10 July 2023 ~ Woke UK Banks Need to be More Accountable
You don’t have to look very far in the UK to find another pitiful example of Woke, or political correctness as it used to be known. The media landscape has more examples dotted around its internet sites and corporate TV outlets than there are small boats of smiling immigrants disembarking on Dover’s shores. But you may have been surprised to learn that Nigel Farage, no less, has been singled out for special treatment by the western globalist banking cartel, which has withdrawn his banking facilities.
WOKE WATCH UK!
Now, picking on a high-profile figure like Nigel Farage at a time when trust in the UK political establishment is at an all-time low is probably not the smartest thing to do. Of course, we cannot say without a shadow of a doubt that Farage’s banking difficulties are ideologically motivated, but when you delve a little deeper suspicion begins to accrue. And if the smoke is not without fire, then someone in the world of banking has really gone and shot themselves in their ideological hoof.
Woke UK Banks
According to Mr Farage, the bank, with whom he had been a customer for years, suddenly and without explanation, closed down his account. So go and open an account elsewhere. Well, this is what he tried to do, but the first bank he approached refused him, the second bank refused him and so on and so on and so on … (Nigel Farage YouTube).
Katie Hopkins, who is very good at grasping the nettle of truth, because she has learnt the hard way, reviews the ‘noise around Farage’ in the context of her own experience and the experience of others like her (Katie Hopkins, YouTube).
It is obvious from Katie’s videos and the commentary that accompanies them that there is a firm and growing belief among UK legacy Britons, who are far from happy with the ‘liberal’ status quo, that the UK’s answer to the Chicago Outfit, the super-rich elite, syndicates with other globalist lynchpins ~ political establishment + corporate media + partisan judiciary + banking institutions ~ to exert their collective power, and whilst they casually talk the talk of democracy subvert it to its lowest level by robbing those individuals of whom they are afraid of the right to freedom of speech and by depriving and dispossessing them of their socio-economic existence.
Katie Hopkins, who asserts that she was turned into a ‘non-person’ by the machinations of the powers that be, acknowledges the many unsung heroes of Britain’s growing Resistance, the ordinary people with no public voice, who have fallen foul of the cancel culturists and their ideological programme.
Woke UK Banks Need to be More Accountable
So how credible is it that Nigel Farage woke up one morning and found himself in bed with Katie and Tommy Robinson? Providing the closing of his accounts are ideologically motivated, which by all accounts ~ and closed accounts ~ it appears they may have been, then sadly the answer is incontrovertibly. We know stranger things happen at sea. Just think of the Royal Navy escorting rubber dinghy after rubber dinghy daily into Dover.
Now, as everybody knows, none more so than the liberal left, Nigel Farage is not a man to provoke. He is the man who took on the EU octopus and beat it single handedly. Look out naughty banks! Another irony is that closing down his bank account could not have come at a less propitious moment for the woke-obsessed establishment.
Breaking News!
For hot on the heels of the Farage story, came the sensational revelation that a clergyman living in Yorkshire had suffered a similar fate. The vicar’s (There’s something so delightfully English about ‘vicar’, don’t you think?) building society whipped away its welcome mat from beneath his reverence’s feet simply because he was straight talking ~ perhaps because he is straight? Believing naively in the corny old mantra that he lived in the land of free speech ~ hadn’t the political establishment and BBC been telling him this for years? ~ instead of holding back like many people do (We are not supposed to say that, are we?), he criticised the building society of which he had been a client for years, for promoting gender issues.
For this unforgiveable sin, he was promptly given the bumsrush. He was stripped of his pieces of plastic. The bank pulled down his accounts and, finding himself in Queer Street, a very unpleasant place to be, almost as bad as Radio 3, he was given a proper defrocking, if only in the financial sense. When the MailOnline latched onto this, it and its readers went ballistic, and then, as usual, they made some tea and quietly went back to the crossword.
Seven across: Every shirt has a silver lining, even a lifted shirt.
The dual plights of Mr Farage and the vicar of Wake-up-Call, serve to remind us yet again of the financial tsars central role in pushing the pseudo-liberal agenda.
It is bad enough that all of us are expected to change our avatars to the colours of the Ukrainian flag, when most of us have no idea where exactly Ukraine is or what we are changing our avatars for. What next? Compulsory membership of the Fudge Packers’ Union and mandatory Gay Pride jabs? Thank heavens for the prophesy that Pride comes before a fall and that still strong countries like Russia are determined to make a stand, acting as a bulwark against the rising tide of Western woke.
