the UK’s political elite are regarded by some, by many, to be both instigative and supportive, are by no means uncorroborated. In 2023, David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World at King’s College London’s Department of War Studies, published an essay in two parts called Civil War Comes to the West1. In this disturbing treatise, he identifies mass immigration and the multifaceted cultural malaise derived from its imposition as principal flashpoint factors in the causation of an internal conflict that will be violent, intense, widespread, sustained and tragic.
This is the ‘violence’ that’s on its way as defined by Elon Musk. Nothing more; nothing less. He may have had the balls to say it, but I bet you thought it first.
“Western governments under increasing structural civilisational distress and having squandered their legitimacy are losing the ability to peacefully manage multicultural societies that are terminally fractured by ethnic identity politics. The initial result is an accelerating descent of multiple major cities into marginally ‘feral’ status …” – David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World, King’s College London
“Things are manifestly worsening right now. They are, however, going to get very much worse—I would estimate over not more than five years. That is because of the combination of two other vital factors. The first is the urban versus rural dimension of the coming conflicts which, in turn, is a result of migrant settlement dynamics. Simply put, the major cities are radically more diverse and have a growing mutually hostile political relationship with the country in which they are embedded.” – David Betz, Professor of War in the Modern World, King’s College London
On 16 September 2025, the headlines screaming from your TV screens, emblazoned across the front of newspapers and cluttering up the internet, when not just parroting the words ‘far right’, were obsessing, touchy-feely-like, about the disconcerting way in which the Unite the Kingdom rally had ricocheted detrimentally like a bullet in a cowboy film across the length and breadth of Britain’s normally happy, fully assimilated, interethnic communities.
A new dramatic word, along the sensational lines of ‘slammed’ and ‘blasted’, entered the liberal media’s lexicon, as PM Starmer proclaimed that the Unite the Kingdom rally had sent a shiver through communities.
Yes, that’s right folks, ‘shiver’.
“Plastic patriots”, said our plastic prime minister, by openly voicing their desire to preserve their country’s cultural integrity [he didn’t say the latter bit] had sent shivers through Britain’s colonised land [he didn’t use the word ‘colonised’]. He also did not state specifically whether this shiver was felt elsewhere or was exclusive to liberal-left circles, including the seat of government.
Sounding more like Captain Mainwaring than he has ever done before, and believe me that’s quite difficult, The Standard cites the plastic PM as saying, through his official spokesman of course (shouldn’t that be his ‘official spokesperson’!) that the words of Mr Musk “threatened ‘violence and intimidation on [the streets of Britain].” Adding, “I don’t think the British public will have any truck with that kind of language.2”
But, Mr Prime Minister, Mr Spokesman and your mealy-mouthed media mouthpiece, that is exactly one of the major issues that the rally was addressing: the violence and intimidation that is already on our streets. It is a language we could well do without, but, alas, it is all around us. It needs to be addressed, now, or has that slipped your notice?
Perhaps what Musk should have said was not that ‘violence is coming’ but that the violence which is already here is going to get a damn sight worse unless something effective is done about it and done about it quickly. Or, he simply could have said, ‘You ‘aint seen nothing yet!’
That same Standard article quotes Mr Miliband, who is Labour’s Energy Secretary (now, he’s doing a grand job, isn’t he!), as winging away on LBC, “Who the hell is this guy?” Ed, if you weren’t referring to Starmer, Elon’s the man whose got more money and more respect than you’ll ever have. Ed went on to say, according to the article, that “Just because you’re a billionaire, it doesn’t give you a right to … tell us how to run our country.”
Well, I hate to be a far-right fly in the liberal left’s hypocritical ointment, but billionaire or no billionaire, he has as much right as anyone else to voice his opinion openly.
We may not have much of one left, but at least we like to go on pretending that we live in a democracy, and that the cornerstone of this pretence is the right to say what we want to say, the strategic erosion of which, in case it escapes your two-tier notice, is another major reason why the Unite the Kingdom rally took place and why it is universally regarded as such a towering success.
It can’t happen here!!!
Now look here, liberal lefties, what is difficult to understand? The comments made by Mr Musk were neither ‘dangerous’ nor ‘inflammatory’; he was not inciting violence; all he did was merely reiterate what Professor David Betz has said, which the Mirror also echoed, that Britain’s ‘feral cities’ are bringing us closer to civil war3.
Readers’ comments at the close of the Mirror’s article hit the proverbial immigrant nail fairly and squarely on its boat-landed head (just a metaphor, you understand; no intention of inciting violence):
Marod June 3, 2025: “It would not be Civil War as it does not fit the description: ‘A civil war is a war in which parties within the same culture, society, or nationality fight against each other for the control of political power’.
