Архив метки: Nigel Farage

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

Diary of a Self-isolator: Day 141 [2 August 2020]

Published: 8 August 2020

‘You ought to get out more!’ Since the birth of coronavirus, the intentional irony in this off-hand remark has taken on a whole new irrational meaning. We know that we want to get out more, but we are told that we should stay in more, and even a patriot like Nigel Farage, who does get out occasionally to do nothing more obnoxious than stand on a cliffside in Dover watching the endless flow of boats coming in full of happy smiling migrants destined for 4-star hotels (they do get free face masks as well), is castigated by the liberal press for breaking UK quarantine rules when they know full well he is not.

That’s quite funny, isn’t it? One Englishman pursued doggedly by the UK’s liberal media for travelling down to Kent, whilst hundreds of migrants from every corner of the globe you have never heard of, and don’t particularly want to, are pouring into the UK like, er let’s say hard water through a Co-op tea bag, and on arrival, having been duly welcomed by our British Polite force, are then bussed to British hotels to reside in non-social distancing proximity at the expense of the British taxpayer. Hmmm?

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

Safe in the knowledge that, to use Mrs May’s expression, it was ‘highly likely’ that there would not be a train of migrant boats being dutifully escorted to the shores of the Baltic Coast, I decided that a second trip to the coastal resort Zelenogradsk was needed before second wave coronavirus potentially washes us back over the isolation threshold.

From Kaliningrad by car, the journey to Zelenogradsk takes between 20 and 30 minutes on the region’s modern road network (providing the crowds are not out!). As we zipped along in a friend’s car, I reflected on how long and cumbersome the same journey used to be just after Perestroika, bumping and pot-hole dodging the old German road within its crash-insensitive avenue of big gnarled trees.

Ahhh, Kaliningrad’s new generations do not remember those times, but for those of us who do, we are able to appreciate just how extensive and beneficial improvements in this region have been over the last 20 years.

Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer

It was another beautiful day in this priceless exclave of Russia as we drew in at the side of the road close to the bus park and rail station.

We had been forewarned by Zelenogradsk residents that we would find the resort exceptionally busy, far busier than it was when we last visited three weeks or more ago. To some extent, this was to be expected, as we were now further along holiday-period road, but our sources informed us that the tourist population had swelled as a result of the Russian government’s incentivisation to boost domestic tourism, which, with international travel limited and some of the borders still closed, appeared to be doing the trick. Apropos of this, I prepared myself for the game of spot the Muscovite on holiday. What I was not prepared to find was that bears (meeshkee) would also be taking advantage of the relaxed self-isolation rules.

There was one standing by the side of the road as we alighted from the car. Just to prove the western prejudice that bears really do walk the streets of Russia, I asked him nicely if I could have my photograph taken standing next to him. As you can see from the photograph, he was only too happy to do so.

As I walked away, however, I sensed that this particular bear was becoming increasingly grizzly. “Anglichanin! Anglichanin!” he growled (Anglichanin meaning Englishman). Looking back, I saw that he was standing with his right arm extended. His palm was open and he was repeatedly scratching it with his claws in a gesture that could only mean that he had a terrible itch. Poor bear, I thought. And then the possibility dawned on me that perhaps non-isolating meeshkee who consented to have their photograph taken expected to be remunerated.

Having crossed his palm with rubles, we dropped our travelling bag off at the dacha kindly lent out to us by a friend, and took a walk along the prom. Yep, the news was spot on, both the prom and beach were busy.

The frontside bars and restaurants were also busy, not full but far from empty. For the first time I caught a whiff of nostalgia. If anybody had told me six months ago that I would be shunning these essential establishments for health reasons I would have laughed at them. More shocking came the realisation that this was possibly the longest continual period in my life, at least from the age of 14, that I had not frequented a pub or bar.

To take my mind off this reprehensible milestone, we decided to take a brief excursion into the backstreets of the town.

What a delight these streets are. Architecturally, they provide the onlooker with an historical snapshot of the region’s social history, an evocative diorama depicting life from pre-war Germany, through the Second World War, across the Cold War period and into the present day.