As the political elite and banking institutions push us towards a cashless society to achieve their tripartite goal of surveillance, tracking and control, the daunting realisation that it is no longer politicians but super-rich globalist bankers who run our western countries and who are sufficiciently confident and arrogant enough to go way beyond cancelling culture to rubbing you out completely, is a sobering thought indeed.
I now have proof of being lied to by @CouttsandCo over PEP status.
They are dishonest in the extreme and above all else breached privacy. I am considering my options.
Closing bank accounts, and a cashless society, means complete control. We must fight these corporate forces. pic.twitter.com/sPvOutn2cH
The time is coming fast when the only way to thrive and prosper in UK Plc is to sit on a sunbed for a week, wrap yourself in a blanket, grab the latest hi-tech phone, jump an inflatable dinghy and steam across the channel with the aid of the Royal Navy to be given a nice, free comfortable room in a top UK hotel.
No need to hurry; no need to rush; no need to have a bank account as the trip is all-inclusive. And the offer is ending no time soon.
Freddie Mercury off the chart in Russia’s Kaliningrad
Published: 6 May 2022 ~ Freddie Mercury Kaliningrad House is one in a million
Were you, or are you, a fan of Freddie Mercury? I cannot say that moustachioed Freddie or his band Queen did very much for me, although they did produce one or two memorable tracks. But something tells me that the owner of this property (see photos), not very inconspicuously tucked away in Russia’s Kaliningrad region’s countryside, has more than a passing admiration for the flamboyant singer songwriter, his unforgettable stage persona and outstanding vocal range.
Freddie Mercury Kaliningrad House
Bright pink with a stencilled silhouette of Freddie strutting his stuff, its not the sort of property that you might expect to find in, well almost anywhere really, but least of all in a small Russian hamlet.
My favourite musician, back ~ way back ~ in the progressive-rock era of my youth, was Frank Zappa and his innovative and rather unconventional band the Mothers of Invention.
Inspired by the Mercury tribute, I am trying to imagine the exterior makeover of our 18th century UK family home had I undertaken it using various artistic devices from some of Zappa’s zany album covers, perhaps a complete rendition of Freak Out! or the imagery used on the soundtrack album of Zappa’s surreal psychedelic and Freudian-infused musical monolith 200 Motels.
I am almost certain had I attempted such a profane project that the planning department of Northants County Council not to mention the parish council would have moved to have me committed, especially if there was a real danger that neither could make any money out of it.
However, in the case of Freddie House, it sort of grows on you, don’t you think?
The other advantage that the owner of this property has over us in Britland is that in the UK we would not be allowed to paint a Union Jack on the side of the house combined with Queen’s Crown motifs, for the very reasonable reason that it might offend minority imports. You have to admit, however, that the red, white and blue cuts a rather dashing figure! I think the Union Jack should be painted on every wall in the UK, particularly every wall in London!
In the Kaliningrad provinces, possibly an embryonic catalyst is at work, subliminally suggesting the constitution of an entire village exterior designed on the principle of tributes to favourite rock artists. Would Zappa have a hand in this, he could well have called it Tinsel Town.
Meanwhile, until that day which never may dawn, here’s looking at you Fred! 😊
Posts devoted to the Kaliningrad region, Russia, recent and not so …
Published: 23 December 2021 How to deal with a vaccinated liberal family member
Preamble
As the stigmatisation of the unvaccinated steps up a gear, creating that two-tier society which Nigel Farage so accurately predicted a few weeks ago, the relentless drive to coerce people into having a vaccine which they neither trust nor want takes on a more cynical and sinister nature, targeting families in a blatant attempt to pit one member against the other using sanctimony, fear and guilt as weapons. Thus, we see yet another article following in the footsteps of the two I examined earlier in my posts, The Liberal Solution to Anti-vaxxers and Don’t let that man spoil your vaccinated Christmas!, titled ‘How to deal with unvaccinated family members at Christmas’1 from The Independent (Independent my arse! Who said that?).