Townsrwt June 4, 2025: “Not a civil war. Drugs gangs taking over citys … towns even villages [which will] be like Haiti or parts of South America.”
Let it be known, therefore, that the ‘violence coming to Britain’ will not be a ‘civil war’ but a war to preserve or destroy our culture. Let it be known as a cultural war (er, hypothetically speaking)
Getting back to Starmer’s shiver, whatever fallacious ripple is said to have run through Britain’s communities, it is nothing compared to the seismic tremor caused in recent years by bad political actors and their inadvertent or planned bad management of the immigrant-multicult fiasco. I am sure that legacy Britons shiver with far more credibility at the heinous changes in our society that are turning our towns and cities into worse than third-world no-go areas. I don’t recall a time in my youth of exploding vests and rucksacks, summary knifing and machete attacks, young girls stabbed in community halls, lorries driven into crowds, assaults on police at airports and nationwide grooming paedo gangs conducting rape on an industrial scale whilst those in authority turn their heads and look the other way. This is not the Britain that used to be. It’s not the Britain we want today. It cannot be the future Britain or Britain will have no future.
Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve
I do hope that those of you who have condescended to read this post will not, as the PM’s spokesman said, ‘have any truck with my language’. Whether they come in trucks or by boat, let’s hope and pray they are dealt with swiftly. At present, we cannot stop them from coming, we cannot get them out, but what we can do, and what we do do, is to put them up in expensive hotels and give them free housing and benefits. The far right, who are not far right but every-day, ordinary British folk, are tired of political gimmicks and games that have no hope of succeeding. They no longer buy the Blairist line ‘diversity is good for you’. They know what it is; they’ve got it; most of them wish they hadn’t and would like to turn the clocks back. Enough migrants are more than enough. We don’t want more, full stop.
This is not the time to vote for the parties your fathers and grandfathers voted for; then was then, now is now. Stop the migrant invasion. Save Britain from the hideous future that Elon Musk et al envisage. Vote Reform and save your country.
Fabulous news. When the UK’s Reform Party, with Nigel Farage at its helm, wins the keys to Number 10 in the next general election, and be sure to vote for them because the old Labour-Cons duopoly is well past its sell-by date and has nothing left to offer, then not only will you get a patriotic government that puts British people and their interests first, but, as a cornerstone of this assurance, you will also receive the bonus prize of the Mass Deportation Bill.
According to Reform, more than 180,000 illegal migrants have crossed the English Channel since 2018, bringing the number of people with no lawful right to remain in the UK to approximately 1,000,000, and the boats just keep on coming! Pause a while and think about that.
Starmer’s vow to ‘smash the migrant smuggling gangs’ sounded good when he said it (a bit like beating on an empty oil drum with a rolled-up manifesto), but, when all is said and done, it’s all been said, but nothing’s been done. The only thing that Starmer has smashed is the final remnant of trust in him and the clunky, past-it, inadequate party that he represents.
Keir Starmer is on the side of international treaties and foreign courts. We are on the side of the British people — Nigel Farage
Reform Mass Deportation Bill
Clues as to why the migrant invasion will never be stopped at Britain’s shores, at least not by Labour or their bedfellows, the Cons, are detectable in the importance that Farage attaches to leaving the ECHR (European Court of Human Rights) and in repealing and replacing the manipulative Human Rights Act. These two institutions more than any other are used by our elected officials, by liberal-lefty lobby groups and self-serving immigration solicitors to keep the third world flowing unobstructed into our country whilst at the same time frustrating attempts to fast-track them out again.
What does it all add up to? Although confusing for the left, for those of us who are not self-delusional, the outcome is elementary:
EU + Human Rights = Never-Ending Flow of Migrants = Loss of cultural Identity = Loss of Cultural Cohesion = More Woke Enforcement = More Rochdale-style Cover-ups = More Vicious and Unsafe Streets = More acts of Terrorism.
We’ll stop short of the net conclusion, which is indigenous population cleansing, although this is not an illogical step after relegation as second-class citizens.
Reform Mass Deportation Bill
With the implementation of the Mass Deportation Bill, swanning across Europe to get into soft-touch Britain will immediately lose its appeal, and once the boats have been stopped, we can then begin the second phase of getting rid of those illegals who never should have been allowed to pollute the streets of our country. “Who are you? And what are you doing here? Papers, if you please!”
