11 June 2023 ~ Kaliningrad German Helmet in all its Steampunk Glory
On the subject of vintage and antiques, which we were in my last post and are in this one, the object featured today is, in its reincarnated form, neither, but as peculiar and fascinating things go, it has a promising future, and who knows who’s interest it may collect from someone for whom it was destined.
This item, which is a lamp, was made by and purchased from a Kaliningrad metalwares’ sculptor and is yet another example of the talent and creativity which artist Victor Ryabinin spoke of when he talked of the special people who are drawn to, or who have been nurtured within, the ancient Königsberg region.
The components of the piece are identifiable enough: the shade most obviously is a WWII German military helmet; the stem is a length of shaped and sculpted pipework; and the base, though not so easily categorised, seems to have been taken from an engine of some description.
The industrial look, the interior design concept which continues to dominate cafés, bars, restaurants and nightclubs is simpatico. A close relative of steampunk, it, too, cuts to the basics, wedding and distorting common objects from the industrial past with their future in the present.
Kaliningrad German Helmet goes all steampunk
My lamp, or rather the lamp I am looking after for future generations, is artistically endowed with an evocative bronze patina, which, when the lamp is lit, creates a deep and mellow aura.
Sometimes, when I am alone in the attic regarding the lamp over a beer, a macabre realisation seeps quietly out through the helmet’s ragged holes and makes its way into my mind: “Just think,” it says, “once upon a time the light bulb in this helmet was nothing of the sort; there was a German head inside the helmet.” And I go on to wonder who that German was and what eventually became of him. Did he survive the war?
Hmmm? Pieces from the past do that to you sometimes; they talk to you in your present and make you long to complete the jigsaw.
6 June 2023 ~ Beldray at Kaliningrad Flea Market a Surprising Find
In a previous post (What makes Kaliningrad Flea Market a Junk-Buyer’s Paradise) I wrote about the inveterate and incorrigible habit of collecting: call it antiques, call it vintage, call it what you like, but once you get hooked on collecting stuff it’s hard to kick the habit.
It does not matter where in the world you are, if old stuff is what you are after, you will find it, and the wonderful thing about old stuff is that everyone’s got some somewhere. I’ve dug out old stuff, sometimes literally, from all over England and way beyond. Indeed, one of my favourite junk markets was located close to the centre of Odessa, and what a marvellous market it was ~ street upon street upon street of it, as far as the eye could see. All that stuff laid out on blankets, old sheets of cardboard and hastily erected trestle tables, shimmering like a mirage under the summer sun. Alas, something tells me that it will be a long time, bordering on never, before I return to that market again.
On my current sojourn in the UK, I have yet to attend a boot fair or an auction, but I am gearing up to do so should we ever see the back of winter in what some waggish statesman in Russian called this damp and dismal country.
Beldray at Kaliningrad Flea Market
When in Kaliningrad, if ever I need to feed my addiction for stuff, all I have to do is make for the city flea market. But because I always buy something, I often try to resist the jaunt. However, a few weeks before I left for the UK, I found myself yet again ogling up the stalls that line the side of the pavement, and this is what I found.
As soon as I clapped eyes on it, I knew, providing the price was not too extortionate, that I would be taking it home with me. I don’t smoke, but I do maintain a healthy interest in all kinds of smoking memorabilia, and what was special about this little beauty was that it was unmistakeably Art Noveau.
Made from copper, which in the first quarter of the 20th century was a popular material for artistic metalwares, the box’s salient Art Nouveau feature is the stylised flower, with its sinewy stalk and voluptuous detail presented in relief on the object’s front-facing side.
The unusual four, small, upturned feet that are hollow in the middle and resemble cups also contribute to the object’s organic form on which the Art Nouveau premise relies. Aesthetically conforming, they were most likely used as miniature ashtrays in which to stub out one’s spent cigarette.
The part-planished finish to the copper surface is by no means unusual for metalwares of this period, although research has it that it is unusual for Beldray, who were less inclined to resort to this technique than some of their competitors.
I like it, and I also like the exposed rivetted construction, which speaks to me of Arts & Crafts. The fact that the box has ‘Cigarettes’ scrolled across the lid, the relief wording framed within an incised cartouche of waisted form, has effectively taken the guesswork out of the object’s purpose, but even had it not been literally spelt out for us, the wooden lined interior would have provided the vital clue. Most cigarette boxes of this age have long since parted company with their fitted interiors, so the fact that this one is still intact is the cherry on the icing.
How much did I pay for it? Ah now, that would be telling.
Some things are bought for profit, others for pleasure. In this instance, the purchase of the cigarette box has nothing to do with the money but all to do with its past and the history it connects me to.
I am always interested in buying old stuff, whatever it is, both in Kaliningrad and the UK, so if you have anything you wish to sell on, are decluttering or need someone to clear a barn, an attic or property, please feel free to drop me a line at konigsbergmick@mail.com
It looks different on British TV, but that’s what you pay your licence for
9 May 2023
This is the first time in four years that I am unable to attend the 9th May Victory Day celebrations in Russia, as I am ‘over here’ at the moment as distinct from ‘over there’.
Olga sent me an email from Kaliningrad this morning, saying: “It is a lovely morning today and the sun is shining for us to put the flowers to the monument of the fallen in the Second World War. Praying for peace and love in the world.🥰❤”
In my reply, I asked her to say hello from me to our mutual friends and let them know that although I am over here, I am thinking of them over there and am certain that Russia will prevail.
Have a good Victory Day Russia!
As I may have mentioned once or a hundred times before, I do not watch telly, but in the past few weeks I have had access to a television set. My first reaction to this novel but invasive experience was, as I had been forewarned, every other commentator, reporter, news anchor, every TV programme, no matter what it is, and every second advert features a person of colour. Said my brother, “Is this what they mean by a colour TV?” I mused on this question before replying judiciously, “When I was young, there was only black and white. We couldn’t afford a colour TV.” Can we afford one now?
In one sense, however, it, TV and life, is more black and white than it ever was. Take, for example, the Eurovision Song Contest, that once flagship of European propriety and conservatism. The last time I watched this programme, someone was jumping up and down to the innocent refrains of ‘Puppet on a String’, now, it would seem, we in the West are all puppets umbilically attached to somebody else’s lifeline, fed on televised pap poisoned with propaganda. Eurovictim is no exception. The song and prance programme has gone the same way as everything else in the West ~ a festering fest of genderism and mass consumption politics for those who like to be told what to think rather than think for themselves.