In order to level the playing field a little, I thought it only fair that consideration should be given to the conundrum of how to deal with an unwanted guest from the point of view of an unvaccinated family, whose only wish is to spend a normal family Christmas free from the constraints and self-righteous sermonising that so often is par for the course with the uneasy vaccinated. I make no apology for wedding the vaccinated example in my ‘How to deal with …’ version to a specific ideology as, from what I hear, see, read and experience, it is generally people of this persuasion who are the most vocal, vociferous and intransigently bigoted and, therefore unsurprisingly, the most obsessed and controlling. It is what fear does.
How to deal with a vaccinated liberal family member at Christmas
Christmas comes but once a year and with it that old chestnut of yet another coronavirus variant. Last Christmas it was just plain old Covid-19, but for Christmas 2021 it’s been given a jolly name, Omicron, known by its friends as Moronic, and news of its alarming rate of transmission, dramatic and sensationalised, is continuing to spread rapidly around the UK, thanks to the UK media. Bad news sells, folks!
A figure pulled out of nowhere claims that more than a million people will ruin their Christmases by subjecting themselves to self-isolation, which is good news for lonely guys who will not feel half as embarrassed sitting at home with the budgerigar, a meal for one, no children, as the courts gave custody to the wife, whilst spending Christmas in a rented flat as the wife got the family home. It’s called equality ~ of the liberal kind.
Never mind, they can always console themselves with a daily dose of Coronavirus statistics. Friday 17 December was an important day in the coronavirus statistic watchers’ calendar. On this day, so the media solemnly swears, there was more coronavirus infections than on any other: 93,000 (so they tell us!). But take heart, rumour has it that two pricks of Pharter’s Covid-19 vaccine offer a whopping great 70 per cent protection against whistling off to hospital, and a man who plays Bingo, and knows all about numbers, has said that it also gives 33 per cent protection against getting it. But he’s a lonely guy who works for a liberal newspaper, so he probably doesn’t get it, or get it very often, and even if he did get it, it would most likely be in a place where most of us would not want it.
And it really wouldn’t be a Coronavirus Christmas without mentioning boosters, so let it be known that ‘early tests’ indicate ~ and let’s face it, everything about the vaccine is an ‘early test’ (too early) ~ that yet another Pharter’s prick, a booster, may be all that’s needed to convince omicron to sling its hook and go and look for a less polluted body.
In the meantime, you could not do any worse than click on the government website, where it is suggested that getting fully vaccinated is the best way of protecting yourself from continual harassment about getting vaccinated.
Funnily enough, not everybody is buying it. It was written on a fag packet that one-third of Londoninstaners (‘Oh, maybe it’s because they’re not Londoners …’) were sticking two fingers up at all of it and adopting an attitude of, ‘Well, you can F!*K Right Off!’. But this hasn’t stopped the boats coming.
Nevertheless, the chances are that when families get together this Christmas, with no intention of self-isolating ~ who is going to miss out on all that free grub and booze ~ some of them might be vaccinated! There is also the possibility that some of them might be liberal!
This could be a cause for real concern, since, according to what everyone knows, mixing with vaccinated liberals means that you’re 20 times more likely to be subject to ranting, raving, frothing at the mouth and scenes of toy-throwing hyperventilation than you are of catching coronavirus.
But how do you tactfully approach the subject with family members that have this misfortune? And what if they, the vaccinated, are suffering from the delusion that you are willing to let them doss at your home over Christmas? And is there the slightest possibility of avoiding boring conversations about coronavirus bullshit when you know full well that even an unvaccinated liberal (if there is such a thing) can never resist bringing his, her or its, Guardian-inspired nonsense into the house, even when you have asked them to wipe their boots.
Dealing with a vaccinated liberal family member at Christmas
A man who always wanted to be a counsellor (he’s liberal) but didn’t know how to spell it so ended up a councillor instead, came out with the best understatement that anyone has heard since Waddington’s invented the family game Rowopoly, namely that Christmas can be a stressful time.
“Considering that last year we were all lucky not to spend Christmas together,” said this man, “the usual family rows that we would have had may well have been simmering for a good twelve months. Add to the toxic mix a family member, or two, who are vaccine control freaks and readers of The Independent and someone could well end up flying across the festive table. Being aware of this, and coming prepared with a first aid kit and, if you live in London, a stab vest or two, could be prudent.”
The man, whom everyone is rather glad is not a family member, for if he was coming for Christmas dinner he would be the first to have his head pushed into the trifle, went on to counsel that the issue of vaccinations will certainly come up if one or more of your vaccinated family is a liberal, as they won’t be able to keep their gobs shut ~ do they ever!