Conspiracy theories
Those of you who pride yourselves on your ability to join the dots whenever anyone mentions ‘progressive liberalism’ might be inclined to believe that a link exists between the existential need for mass deportation and the recent call by President Trump to prosecute George Soros, the doyen of the left, the man that their media loves to refer to as that ‘philanthropic billionaire’. You can read about it here: https://www.rt.com/news/623582-trump-calls-soros-criminal-prosecution/ [Note: The UK establishment has blocked RT News, so in order to read this article, you will need to resort to that VPN, which you recently and very wisely installed 😉]
Soros’ Open Society Foundations (OSF) has also provided funding to civil rights and activist groups across the US, including organizations involved in Black Lives Matter and other protest movements, some of which have been linked to violence – RT News
George Soros is not directly involved in mass migration to the West, but rather funds humanitarian organizations and pro-democracy groups through his Open Society Foundations (OSF). Claims that Soros orchestrated migration flows are part of conspiracy theories – Google’s AI Overview
There are those, naturally all to a man far right and all to a man conspiracy theorists (no gender bias here), who regard Soros and Soros junior as instrumental kingpin proponents, fanatical supporters and principal bankrollers of the West’s ongoing migrant crisis. The less charitable among these theorists, or, depending upon your personal bias, you might define them as enlightened factions, tend to concur with Trump, leading some to hypothesise that ‘billionaire philanthropy’ is an anagram for anarchy, with broader subversive undertones involving weapons of mass migration.
Soros’s name has also recently resurfaced in connection with the 2016 “Russiagate” smear campaign. Earlier this month, the US Senate Judiciary Committee released a report alleging that OSF had links to the Clinton campaign’s efforts to promote the debunked claims of collusion between Trump and Russia – RT News
Mr Soros has a son – you may call him Sonny Soros — who, according to ‘far-right conspiracy theorists’, is a chip off the old, chip-on-the-shoulder block. Presumably, this heir apparent is waiting in the wings to take up the yoke of absolute power if and when old pappy ever decides the time is right to leave this wicked world. The devil may not look after his own, but who is to say that the Deep State doesn’t? You would have to be a conspiracy theorist to dip your toe into that one.
“I always thought Soros & Son was a wholesale immigrant shipping company.” – a seven-year-old from Pakistan with multiple aunts and uncles
If these terrible ‘right-wing conspiracy theories’ have even a grain of truth in them, then the EU’s special offer of ‘take a third-world migrant and get a million free’ is planned to continue unabated until it reaches the point at which our tiny overcrowded island capsizes into the sea which, as we can see from the White Cliffs of Dover, can be violently black and stormy.
I wonder, hypothetically speaking, what the last words would be of someone who had orchestrated such a philanthropic outcome. Something along the lines, perhaps, of “I’ve f*cked it up good and proper; there’s no world left worth living in; now is the time to say goodbye.”
Let’s not let that happen. Liberalism is on its way out; Migration needs to follow. Reverse the inward trend. Halt the invasion in its tracks. Return the boats to France complete with unwanted contents. Save yourselves whilst you can from the deplorable fate of second-class citizenship. Save the UK for your children’s sake.
Vote Reform. Vote for Britain. Vote for Mass Deportation.
*The UK in a state recognises a state as a state Not to understate it too much, but, I say, Sir Kier, is that armada of boats steaming towards the UK from Palestine? 25 September 2025 – Palestine What a State! By the UK in a State! If you are a liberal lefty, a member… Читать далее: Palestine What a State! By the UK in a State!
We thought it. Elon Musk said it. He said it at the Unite the Kingdom Rally 21 September 2025 – Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve The British establishment and its leftist media were clearly stunned by the huge number of British patriots who gathered in London last week to voice disquiet,… Читать далее: Elon Musk Violence Speech Hits a Raw Liberal Nerve
As Starmer does the hokey cokey with one migrant in and one migrant out, Nigel Farage has a better solution: Mass Deportation 14 September 2025 – Reform Mass Deportation Bill is the Way to Save UK Vote Reform UK Fabulous news. When the UK’s Reform Party, with Nigel Farage at its helm, wins the keys… Читать далее: Reform Mass Deportation Bill is the Way to Save UK
There’s hope for the old country yet! Published 8 May 2025 [VE Day] – Well Done Reform A Great Week in British Politics Congratulations to Nigel Farage and Reform for their spectacular success in the local elections. Reform, led by charismatic leader Nigel Farage, has stunned the British establishment yet again. In last week’s local… Читать далее: Well Done Reform A Great Week in British Politics
A swarthy face and a dinghy, the only way left to keep warm in Britain 26 April 2025 – UK Utility Bills Fiasco: What a Gas Freezing is The cost of heating one’s home in the UK is a joke — a sick one. It’s alright if you’re an entitled millennial, as most likely you… Читать далее: UK Utility Bills Fiasco: What a Gas Freezing is