Nostalgically, this pre- and one ardently hopes never-to-happen gentrification, echoes, for my generation at least, a time of natural realism now forever lost in the UK, but preserved in Kaliningrad and in its surrounding towns and villages in the overgrown verges, rough tracks, a seemingly inexhaustible inventiveness for recycled car and lorry tyres, vegetable plots neatly honed, vibrant cottage flower beds and an astonishing medley of makeshift sheds, lean-tos and little old barns. (See my later post, which I haven’t written yet.) I cannot remember the name of the street ~ I think it was Memory Lane.

From this enlightening excursion, we ambled back to the dacha, stopping on the way for some edible provisions and, naturally, a couple of bottles of beer. We were going to divvy up the grub and, making a picnic with it along with one of the bottles of beer, head off to the beach.

We had decided to walk away from the nearest, the most central point of the beach as this was where people would naturally be most concentrated, thus availing ourselves of a quieter spot whilst fulfilling our social contract to observe the one-metre rule.

Our plan paid off. We found a nice, white sandy stretch of beach with a convenient barrage of sea-breaker sandbags against which I could rest my back as I drank my beer whilst my wife, Olga, went for a swim.

Mick Hart Chilling in Zelenogradsk with Bear & Beer — Mick Hart chilling on Zelinogradsk beach, Baltic Coast, Russia

The water was gloriously warm, Olga informed me later, and my beer, which had been well-chilled at the outset, kept sustainably so parked between the sandbags where I had placed it at ground level. We were each so comfortable in our own right, according to our own pursuits, that we stayed put until evening and by so doing were granted a first-rate view of one of the Baltic Coast’s legendary sunsets ~ sublimity at its best.

Zalinogradsk Baltic Coast Russia, Sunset August 2020. Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk — Zalinogradsk, Baltic Coast, Russia, Sunset August 2020

Making our way back into town, we spent another lazy hour sitting on one of the benches along the central promenade playing spot the Muscovite before returning to the dacha for a nightcap with a blue elephant.

No, this is not the name of a Russian beer (as far as I am aware), and neither have I reached the intoxication level whereupon such manifestations are commonplace to me.

The blue elephant in question was a little elephant made from Plasticine. On our way back from our street tour earlier, we had stumbled upon some young entrepreneurs selling Plasticine models on the edge of the sidewalk.

We bought the blue elephant from them, upon which one of the boys exclaimed excitedly, “Great, we’ve now got enough money for three ice creams!” and when I asked them if we could take their photograph they were even more excited, “Enough for three ice creams and our photograph taken!”.

Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs Zelenogradsk — Olga Hart buying a Plasticine elephant from young Russian entrepreneurs, Zelenogradsk

I think when I get back to Mick’s Place (Attic Bar) I will allocate a special spot for this new drinking partner of mine, providing he keeps a metre apart and always wears his facemask.

A blue Plasticine elephant from Zelenogradsk August 2020. Englishman Chilling in Zelenogradsk — Zelinogradsk, Russia: a hand-sculptured Plasticine elephant. Now a drinking partner in MIck Hart’s bar *Mick’s Place*

What Really Matters

A day at the seaside ~ with beer
[3 July 2020]

Published: 6 July 2020

Forgetting where I was for a moment, I looked nervously over my shoulder. That man on the opposite side of the road? Did he not look a little like Ed Davey, the Liberal Democrat leader? Relax, I thought, this isn’t the UK? Even there, there is no Ed Davey Matters movement. Even there, he and his party does not matter very much, and here he does not matter at all.

Besides, I was not about to go legally to the pub and enjoy a pint like Nigel Farage and be accused by the liberal outrage industry. In fact, I was not about to break social distancing laws in any shape or form. After 106 days in self-isolation I was off to the seaside for a change of scenery.

What Really Matters

As we sped off in the car towards the coast, I thought to myself a couple of days at the seaside matters. It matters very much to get out into the fresh air and enjoy the bounteous gifts of nature. Sun, Sea and Sand Matters, I thought. Fresh Air Matters. A Change of Scenery Matters.

We were staying for two nights in a friend’s dacha. Good Friends Matter. The cottage was an old German building. History Matters. It was not far from the sea. Being Not Far From The Sea Matters.

Before we went to the beach we sat in the conservatory, ate a pizza and cracked open a bottle of wine. Good Company Matters. Good Conversation Matters. Good Wine Certainly Matters.

The seaside town was busy but not overcrowded. Being Busy But Not Overcrowded Matters. It was clearly a family occasion. Families Matter. There were mums and dads with their children. Mums and Dads with their Children Matters.