Not wanting to make us any more neurotic than we are at present, thanks to endless twaddle about coronavirus, the man, who would do better keeping his pseudo-psychology to himself, suggested that the best thing we could do to prepare ourselves for a heated Christmas row was to practice what it was we were going to say to the vaccinated lefty and get the boot in first. A beginner’s course in martial arse would be advisable, which you will not be able to take without a vaccination passport. The prickless will just have to rely on the way they usually deal with conflict, which might mean falling back on those stress-relieving breathing exercises or, alternatively, unwrapping that baseball bat Christmas present ahead of the festivities.
Asking yourself questions like, “How do I usually approach conflict? What triggers my anger more than anything else?” won’t help any if the answer is a self-righteous vaccinated lefty, but at least you could say so, later, in court.
In the last and honest analysis, heated discussions have the unfortunate habit of breaking out when they want to, so nothing that you do to prevent one from happening will work, especially after you’ve stuffed yourself with mounds of grub, knocked back several G&Ts and swilled two bottles of red. The best thing to do is ditch the psychobabble and brace yourself for a bumpy ride. After all, it is Christmas, and a good old family bust-up is as traditional as wrapping the cat in holly and clipping a piece of mistletoe to the belt buckle of your trousers.
If the vaccinated do bring up the topic of vaccination, which they will, stay cool, be curious, pretend to listen to what the other person is saying, no matter how stupid it is, don’t jump to the right conclusions ~ keep them to yourself ~ and if all else fails offer the argumentative vaccinated more roast potatoes, using your roast potato mandate.
Just to ensure that there is no possibility of avoiding a family rift, which will divide the family for ever, you could always take the following steps.
Health advice on enduring Christmas with vaccinated family members (especially if they are liberal)
Don’t ask everyone to wear masks unless it is part of a silly Christmas party game
Apparently, some clown from a university in America has advised that if you are a vaccinated family inviting unvaccinated family members to join you on Christmas Day, you should insist that everyone wears masks, including children over two years of age. As there is no real evidence that masks are effective and, in fact, may do more harm than good, our advice is stick to the paper hats. They are a lot jollier and, unless you want to look especially stupid on your Christmas photos this year, more so than when wearing a paper hat, common sense and logic would suggest that what the gentleman from the university in America is telling you is a lot of unfortunate bollocks. Conversely, therefore, if you are an unvaccinated family and can think of no way out but to invite vaccinated relatives, by all means let them wear masks. Eating and drinking may be a little tricky for them, but at least by combining these activities with a mask the possibility of receiving a lecture on why you should be wearing one and choking along with them should be considerably reduced.
Ask vaccinated liberal guests to provide proof of a recent psychiatric test
The same man from the American university, Professor Twat, suggested that in the case of a vaccinated family inviting unvaccinated guests, the vaccinated should be ordered to take a lateral flow test? Why would anyone want to have their drains inspected just because its Christmas? Oh, yes, with all that gutsing and swilling it could be a good idea.
We suggest unvaccinated families inviting vaccinated guests not to be so stupid. We all know that vaccinations do not stop the spread of coronavirus but insulting the guests with apartheid-type requests prior to the big day could precipitate the very bust-up that you are trying to avoid, or at least save for later.
However, since we are led to believe that one in three people with Covid-19 do not have any symptoms, it is not inconceivable that one in three vaccinated family members might not show symptoms of voting Labour, although hard experience has taught us that asymptomatic Labour supporters are a very rare thing indeed. So just ask them to bring along proof of a recent psychiatric report on why they or anybody else for that matter would want to vote Labour and tell them as logically as you can that since they could be spreading the liberal virus without knowing it, testing themselves repeatedly, by reciting their doctrines in front of the mirror, might eventually lead to a full recovery from something they did not know that they had.
Try to limit the number of households
Professor T advises that limiting the number of people gathering at Christmas, especially the vaccinated, might not stop coronavirus spreading, but it will ‘sure as hell, boy!’ reduce the risk of someone getting punched on the snout. He fails to warn, however, that cherry picking who comes and who does not is a failsafe way of assuring that never again will the family be united. But then, isn’t this what it’s all about!