The other leitmotif of British TV, apart from the black and white issue, is, of course, Ukraine. Am I mistaken or has the ‘o’ in Eur’o’vision assumed the shape of a heart with an infill of colours taken from the Ukrainian flag? What is apparent is that Mr Zelensky gets an awful lot of British TV air space, either through open or covert reference, or in the unastounding character of himself.
“If it ‘aint c…s!” someone cries, glaring at the pub TV, “It’s that f…..g w….r!”
When Mr Zelensky appears on our British TV sets, he does so wearing his ubiquitous T-shirt. There is much talk of the need to defend universal democracy couched in such a way that it sounds like an appeal for more money and more weapons. In the meantime, Mr Z, perhaps you would be so kind as to tell us, we the British people, to which charity we can turn to pay our gas and electric bills?
And on that note, I’d better switch off the computer, as I can see the metre whirring round like a member of the transvestite left at a real-fur coronation.
My message to the Russian people on 9th May 2023 is simply this: stay firm, trust in your convictions and keep the faith. The importance of your heritage, past and history is non-negotiable. When it’s gone, it’s gone. And don’t we English know it!
28 April 2023 ~ An Art to Brew Beer in Kaliningrad
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 25: An Art to Brew
I bought this beer for two reasons: one, I liked the label; and two, I liked the dumpy bottle with a carrying handle attached to the top.
In order of attraction, the label appealed to me because it appeared to me to be something to do with steampunk. At the time I hadn’t got my glasses on and at the time I was more interested in getting something into a glass, preferably something called beer, and drinking it.
The steampunk allusion, which was also an illusion, was purely provided by pipework. It could have been a pipedream, after all steampunk is still a relatively young person’s predilection, but even without glasses and in my ardent desire to fill one, I could make out something that was illustrative of line-drawn plumbing, which was good enough for me.
The shape of the bottle with its plastic swing-tilt handle has two strings to its bow: novelty is never dull, and handles are good for carrying things with. So, I picked the bottle up by its handle, paid for it at checkout and out of the shop I went, all steampunked-up and ready to go.
At home, tucked away in my ‘never to grow up’ drinking den, my wife cleared up any pretensions I may have fostered about the nature of the illustrated label and also assisted me in interpreting what I was having trouble with: surely this beer that I had just bought whilst in a steampunking mood and carried home with the help of a novelty handle could really not be called ‘The Art of Brewing Czech Bar’?
Good Heavens! Whatever Next?
That’s easy. Next was getting it out of the bottle, into the glass and drinking it.
At last, it was where it should be. But first the aroma.
The beer had a bitter, hoppy smell, and I liked it.
I put my glasses on and looked at the glass. It was in there, alright, and it was giving me the three ‘Cs’: Crisp, Clear and Clean. It had poured with a big head but, being a modest kind of beer, became less big headed as each second past until effectively self-effacing itself.
The first taste proved to be not as bitter as I thought it would be. You could say that it erred more on the soft and mellow side ~ and that’s exactly what I am saying.
No one that I know of has ever ridiculed themselves by calling me a sweet man, either behind my back or in front of it, and I am not about to make the same mistake with this beer. What was sweet about it was that it was dry, not as old boots but pleasantly dry: it was the Hush Puppies of the 2020s, which is not as daft as you sound, at least not when you marry the concept to its leading attributes, which are, as I have noted, soft and mellow.
Are you familiar with the word ‘lacing’? No? Well, you haven’t read enough typically serious beer reviews, have you! But what the cliché doesn’t know the heart won’t grieve about, so we will have no more nonsense where that is concerned. And who cares anyway, if the foam from the beer sticks to the glass or not?
What is more significant is that the dry initial taste travels successfully through the finish and as for the aftertaste it is continuity all the way.
Let’s hear it from the brewers
“Beer varieties brewed under the Art of Brewing brand have a noble taste. [It is a] Golden lager, brewed according to the classic Czech recipe. [Its] bitter richness and pleasant sharpness in taste is achieved through the use of a special combination of hop varieties during brewing.”
The Brewers
Those nice chaps from the Trehsosensky Breweryare not not to be believed. In fact, having sampled other brews in their stable (What is the strangest place where you have drunk beer?) my verdict is that there is absolutely nothing deceitful, underhand or horrifyingly globalist in what the brewers have to say.
An Art to Brew Beer in Kaliningrad
I’ve read reviews about this beer which, although not exactly scathing, have taken a begrudging stance, implying that it is passable but dull. I do not agree. An Art to Brew Czech Bar stands head and shoulders above mediocrity and, whilst it may never take the crown from beers acknowledged universally to have travelled every road of excellence and made it to illustrious, it has enough going for it in singular taste and quality to nudge it around the bend into the aspirant class. Doubt what you hear? That’s odd, because I am typing this, not talking to you, but now I can tell you straight, you should road test one today!
😀TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: An Art to Brew Czech Bar Brewer: Trehsosensky Brewery Where it is brewed: Ulyanovsk, Russia Bottle capacity: 1.3 litres Strength: 4.9% Price: It cost me about 137 roubles (£1.50) [at time of writing!] Appearance: Golden Aroma: Bitter and hoppy Taste: Dry, mellow with a delightful hint of bitterness Fizz amplitude: 4/10 Label/Marketing: Intriguing Would you buy it again? Anytime Marks out of 10: 8
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Mick Hart stars in his own Soviet version of Guns and Poses
Published: 5 March 2023 ~ Men’s Day in Kaliningrad Brings out the Soviet Guns
Every year, on the 23rdof February, Russia celebrates what is officially known as Defender of the Fatherland Day. Originally called Red Army Day, it was granted public-holiday status in recognition of the Red Army’s 1918 inauguration during the Russian Civil War. Known thereafter as the Day of the Red Army and the Navy, and later the Soviet Army and Navy Day, following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the holiday was given its current name by Russian President Vladimir Putin.
At state level, the day honours the patriotism and sacrifices made by Russia’s military veterans. A formal ceremony is held in Moscow and in other Russian cities, with daytime parades and processions and evening concerts and firework displays. At national level, custom has morphed the day into a time when women honour their menfolk ~ not only military men but all men. Presents are given by Russian women to husbands/boyfriends, fathers, sons, brothers and also to male work colleagues, turning Defender of the Fatherland Day into the better known generic name of “Men’s Day”.