The sea was warm and good for a swim. Warm Sea Matters. The atmosphere was family-friendly with no hint of anti-social behaviour. No Anti-Social Behaviour Matters.

What Really Matters

In the evening, I bought a couple of bottles of quality beer. Quality Beer Matters (ask Nigel Farage!). And as I relaxed and drank those beers I thought to myself, everything that I have seen today and all that I have experienced matters. It matters a lot.

What wasn’t there to matter as it did not matter at all was a matter for commonsense. But that’s another matter which in the fullness of time will matter little and then will matter a great deal less.

I took another sip of beer and something closer than the celestial spheres whispered to me in the voice of history, “Consider the matter closed!” it said. “There are those that can end the matter now if push really comes to shove, and that is a matter of fact!”

Mick Hart in Zelenogradsk musing on what really matters — Sitting on a Bench in Zelenogradsk Drinking Beer Matters!

It’s just so Outrageous!!!!

Trapped Indoors with the Media

Claptrap ~ It’s Contagious!

Published: 31 March 2020

You could call it an ‘occupational hazard’ of social distancing and self-isolating, or, alternatively, you could refer to it as a resulting and highly unpleasant side-effect ~ syndrome would be good ~ this inexplicable urge not only to go cap in hand to the media to corroborate your worst fears about today’s news but, in a moment of vulnerability, to backtrack, to see what gems of wisdom you may have missed.

Trapped inside with the media

And so it was that I discovered this article from that most august of media outlets The Guardian. The headline ran, ‘For some people, social distancing means being trapped indoors with an abuser’.

I thought crikey, I am not reading that! I mean, I know they are anti-vanilla, but raspberry ripple across the backside by a fierce femdom dominatrix, not good advice if you are self-isolating. OK if you are your own abuser. You could chase yourself around the house and call yourself name’s, like fascist for example, whilst spanking yourself with a wet lettuce leaf.

But no, self-arselating is not for me. The butter paddles in the blanket box? I’m a collector, you see. I collect obsolete things, such as butter paddles, handcuffs, old school canes, liberalism ~ that sort of thing.

And I have a friend. That is a friend, by the way, not a ‘friend’. And he reads things that I would never read ~ not even if they paid me. And he told me that in most cases the abuser turns out to be a thick-set wife with her hair in curlers, wearing a florid apron, with all-in-wrestlers arms crossed (she’s modern, she’s got tats) whilst brandishing a rolling pin.

Her little henpecked husband, who has a thumbprint on his head and looks as if he has just been spanked with The Guardian (have a care! ~ if you look too closely you’ll see the newsprint!), grovels at her feet (she’s modern, she’s wearing building contractor’s boots) as his female abuser looks down at him (lovely!), whilst saying: “You will not go the pub!!” He replies, helplessly, “I can’t anyway, Boris has closed them all!” “That’s no excuse,” she roars, so loudly in fact that her false teeth escape self-isolation, adding “And stay away from him [Boris]. What sort of man would force husband and wife, husband and husband, it and other (she almost runs out of breath at this point, but not quite), to stay at home together!”

Phheew, I thought, and thanked my friend for warning me. Its enough to give some the willies. I started to look elsewhere, I mean for something to read in the media.

I skipped over the barrage of complaints about Trump saying something in Chinese. It seems that the only language he can’t speak is liberal, and arrived at a comment by the Indie (Windy or Indian?) relating to Nigel Furrage. He is, it seems, a ‘revolting racist’.

I clicked on the site and read beyond the first headline, it said, quite surprisingly: ‘Just joking we have to say things like this about this very nice man because he kicked our ass and delivered BREXIT in spite of our covert attempts to torpedo him.’

Ha! Ha! Sorry, that is not quite true. The onsite headline was: ‘Over the years, it’s become a widely acknowledged truth of British politics that there’s not many situations Nigel Farage won’t manage to use for his own political gain.’

Of course, with a little bit of editing: ‘Over the years, it’s become a widely acknowledged truth of British politics that there’s not many situations the Liberal media won’t manage for their own political gain’.

I decided enough was enough. It was either flick through an old copy of The Beano and read Dennis the Menace (his father was always spanking Dennis’ bum with a slipper, but political correctness stopped all that) or put on a policeman’s uniform and shout abusive things at myself through the letterbox.

“Evenin’ all!”