If possible, host events outside
With advice like this I hope to get a job as a UK government health advisor. But, as loony as it may sound, it is not without merit. As a method of avoiding coronavirus uptake by reducing the risk of airborne transmission it is spot on, especially if you are one of a group and you all sit upwind. Even better, however, is the possibility it offers for ‘dealing with’ that vaccinated liberal. It works whether your house has a garden or not. Just politely ask the vaccinated liberal to sit outside in the garden or, alternatively, on the pavement and close the door. If he or she is vaccinated, wearing a mask and you are treating him or her (or it, or other) to the six-foot distancing rule, there is nothing at all to complain of. Just make sure that the windows are closed, the double-glazing is of reasonable quality and pray for a fall of snow.
Lovely jubbly, job done. Now sit back and enjoy Christmas. You’ve earnt it!😌
Published: 14 December 2021 ~ How to Weaponise Your Old Soviet Water Tower
Travelling through the former East Prussian countryside with your history head on means looking out onto a peculiar and unique scene, a hybrid landscape where two chunks of geo-political and socio-cultural history collide, the one German and the other Soviet Russian. One of the most prominent reminders of the Soviet era is the regular and recurring presence of tall, slim cylindrical objects, sometimes made of metal but mainly cast from concrete, that sprout up out of the ground in the most unlikely of places.
To look at them, the first impression is that the giant stork’s nests that sit on top are so dense with branches and twigs that nothing less solid could possibly support them, but these obtrusive objects are not a Soviet ornithologist’s answer to housing the region’s storks, they are, in fact, water towers, the expanded crests of which are routinely commandeered by the long-legged wading birds for conversion into high-rise flats.
The size of the nests and the size of their occupants never cease to amaze me, and although I have grown used to the concrete fingers on which these nests and their homesteaders sit, pointing up to the sky like prehistoric surface-to-air missiles, they bookmark a period of history for me in which concrete structures predominate.
Whilst nest, bird and concrete post vary little from one example to another, I recently came across a combination that possessed in its composition something remarkably different. It is the one depicted in this post’s opening photograph. I hardly need to ask you to look carefully at the photograph to determine what that difference is.
How to weaponise your old Soviet water tower
It would appear that this particular Stork family has not responded lightly to the latest round of NATO sabre rattling and has taken precautionary measures to ensure that it is not caught napping. I mean what else could that be protruding from the nest if not some sort of high-powered anti-aircraft gun or advanced missile defence system?
I am no authority on birds, migrating or otherwise, so I cannot say whether England’s south coast is a habitat for stork’s nests or not, but, if so, we would be foolish not to take a leaf out of the Baltic Region’s Storks’ Survival Handbook.
During the Second World War a series of radar pylons strung along the south coast of England was credited as having parity with the Spitfire in preserving the country from Nazi invasion. Today, raised atop the White Cliffs of Dover, ‘Stork’ installations would obviously make excellent radar masts and also jolly good gun emplacements to ward off any invasion inconceivably orchestrated from across the English Channel.
Published: 20 May 2021 ~ The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad
The Kaliningrad region has two main coastal resorts, Zelinogradsk and Svetlogorsk. When I first came to this part of the world twenty years ago, both were quiet, sleepy and remote, rundown by the destabilising repercussions of perestroika but no less charming and appealing in the history of themselves and the beauty of their location.
Fast forward to the coronavirus summer of 2020, and we open the TARDIS doors onto two highly developed and equally commercialised venues teaming with people, not only bonafide Kaliningradians but Russia’s World and its Wife.
Closed borders, bans on international air travel and a finely tuned and successful alternative ‘holiday at home’ programme have seen tourism rocket, the word on the street being that virtually every hotel in and around the two main coastal resorts and in Kaliningrad itself are pre-booked for the summer season. Last year, a friend of ours who has a dacha in Zelenogradsk that she rents out during the summer season was able to grant us a couple of weeks free accommodation, which we were pleased to accept. This year, her dacha is fully booked. We will have to sleep on the beach.
The natural beauty of the Baltic Coast, Kaliningrad
Kaliningrad Oblast, the Kaliningrad region, is a relatively small piece of land. In fact, locals refer to it as ‘small Russia’ as distinct from the Russian mainland, which is ‘Big Russia’. Although transport facilities have greatly improved, with good rail connections and upgraded rolling stock together with a spanking new road system of motorway standard, the sheer volume of people that flood here in the summer months and the increasing number of people moving here from Big Russia or, as a friend of ours put it, people with deep wallets who can afford to buy holiday homes, can, when the sun comes out, create if not a logistics nightmare at least a logistics headache.