In the UK, liberals encourage ethnics to spit at our troops, not serve them in corner shops and berate them for wearing their uniforms in public. Transgenderism is rife and misandry encouraged. But the one thing that the UK does have that Russia doesn’t is Gay Pride Month …
Men’s Day in Kaliningrad Soviet Exhibition
Russia’s Men’s Day plays host to a variety of events, and this year we were invited to attend a display of Soviet militaria at the Kaliningrad Retro Car Club’s HQ, a former aircraft parts repository of historic Luftwaffe origin.
The exhibition was organised and delivered by a group of Soviet history enthusiasts/re-enactors.
On display were documents and printed ephemera relating to WWI and Soviet uniforms from both WWII and postwar periods. To generate the spirit of the occasion and to provide the public with a better idea of the look, style and fit of the uniforms, each re-enactor was dressed either in an officer’s or other ranks’ uniform and most were equipped with combat gear.
De-activated antique guns
The mainstay of the exhibition was a display of small arms, predominantly WWII in character, ranging from handguns to tripod-mounted machine guns. The cache was diverse and impressive and included within the Soviet mix were weapons of German origin. All of the guns displayed were deactivated collector’s pieces.
Although I have handled an extensive variety of classic vintage firearms thanks to my early and enduring interest in all things historic and later in my role as a dealer in militaria, some of the guns in today’s exposition fell into the category of ‘known but not encountered’ and others had eluded me.
The Browning automatic, which was the standard sidearm in WWII for both Allied and Axis forces, was an old friend: it was one of the handguns I have actually fired.
The semi-automatic Mauser, whose production dates to the 1870s, is one of the most distinctively profiled and therefore easily recognisable handguns of all time. The copy on today’s menu was interesting in that it could be fitted with a hardwood stock, a useful accessory upgrading its stability to that of a short rifle and being hollow in part it doubles as a storage case or holster.
Another familiar gun, and one that I have also fired, is the PPSH. The PPSH-41, a submachine gun instantly identifiable by its high-capacity drum magazine ~ 71 rounds when fully loaded ~ was one of the Soviet army’s most widely used infantry weapons. An icon of the period, it features extensively in photographic depictions of Soviet soldiers in battle, is often incorporated into figural war monuments and regularly appears on commemorative badges. Weighing around 12 pounds (5.45 kg), full magazine included, the first reaction of the inexperienced gun user on picking up the PPSH is usually how heavy it feels. It is without doubt a weighty specimen, but, unless you are a seasoned gun user, all guns when first encountered seem surprisingly heavy and also surprisingly clunky.
Although in many respects the Soviet PPSH bests the M1A1 U.S. Thompson, on the UK shooting range some years ago I felt less comfortable firing the PPSH than I did the Thompson. Weight for weight, there is not much difference, but the absence of a pistol grip or side grips on the PPSH means that the weapon has to be held with the supporting hand behind the drum or by cupping the drum itself, a necessity which I personally found impinged upon its accuracy. That said, the PPSH drum mag with its superior load capacity is compensation enough in any realistic performance-related comparison of these two iconic weapons.
Mention iconic firearms in the context of Soviet history and the buzzword is likely to be not the PPSH or the Mosin-Nagant but, yes, you’ve got it, the Kalashnikov. No Soviet firearms exhibition would be worth its salt without the presence of this gun, a weapon universally revered for its outstanding reliability under conditions of an adverse nature and a gun which ticks almost every box, if not ticks every box, as best in its class in the assault rifle category.
Used the world over, the Kalashnikov was and continues to be one of the most popular weapons ever produced. No serious gun collector would regard his collection complete without one. Today’s exposition featured two AK versions, fixed wood and folding-stock variants. We sold both types, deactivated of course, through our UK vintage/militaria emporium.
Another old favourite, which whenever I see it reminds me of the times we spent with the UK re-enacting group, the Soviet 2nd Guards Rifles Division, was the Degtyaryov machine gun. The Degtyaryov, DP-27/DP-28, was the standard light machine gun of the Soviet military in WWII. The large rotating drum magazine mounted on the top of the gun shaped its unique appearance, inspiring Soviet soldiers to nickname it the ‘record player’.
The Makarov pistol, or PM as it is known, which in 1951 became the Soviet military’s standard sidearm, is, in its definitive form, so well-known and accessible that the sight of one is unlikely to rock the gun community’s world, but you never can tell with guns what variants are out there; specific demand and experimentation are capable of producing the most unusual hybrid version of otherwise commonplace guns. Take the example displayed today. This version of the ubiquitous semi-automatic Makarov had undergone a modification that makes it look as incongruous as a woman’s body defaced with tats.
In details of proportion, the erstwhile small firearm seems to have taken leave of its senses. Strapped beneath its pistol grip is a drum magazine every bit as big and as chunky as the one that is used by the PPSH. However, as wild, whacky and clumsy as it appears, and although the variant was never widely produced, for a while at least this ambitious conversion was heralded as a useful addition to Russia’s law-enforcement armoury, since it enabled officers carrying shields who only had one hand with which to hold their gun to sustain fire over longer periods before needing to reload.
Today’s small arms cache in the old Luftwaffe building was a window on the world of Soviet weaponry. From my point of view, having handled a fair amount of military weapons over a lifetime’s interest in all things history, some were old acquaintances but others took their place in the never-ending learning curve ~ the converted Makarov is a case in point. The past is littered with revelations waiting for someone to pick them up. There is always something new to discover, always something new to learn and the joy of both never grow old. It is one of the enduring delights of the antique/vintage scene.
Soviet Uniforms
The uniforms displayed also brought back memories of our vintage shop and the re-enactments that we took part in as members of the 2nd Guards group.
As I believe I mentioned in a previous post, re-enactment is a serious historical business. Everything has to be just so, an exact replica of what it was like back in the 1940s. Considerable time and effort is diligently expended in researching and getting the uniforms right and in allocating to those uniforms the correct insignia worn and where and how it was worn. Anything less than perfect is sure to be met with a stern rebuke from the re-enactment group’s leaders and spark derision in those who purport to know more than you do about such important details, one’s group peers especially and, more embarrassingly, military veterans.
At first sight, the Soviet uniform looks pretty basic, and it was. At the time the Second World War broke out It hadn’t changed much since the First World War. It certainly does not compare with the rigid formality of British wartime uniforms and the flash, Hollywood modernity of their American counterparts, whose uniforms and equipment had a certain style all of their own. But what the Soviet uniform lacks in formality and also in panache it more than makes up for in functionality, being lightweight, durable and easy to wear.
As a re-enactor and military clothes dealer, I have worn the uniforms of both Allied and Axis forces, both officers’ and other ranks’, and if I had to sum up each country’s uniform using one definitive word for each, my choice of words would be: American, ‘stylish’; British, ‘itchy’; Soviet, ‘comfortable’.
When re-enacting, the only bone I had to pick with the Soviet uniform was the inclusion of fresh, white, linen neck-liners, which have to be changed and sewn with irritating regularity into the underside of the tunic collar. As an actor on a film set, someone does this for you. It is altogether different when you have to do it yourself: for example, when cold and bleary eyed after a night beneath the rainy skies with only your canvas poncho for protection. Warning: Re-enactment is a serious business.
Men’s Day in Kaliningrad
The reals stars of the Soviet military display held at the Kaliningrad Retro Car Club HQ were the guns, but it would be inexcusably remiss of me if I was to leave the show without giving credit where credit is due for one of the best collections of Soviet gas masks that I have ever seen exhibited at a militaria event.
The impressive collection was the inspiration and work of a young bloke called Valordia. He confided in me that the official requirement of wearing masks during the coronavirus scare had added impetus to his collecting zeal and that during those two surreal years he had substituted cloth masks for gas masks from his collection. Good for him! I thought. I often tried to be different, too, by wearing my mask around my knee. It’s never been the same knee since. It seems to wheeze a little!
Valordia’s gas-mask collection begins with a fairly basic item from WWI, extends through the interwar years, encompasses WWII and finally comes to rest with a state-of-the-art modern mask, modelled by last years’ model (and some) me. In case you didn’t want to recognise me, there I am in the photo, standing as large as life and twice as beautiful in my designer gas mask next to Valordia. This mask has some interesting gimmicks, such as interchangeable this and that’s, and also features a drinking tube for the wearer to take in liquid refreshments (Mine’s a pint of Landlord, please.) whilst remaining safely enveloped in rubber.
It’s food for thought, but the accessorising capability of this mask stands it in good stead for nomination as the Gates/Davos prototype ~ the first live-in coronavirus and other nasty man-made-diseases facemask, a must-have accessory for the globalist’s reset future. With a built-in smartphone as standard, which I think we can safely assume it would have, proud wearers will continue to be urged to post their selfies to social media, thus preserving social media’s ongoing cloning affect. The beauty of the mask will be that even more than ever none of your ‘friends’ will know who you are and what you really are, which when assessed at its most fundamental level is what social media is all about: a world of revolving masks in a hall of revolving mirrors. The ‘Like’ tickers and back-slappers will function as before, seeing nothing and knowing less, there mutual appreciation assured as they woo each other with fulsome comments about how young and lovely each of them look hidden behind their filters. Don’t mock! It could happen. It could be a win-win situation, for those who are steadily losing.
But I digress: In an age when everything and everybody seems smartarsephoned, it is reassuring to discover that there are others in the world who share your ardent belief that there is no time like the past, and reassuring again when the other parties concerned are considerably younger than yourself. Keep up the good work, chaps!
Whilst my response to the Soviet exhibition was one of unreserved enjoyment, I completely understand why some people cannot understand why guns, old or new, should be a source of fascination. Unlike my youngest brother, who holds several medals and trophies for marksmanship in most small-arms categories, I do not. It is true that in my youth, I would occasionally run around armed in the middle of the night, not I hasten to add in an urban setting but for the perfectly reasonable purpose of poaching his lordship’s estate. In my dotage, however, guns, have taken their place among the many varied man-made objects invested with an intrinsic ability to stimulate appreciation for their craftsmanship, aesthetics and historic interest alone. And yet, despite such commendable sensibilities and the reservations from which they stem, come the day of the exhibition I could not resist the alpha temptation to pick up and tote a sawn-off or two. Both the shotgun and the rifle, even with modified barrels and stocks, were surprisingly tactile and disturbingly balanced.
Disturbingly unbalanced is the expression on my face captured in the photo where I am holding one of these guns. In that photograph I seem to have achieved a curious manly man hybrid somewhere between Clint Eastward and Bop Hope, either that or my pants are too tight.
Looking at my photo (above), I think we can safely conclude that a manly image is not so easily come by as convention would have us believe, even when its Man’s Day and even when you are holding a gun. But you’ve got to admire Squint Westwood’s brass and, if only as an act of charity, give me six out of ten for trying.
Published: 15 February 2023 ~ Is the Königsberg Amber Room still in Kaliningrad?
Last seen in Königsberg Castle before the end of the war, ever since the Amber Room went missing ~ missing presumed dead by some, missing presumed purloined by others ~ historians and treasure hunters alike have turned the search for the Amber Room into a latter day Holy Grail that has kept them guessing and occupied for more than three-quarters of a century.
We don’t all love mysteries, but we sure do like to solve them, and so it is with the Amber Room, which disappeared from Königsberg Castle in the final months of World War II. The search for what was once described as the Eighth Wonder of the World has become an historians’ and treasure hunters’ Holy Grail. Numerous theories abound regarding the room’s vanishing act and its whereabouts today.
Recently, my wife Olga attended a lecture delivered by one of these Argonauts, a man who has spent considerable time and energy researching the history of the Amber Room and most of his ambition engaged in a quest to locate it.
Unlike a good many historians, the gentleman in question does not hold with the popular conviction that the Amber Room was destroyed either as a result of the RAF’s bombing raids or by the artillery fire of the advancing Soviet army. Neither does he hold with the myriad theories that would have the room plundered and shipped elsewhere. In his opinion the Amber Room that was, is the Amber Room that very much is. Furthermore, he believes not only is it alive and kicking but kicking about in Kaliningrad.
Is the Königsberg Amber Room still in Kaliningrad?
For those of you unacquainted with the story of the Amber Room, it goes like this:
The Amber Room was a chamber richly decorated with ornate amber panels, elaborately highlighted with gold leaf, complemented by magnificent baroque-framed mirrors and illuminated with flickering candles. Those who had the privilege of beholding it in person were overwhelmed by its singular beauty.
Amber: What it is and why is it so precious?
In order to protect themselves from parasites, harmful insects and to act as a restorative for external damage, trees produce a protective resin. This substance exuded through the bark of the tree, eventually hardens, forming a seal, against which the gnawing activities of harmful insects are rendered inoperable.
Extinct, fossilised tree trunks from primordial forests produce fossilised resin, and this is the substance we now call Amber. The Kaliningrad region on the Baltic Coast contains the world’s largest amber reserves; more than 90 per cent of the world’s amber is located in this region.