For beach bums this is a bit of a bummer. The last thing that young, toned bodies eager to exhibit themselves on the best stretches of sandy beach want is to be stuck where they cannot be seen, all hot and sweaty, in a three-mile traffic tailback. What about my new tattoos or my little skimpy bikini! It is at times like these that Kaliningrad ‘O Blast’ really lives up to its name!
But take heart! All is not lost! For those of us who appreciate natural beauty, free from the face- and buttock-lifting Botox of commercialisation, the Kaliningrad region possesses many unique off-the-beaten-track locations that have not yet entered the telescopic sites of the cash-quick entrepreneur.
What these secluded coastal places do not have in terms of grand hotels and expensive restaurants, they more than make up for in timeless quality, and whilst they may be lacking in sandy beaches and ever-rolling waves they are also lacking in hordes of people. In other words, such places are the preferred habitat for the solace-seeking discerning coastal visitor, a haven for the sleepy backwater type who values the natural world above artifice and seclusion above high-density beach bathers.
The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad
It may take a little more effort to find where you are going to than it does when you go to the coastal resorts, but once you have arrived there you will be glad you made the trip.
True outdoor types will marvel at the idyll of small inlets shaped and shuttered by wetland reed beds that form a pie-crust pattern of coves along a rambling scenic coastline unmolested by change, a coastline replete with all kinds of waterfowl, a fascinating ecosystem offering beautiful views across the lagoon including inspiring sunrises and magnificent sunsets.
This chain of small coves is so tucked away from the modern world that as you sit there on one of the water-worn breakers gazing out to sea, Gates, Shutterbugger, indeed the entire Silicon Valley mob, seem as distant and insignificant as second-rate villains in a Marvel Comic (just don’t forget to switch off your mobile phone!).
The Natural Beauty of the Baltic Coast Kaliningrad
Here, the only connection that you need are those that connect you with the real world ~ your natural senses. Tune your mind to these and sentience just takes over.
The large boulder that you are sitting on could be one of a group, one of an arched construction that follows the shape of the cove, or an early rock in the long parade that stretches out into the bay. It is a good place on which to perch and contemplate, if it wasn’t, then why would those sea birds mimic you?
Mick Hart & Olga Hart, Baltic Coast (May 2021)
In some places the coves are beaches in miniature, wide enough to lay a blanket and to bed down on for an afternoon’s duration; in others, they are a natural composition of millions of small shells and tubular reed fragments.
Closer to civilisation, extensive gardens of old German and Soviet houses nestle just a few yards away from the waterline, whilst gnarled, split and hollowed out old crack willow trees, which generations of children, before PlayStation came along, made rudimentary playgrounds out of, still support swings and climbing ropes from their strong, low-lying, outstretched branches.
Mick Hart & Olga Hart, Baltic Coast, Russia (May 2021)
Away from the villages, nature takes over completely: on one side, the relatively still water surface shimmers on the lagoon, on the other, tall encompassing reeds, wetland meadows or dense woodland complement the sequestered scene.
The Kaliningrad region has two main coastal resorts, Zelinogradsk and Svetlogorsk. They are well publicised, and rightly so, as much for their beautiful sandy beaches and tantalising seascapes as for their history and their architecture. But the Kaliningrad region also has an evocative natural coastline, an ecological treasure trove that is as near and dear to the heart as it is far from the madding crowd. It is a many jewelled retreat in this extraordinary region’s crown; not somewhere where you go to, but somewhere where you go to be.