Amber has been appreciated for its natural beauty and colour for thousands of years. Its tactile quality and variation in hues from light yellow, dark brown, green, blue and white, the latter referred to as milk amber, make it the perfect gemstone for jewellery and for use in the creation of a wide variety of decorative and functional objects including framed art, vases, paperweights, plaques, pens and elaborate clocks.
Naturally sticky, in its mobile state amber resin would sometimes entrap plant life as well as small insects. Known as inclusions, amber containing organic matter from times of antiquity often command higher prices than pieces that are clean.
The Amber Room was designed and crafted by the German sculptor Andreas Schlüter and the Danish amber artisan Gottfried Wolfram in the early years of the 18th century and completed from 1707 by Gottfried Turau and Ernst Schacht from Danzig (now Gdańsk).
Originally part of the Berlin City Palace, in 1716 the Amber Room, then considered the Eighth Wonder of the World, was gifted by the Prussian King Frederick William I to Peter the Great of the Russian Empire. It was reassembled, renovated and expanded in the summer residence of the Russian tsars, the Catherine Palace, a grand Rococo edifice approximately 30km south of St Petersburg. By the time the room was completed, it is said to have contained over six tonnes of the precious resin, amber.
Hand-coloured photograph of the original Amber Room, 1932
Following the invasion of Soviet Russia in WWII, the Amber Room was swifty removed by the Germans, taken to Prussian Königsberg and reconstructed in Königsberg Castle. In early 1944, as Königsberg braced itself for the inevitable Allied onslaught, it is alleged that the Amber Room was dismantled and its components stashed away in the castle basement.
In August 1944, Königsberg came under heavy bombardment by the Royal Air Force (RAF). A large percentage of the munitions used were incendiary by nature and in the conflagration that followed the city was all but consumed.
Extensive damage was further inflicted by Red Army artillery fire in the days and hours immediately preceding Königsberg’s capitulation on 9th April 1945.
Photographs and ciné films taken shortly after the Soviet victory document the extent of Königsberg’s destruction. Both city and castle were gutted, and the Amber Room was never found.
Whilst the simplest and most credible explanation for the disappearance of the celebrated room is that like the rest of the castle and most of the city it had gone up in smoke, absence of hard evidence to nail this theory firmly to fact sparked a plethora of alternatives whose versions of the room’s fate live on to this day. So far, however, none of these would-be explanations have come up with the goods, and thus the Eighth Wonder of the World is currently having to bide its time as one of the world’s enduring mysteries.
It is well to remember, however, that mysteries rarely live alone; they tend to cohabitate in tormented sin, in a hotbed of rampant reveries, many of which over time turn radical or romantic. And the Amber Room is no exception.
Of course, there are conspiracy theories. It is far more palatable to indulge the notion of the Amber Room spirited away, living the life of privileged ease in some Oligarch’s chateau or other, than to accept the unthinkable thought that this irreplaceable work of art has been indifferently obliterated. Nevertheless, the official position seems to endorse this postulate.
This is because once Königsberg had fallen, Soviet soldiers were dispatched post-haste to investigate the castle ruins for the presence of the Amber Room. It is a matter of public record that their report concluded ‘Amber Room not found’, from which intelligence it was inferred that the Amber Room had perished.
However, drawing a line under the mystery with no hard evidence to back it up was and continues to be a red flag to more bullish minds, which persist in bringing into the field of debate alternative theories, speculation and hope.
For example, eyewitness reports place the missing room’s whereabouts in at least two underwater locations: one, that it went down with the Wilhelm Gustloff, a German ship sunk by a Soviet submarine on 30 January 1945; two, that it lies in part at the bottom of the sea, put there by Soviet aircraft when they attacked and destroyed the SS Karlsruhe, a German evacuation ship that sailed from Königsberg in 1945.
Such theories, which provide the basis for the ongoing search, gained particular impetus from the 1997 discovery of one of a series of four stone mosaics, ‘Feel and Touch’, which, once an integral part of the Amber Room, turned up in the family home of a former German soldier, who claimed that he acquired the mosaic whilst helping to pack the dismantled room in crates for transportation. As far as I am aware, however, he did not recall, or did not name, the final destination for which those crates were bound.
A year later, two unrelated teams, one German and the other Lithuanian, stated publicly that they had found the Amber Room. The German team alleged that it was secreted in a silver mine; the Lithuanian team that it was immersed within a lagoon; neither were correct.
Although a detailed assessment of the evidence such as it was, as undertaken in 2004 by two British journalists, concluded that the Amber Room may not have survived the combined devastation of the 1944 air raids and subsequent shelling by Soviet artillery, which was also the official Soviet line, not everyone is convinced.
The Amber Room in the Catherine Palace, 1917
One of the most enticing theories, by virtue of its ongoing nature, is that the Amber Room never left Kaliningrad. This theory postulates that it is either squirreled away in one of the many tunnels that are alleged to form a labyrinth beneath the Royal Castle or is safe and secure in secret rooms beneath the bunker of Otto Lasch, the general who was tasked with the unenviable responsibility of commanding the defence of Königsberg in 1945.
Otto Lasch’s command bunker survives to this day. Known simply as the Museum Bunker, it is situated at the front ofthe Kaliningrad State University, a few minutes’ walk from Victory Square and likewise from Königsberg Cathedral.
From what I can gather, the theory that the last resting place of the Amber Room is but a short distance away from the place where it was last displayed, namely Königsberg Castle, is not new. It has been in circulation for years.
Indeed, in a news report published on 5 December 2022*, it was made public that surveys of the bunker of the last commandant of Königsberg, Otto Lasch, had been resumed ~ resumed meaning that the latest investigations were a continuation of those last undertaken in autumn 2009.
The 2022 resumption, which was supervised by the head of the bunker museum, as well as local historian Sergei Trifonov, used echo radar in an attempt to penetrate the voids behind the walls and the ground beneath the bunker.
“Trifonov himself said that the researchers ‘found what they were looking for’, but the press service of the museum noted that the survey report is not yet ready and will be published in the near future.”*
We wait with bated breath.
I hear tell, but don’t quote me on this, that what they found was a considerable depth of concrete, so considerable that anything that might be concealed beneath it fell outside the range and spectrum of the electronic equipment used.
Apart from being a historic treasure, and one of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring interior works of art that the world has ever known, the estimated value of the Amber Room in strictly material terms was quoted as $500 million in 2016. One presumes that in the past eight years its value has appreciated.
The decision to excavate the historic Königsberg bunker presumably rests on the presentation of sufficient credible evidence to justify the disruption and ultimately the cost of the amount of work involved. It is by no means an easy decsion to make. On the one hand, it might unearth a unique historical legacy immense in artistic and material value; on the other, a whole lot of concrete, half a dozen incumbent worms and the odd German helmet or two.
Until that decision is taken of one thing we can be sure, the search for the Amber Room goes on.
Illustrations of classical architecture attempting to convey the innate quality and time-honoured grandeur that we associate with ancient Rome, together with heraldic symbols are not necessarily the certified hallmark of either a good or barely drinkable beer that we might be beguiled into thinking it is. And thus, we have a case in point: Hemeukoe Pils.
The packaging of Hemeukoe (Nemetskoe) Pils reminds me of a house I know in Northamptonshire made singularly unmissable by a pair of concrete horse’s heads squatting on its gate posts. Are such embellishments an admission of, or indeed an admission to, the aristocracy of quality? No, and they never have been. But from their ostentatiousness you do get a whiff of something else.
That whiff, once the top has been removed from the Hemeukoe Pils’ bottle, reminds me of a lot of things, none of which belongs to beer. I am not going to tell you what it is exactly, because exactly doesn’t come into it, but try to imagine something pungent strained through a pair of unwashed gym shorts.
Urban gentlemen of the road, those who doss down on the forecourts of London’s mainline stations, could feasibly conclude that the smell is not unlike that damp sheet of cardboard they rescued from Asda’s bin last month and on which they have slept every night since.
The smell improves in the glass but doesn’t become a bouquet of roses. It is rather like opening the window of a sleep-in-late hormonal teenager’s bedroom. And that’s as good as it gets.
Hemeukoe Beer in Kaliningrad
It does say ‘Pils’ on the bottle, but very soon I got to thinking that perhaps they spelt it wrong, when what they intended to print was not exactly ‘Pils’ but ‘Really Peculiar’.
Ambiguity in the smell was repeated in the colour. At arms length, it looked yellow and slightly hazy in the glass, but on closer inspection neither here nor there nor even anywhere. It was as it was and what that was, was strictly not what I thought it would be: Pils.
The colour was like nothing I had ever seen; the taste like nothing I have ever tasted, wished I hadn’t and would never want to again. In both respects, it even excelled the Baltika 3 taste problem. And that ~ as The Velvelettes once warbled ~ is ‘really saying something’!
Sweet and buttery with a chemical twist, the latter usurping the former and occupying the aftertaste like 1940s’ Germans in Paris, this was my first taste of Hemeukoe Pils; was it trying to tell me something?
For a moment I thought that this something had something to do with identity and was something to do with Kvas, but before I could completely trash the dynastic reputation of a soft drink which in Russia is regarded as a national institution, the taste had turned to strong, rank tea, heavy on the tannin.
Hemeukoe Beer in Kaliningrad
Whatever you may say about its taste, there is a lot going on in Hemeukoe. It is just not going on in a very complementary or remotely satisfactory way.
There is an ascending scale of sourness in the aftertaste, which in its unexceptional way hangs on the back of your throat and leaves you wondering, anxiously, whether come the morrow, you will still be on good terms with your digestive system and bowels.
It was late at night when I was drinking Hemeukoe. It was the only beer that I had in the house, so even had I spotted the clue secreted in its name ~ Hemeukoe ~ the anagram would not have, could not have, saved me from indulging in what was without exaggeration quite simply the most appalling brew I have ever had the misfortune to sabotage my vitals with, and one which I ardently hope I will never experience again.
I am tempted to say that you could do worse if offered a glass of this than to politely refuse and remain an onlooker. Never mind the prejudiced cliché that innocent bystanders always get hurt, refusing to drink Hemeukoe Pils might well just prove to be the exception to the rule.
A friend of mine who considers himself to be something of an expert where beer is concerned disputes the taxonomy of Hemeukoe Pils, claiming that HP is not so much a beer as an alcoholic infusion, and it is this that makes it taste like nothing on Earth and more like something imported from the planets Heavy and Oily.
Even without empirical evidence I might be inclined to agree, but I was busy jotting the name of the beer onto a piece of paper and committing it to memory in order to ensure that even if my life depended on it, I would never make the mistake of buying Hemeukoe Pils again.
TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Hemeukoe Pils (Nemetskoe ot Bochkarev (German from Bochkarev) Brewer: Heineken Where it is brewed: Saint Petersburg Bottle capacity: 1.35 litre Strength: 4.7% Price: It cost me about 137 roubles (£1.54) [at time of writing!] Appearance: A washy brown colour Aroma: It doesn’t smell like beer Taste: It doesn’t taste like beer Fizz amplitude: 4/10 Label/Marketing: Bold to the point of misleading Would you buy it again? Read the review! Marks out of 10: 2
*Note that the beers that feature in this review series only include bottled beer types that are routinely sold through supermarket outlets and in no way reflect the variety of beer and/or quality available in Kaliningrad from speciality outlets and/or through bars and restaurants.
Published: 5 February 2023 ~ Zalivino Lighthouse Restoration Reaches New Heights
Returning to Zalivino lighthouse last month, it was remarkable to see what progress had been made since we first explored the site in 2021. Let’s start with the cosmetic improvements first and then proceed in order of importance:
3. A new addition is the weather vane, with the intricately designed rotating ornament and stained-glass inclusions
4. The compound has been enclosed with a new fence and a gate at either end, the effect is both cosmetic and security oriented
5. The boardwalks laid down last year from the sandy cove to the compound perimeter have been extended into and across the site
6. The outlying buildings have been reroofed
7. The outlying buildings have been given new wooden doors; good solid stock, with a vintage chevron and diamond-pattern finish
8. Three solid-state buildings constructed from red brick have been added to the site. They consist of a utilities building, ticket office and the now completed tearoom, which on our last visit was at a functional stage minus proper windows.
Zalivino Lighthouse Restoration: the lighthouse keeper’s cottage
The most significant development is the structural renovation and the complete interior restoration of the former lighthouse keeper’s cottage.
The first photograph below denotes the condition of the cottage in 2021; the photograph beneath it, how the cottage appears today.
BEFORE
AFTER
The following account of our latest visit to Zalivino lighthouse is an extract from my personal diary:
Zalivino Lighthouse Restoration
At last, numb and red nosed, we reached the perimeter, by way of the coastal route, of Zalivino Lighthouse. Outside the lighthouse grounds, the old German buildings lining the water’s edge facing out across the Curonian Lagoon appear to have been given the once over, either that or I missed this fact on my previous visit. The brickwork looks cleaner, and the lovely wooden doors and window shutters strike me as being recent installations along with the terracotta-modelled roof.
Inside the compound, everything looked immediately more presentable. To the left and right are single storey buildings, red brick with Georgian-style roofs. One, I imagine, is the toilet block; the other the ticket office and, next to that, the completed tea and loitering room, which on my previous visit had thick translucent polythene sheeting where windows were wanting but wanting no more.
Olga Hart in proud receipt of her ticket from the ticket office
The former lighthouse keeper’s cottage, which had been nothing more than a shell, ravaged by time and cannibalised by thieves when the site fell derelict after perestroika, has been renovated to such a high standard that had I not witnessed the dereliction with my own eyes and taken photos to prove it, I would have scarcely believed it was the same building.
Although the museum it would like to become has a long way to go, for those interested in marine life, the old keeper’s cottage contains an interesting display of marine paraphernalia and artefacts associated with lighthouse history.
The two rooms of the cottage also contain some rather fetching reproduction antique furniture and other curios. For example, a not-for-the-squeamish stuffed and mounted seabird and a round-shaped Deco-style early plastic radio that may or may not be original but is endowed with vintage appeal. There is also a Vienna-style wall clock, two hefty wagon wheels and, in the centre of the room, a polished wooden dining table and corresponding chairs.
I think it is safe to say that this level of homeliness is not the one that the lighthouse keeper would have been accustomed to, and yet the warmth transcending the basic need for warmth on a bitterly cold winter’s day would have probably been no stranger to him.
What also affected me was the solidity of the building which, considering its exposed location, was reassuring indeed, since no amount of huffing and puffing was about to blow this house in. Strong, solid, durable and intuitively enriched, the lighthouse keeper’s cottage could hardly have been more welcoming.
Zalivino Lighthouse tower
A visit to Zalivino Lighthouse without climbing the tower would be like going to the pub and ordering an empty glass. Thus, even on this coldest of days, off and up we went.
At the time of our ascent, or rather a few minutes before, Zalivino suffered a power outage, so we had to climb the tower without the aid of electric lamps. The first few steps were enveloped in darkness, but the windows in the tower walls, as small as they are, are sufficient to light the way and as you reach the base of the lamp room the light pours in from the dome above.
The elevated view from the lighthouse window reveals the extent to which the outlying buildings and the site in which they stand have been improved and whilst up there in the Gods, we got to gaze across and enjoy the scene of the winter landscape complete with icicle-petrified coastline.
As stimulating as these prospects were, there were two impressions from the top of the tower whose tenacity cannot be equalled. The first was the sound of the wind, rushing across the lagoon, curling around the lamp room like the giant tentacles of a phantom sea squid.
The second was that of Olga daring to step outside onto the wind-swept lighthouse’s viewing platform so that I could take a photo of her. Of course, I was champing at the bit to get out on the ledge myself, make no mistake about that! But someone had to cower inside in order to take the photo.
The renovation and refurbishment of Zalivino lighthouse has come on in proverbial leaps and bounds in a relatively short space of time. If you are not personally acquainted with the near demolition site that it was in 2020 at the outset of the project, the photographic collage within the keeper’s cottage will give you a good idea of just how bleak the damage was, as will the photographs used in my earlier post.
You will also find in the keeper’s cottage a framed composition of images depicting where the restorationists want to be with the project by 2024. Unfortunately, the photograph that I took of the wall-mounted display is not good, as my hands were in need of a warm cup of tea and the light from the window reflected badly into the lens of the camera.
Comparison of the photographic evidence of the condition of the lighthouse, its ancillary buildings and site as they appeared in 2020 with the photos taken this year (2023) demonstrate the achievements to date, making the 2024 target a less ambitious objective than might otherwise be supposed.
Without a shadow of a doubt, a lot of work, care and attention has been invested in the project, not to mention wonga. The results so far are superlative, returning the lighthouse to its historical origins and turning it, metaphorically speaking, into a restoration beacon for other projects across the region to follow.
Support the project
Raising funds for the restoration of the lighthouse is an ongoing process, and any donation that you would care to make would be greatly appreciated. Your generosity will help to preserve an important element of marine cultural heritage and if that’s not reward enough, your part in the preservation will be forever a part of the lighthouse’s history.
Published: 25 January 2023 ~ Kaliningrad and things that go clank in the night
From the same wonderful chap who brought you Kaliningrad’s midnight leaf suckers (that wonderful chap is me, by the way, just in case you failed to recognise me by the accuracy of the description), we have something at 2am …?
I was just off into slumberland, lulled into this blissful state, which is an exotic and privileged condition for a confirmed and inveterate insomniac, by a series of smiles set in motion by a composition of novel remarks discovered in the perusal of a news report on Yandex.
In this report*, the Press Secretary of the President of Russia, Dmitry Peskov, was responding to the head of the Kiev regime, Vladimir Zelensky (you know him, he’s the man with whiskers who perpetually wears a green T-shirt) who said, when addressing the World Economic Forum (you know them, the Davos cartel, a super-rich globalist gang obsessed with resetting the world for their benefit at everyone else’s expense), that he doubted the existence of Vladimir Putin. Peskov replied: “It is clear that purely psychologically, Mr Zelensky would prefer that neither Russia nor Putin exist, but the sooner [that] he realizes ~ the sooner the Ukrainian regime realizes ~ that Russia and Putin are and will be, the better for … Ukraine.”
As a roll-call of ghastly phantom-like images, including Tony Blair, Bill Gates, George Soros and other nightmare villains, such as might have been applicably cast in the 1970s’ pot-boiling series the Hammer House of Horror, slipped mercifully from my mind, I was suddenly dragged, hauled out as it were, from the luxury of impending sleep into a yet to be expunged existence, where the Davos set still are but hopefully soon will not be, by disturbing sounds in the street of an incomprehensible nature.
Kaliningrad and things that go clank in the night
It is a selfish but incontrovertible fact that people in my age group can afford to entertain, with less regret than the young, sounds that could be mistaken for a global nuclear incident, but the sounds outside my window seeming rather less than might be imagined for an event on such a scale, had more to do with engines running, metal wotnots clanging together and men calling out to each other in a distinctly blokey and workman-like fashion.
Whatever was occurring it could not be truthfully said to be keeping me awake, as I had mislaid the art and science of sleeping many years ago. No, it was the presence of these perplexing sounds at this fairy-tale-time of the morning that had me all agog.
It was not very long before fantasy overtook me ~ you know how it is in the early hours ~ suggesting I believe that in response to my recent post on pavements some receptive spark in authority acting on the hint had decided to ship the requisite materials needed for renovation, and that even as we slept ~ and even whilst some of us didn’t ~ shipments of hardcore and other materials ferried in by moonlight were being deposited on the grassy knoll in the centre of the street.
This theory had a near-firm basis in a previous early-morning chorus of indefinable noises, the source of which it transpired was a working party busily engaged in the not unreasonable occupation of vacuum-cleaning the grass gone midnight.
The fallen leaves of autumn having been whisked away, it was a small step for an imagination accustomed to leaps of fancy to envision the wartime bunker lurking below the knoll earmarked for refurbishment, contingent on the unlikely event that should the sirens go off all would never hear them, because someone up our street delights in keeping a witless dog that hardly ever stops barking.
Unable to contain myself, and my curiosity, any longer, I slid out from my bed and made my way to the window. I had it in my hand, my camera, and you’ll never give me credit for it, but with it, it was I that took this unreasonably awful photo, which ~ and you’ll have to take my word for this~ shows two or several men mingling with the morning shadows at a time when every abnormal person, those without guilty consciences, are snoring and farting deep in their sleep; they were busy, were these men, busy thrusting big thick pipes down drainholes, sucking stuff out with gusto as if their very jobs depended on it. Yes, there they were, I am tempted to say, waking up the entire street, but that would be a fallacy, as often there is that shitty dog (with an owner whose name must be Mutton Jeff) that barks and barks and barks and barks. And if you can sleep through that, then presumably you’ll sleep through anything: “Did you hear that siren?” Woof! “Did you hear that burglar?” Woof! Did you hear that …? What? Woof! … Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! What did you say? I said “Woof”!
I consider it fortunate that I’m an insomniac, or I could have trouble falling asleep.
Pleased to look out the window and see things going on which in my youth, that is my very young youth, would fill me with fascination ~ drain suckers, dustbin men, bucket men, tarmac gangs ~ oh, and Robert Brothers’ Circus’ lorries cavalcading for winter quarters ~ I crawled back into the pit, thinking now that I know what it is they are up to should I block out those naughty men’s sounds by recourse to soothing ‘White Noise’ (and just how racist is that!), but before you could say ‘you’re a strange bugger’ and before I could ‘take a knee’, I had bucked the insomnia trend. I was slipping faster than soap on ice into a hallelujah dream fest, a film noir, They Worked by Night! starring noises of a nocturnal nature, hundreds of Königsberg manhole* covers and the gangs of men who go around in the dark lifting those covers up when we are fast asleep or, when we are not, we should be. What more can we say at the end of the day than bring on the ZZZ…
**Manhole: This is one of those words that we need to be particularly careful of when sycophantically brown-nosing woke in an absurd aberration for gender inclusiveness.
Published: 31 December 2022 ~ F*ck New Year Calendars and How do They Work?
Every year, on the 31st of December, most of us, not all but most, celebrate the arrival of a New Year. Some celebrate it quietly, others party like it’s going out of fashion, hopping, whooping, shouting, working themselves up into a right old frenzy as the hours, minutes and seconds count down to midnight. By the time midnight arrives, sobriety has left, and everyone screams ‘Happy New Year’, and then we get more drunk.
As a consequence of this mandatory ritual, typically and ironically for most of us the New Year starts on a none too auspicious note: We fall into bed at 5am and wake up half-way through the day with a bucket for a head, a mouth that tastes like the cat slept in and a guts ~ Well, let’s not draw a picture.
As the last minutes of the last 365 days of our life tick away, you can guarantee that almost everyone around you will breathe a sigh of relief, chorusing “I’m glad to see the back of 1065,” for example, “1066 can’t be any worse!” I think it was Harold who said that.
So it is with philosophical solemnity, that I present to you today, on this last day of the Year of Our Lord 2022, this photograph of a rather rude calendar, which a ferret and I discovered whilst roving the bars of Kaliningrad.
Now we have no way of knowing, and cannot say for certain, if those who hung this calendar on the wall, presumably in January of 2022, were in receipt of psychic information. Did they have a direct line to the Universe’s Control Centre? Was it just a self-fulfilling prophesy? Or is it the work of a ‘double agent’, ie I will denounce 2022 but secretly I support it. In other words, how does this calendar work?
Presumably, like any other, you pin it on the wall on the first day of the New Year to which the calendar applies. Well, OK, making allowances for hangovers, most likely on the second day. But how do you know? How do you predict how the year will pan out for you? What gives you the right and credibility to hang a calendar on your wall that says F!ck 2022, 2024 or 2020-anything?
Does the advocate of this type of calendar have a sixth sense ~ some might argue that they must have a sick sense? Before hanging such a prophetic calendar on his wall, does he consult the tarot cards, examine his crystal balls, believe in horoscopes, resort to numerological mysticism in which 2+2= 6 (which just means his maths are awful) or does he sign up to the endless twaddle that spews out of YouTube videos from self-appointed, self-proclaimed, creepy homespun spiritualists? The mind ~ that is, the mind that is still in control ~ boggles, and shudders, to think.
F*ck New Year Calendars and How do They Work?
Those of you that cling to the adage that pessimism breeds pessimism, ie what goes around comes around, and that bad-joke calendars like this manifest reality, will no doubt recoil in horror at such presumptuous negativity and may even have a calendar on your wall to set the record straight, a calendar, for example, on which it could be written ‘Welcome 2022’, the bold, pink words surrounded by little elves that dance, fairies that flutter, butterflies that bob and rabbits that bunny and bunnies that rabbit, all afrolick together among the softening rays of a sunburst yellow bathed like a halo on the blue-sky background, and they sigh, they sigh with such sighs of optimism that they carry you back like a tune to your childhood and you know instinctively and have no doubt that this, at last, is Your Year!
Looked at objectively and objectionably, It’s hard to decide which of the two calendars surrenders itself more completely to the irony of fate: the bar’s F*uck You calendar or the optimist’s New Era dream, ‘Hoorah! 2023 is going to be the year for me’. (Some woman on YouTube told me so!) Ah, hem …
I don’t wish to be a killjoy, especially on New Year’s Eve, but it must be plain to the most myopic that calendars that purport to predict the essence of the coming year, both the good and the bad, are best to be avoided, or, if the temptation is just too much, try keeping them off your wall, at least until their year is out and the next year safely in.
Let hindsight be your witness and you will minimise the chance of Irony passing judgement on you!
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