Over the wire the buzz word is Telegraph 25 October 2024 ~ Telegraph Restaurant Zelenogradsk Wired for Quality “It’s all so confusing,” so says a friend of mine and quite often. He’s a scientist, now retired, so he should know. And he’s referring to life. When I echo his sentiments, “It’s all so confusing,” he… Read more: Telegraph Restaurant Zelenogradsk Wired for Quality
Bussing it around the Kaliningrad region 31 July 2024 ~ See Kaliningrad Region by Coach What is it about coach-based tours that have long been unappealing to me? And, if I faithfully eschewed them in the UK, why would I volunteer to go on one, here, in Kaliningrad? Well, I certainly had the means, the… Read more: See Kaliningrad Region by Coach
Balt Restaurant Zelenogradsk Review Updated: 30 June 2024 | First Published: 29 January 2023 ~ Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT a Lesson in Harmony I’m sure, almost certain, that it was not there 18 months ago when I last visited Zelenogradsk (doesn’t time fly!), but it was there now. I am talking about a new restaurant ~… Read more: Zelenogradsk Restaurant BALT a Lesson in Harmony
Promenade Apartments Svetlogorsk Showcase Stylish Living 30 May 2024 ~ Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History At the point at which the new stretch of promenade on Svetlogorsk’s coastline meets the old, a broad canvas containing an evocative black and white photograph of the promenade as it appeared when Svetlogorsk was German Rauschen effectively… Read more: Svetlogorsk Promenade a New Chapter in its History
An incomplete German masterpiece 17 May 2024 ~ Ozerki Lock Masurian Canal the brave and beautiful Pursuant to our trip to Znamensk, we motored on that same afternoon to a lock on the Mazurski Canal (aka Masurian Canal), a German project implemented in 1911. The plan was for the canal to connect Königsberg (now Kaliningrad)… Read more: Ozerki Lock Masurian Canal the brave and beautiful
Mick Hart’s totally biased review of bottled beers* in Kaliningrad (or how to live without British real ale!)
Article 12: Leningradskoe
Published: 29 March 2021 ~ Lifting the bridge on Leningradskoe beer
Over the past few weeks, I have been playing it safe. Whenever I have had ‘the ‘ankerings’, as my old East London friend used to call the acute desire for beer, I have gone for something tried, tested and approved, which in my case has been Lidskae and Ostmark. But what’s life without a bit of diversity (not too much, mind; look what it’s done to the UK!)?
You don’t drink the label but, as with all that we consume, appearance and packaging is everything. The same rule applies whether you are shopping in the supermarket for pasta or shopping in your local nightclub. Being a lover of the past, it is not surprising that I usually go for beers the bottles of which are labelled as though they belong in the archives of a library’s historic records section or carry a typeface and/or image that speaks of the quality of things that were and which can never be again.
On this drinking occasion, a few weeks ago, I chose something that on first consideration might seem to go against the selective criteria grain, inasmuch as the branding has a stark, cold, metallic-feel about it, but, if you look again, you will see that the purchase compulsion was inspired in much the same way as it was when I chose Gold Mine beer. In fact, if you compare the labels of the two products the dissimilarities are insignificant. Both incorporate cool blue, white and gold colours and both favour cityscape skylines, silhouettes picked out by a mystical luminosity, somewhere between the aegis of dusk and dawn.
Then I was talking about Gold Mine beer; here I am referring to the beer Leningradskoe. In the case of the latter, the imagery concerns itself with Leniningrad, an open river bridge set against the domes and spires of St Petersburg (formerly Leningrad, after it was St Petersburg ~ if you know what I mean?). So, although it is not a million years ago, the historical connection still holds true. I suppose the attraction lies in the disequilibrium, the nearness and distance evoked by the reversing memory of the Soviet Union.
Lifting the bridge on Leningradskoe beer
So, purchase compulsion explained, let’s get down to the drinking of it.
The initial aroma is one of strong corn, in other words it is grainy rather than anything else. It arrives in the glass looking like Gold Mine’s long, lost brother ~ bright and golden. The head fizzes, rises to an inch but dissolves rather smartishly, leaving just a trace ~ a little bit like a lifting draw bridge: up one minute and down the next. The beer’s carbonation does not, from its appearance within the glass, have an overwhelming disposition, but there is sufficient of it to ensure that it holds up the relatively low flavour, rather like a pair of 1940s’ braces. In fact, I suspect that it is the carbonation that keeps the body of the beer afloat, the cunning adjunct that delivers the touch-of-bitter taste which sets it apart from bog-standard lager.
The aftertaste is not strong, but it is palatable, becoming more so after the initial twang has died. To my mind, and tastebuds, it is this feature, two pints later, that most distinguishes and recommends it. In the last analysis, it is a kind of half-way house, occupying a surprising place somewhere between keg bitter and lager, and because in its earlier stages it is clear and crisp, although I was drinking it on the outskirts of winter, in the midst of a nice summer’s day, whilst sitting back in the garden watching your wife do the weeding, I anticipate that it would be cool ~ as cool as the label suggests ~ and also rather refreshing.
So, whilst you are buying your wife a trowel in preparation for summer, don’t forget to treat yourself to a bottle of Leningradskoe. You know, if nobody else does, that you deserve it!
😁TRAINSPOTTING & ANORAKS Name of Beer: Leningradskoe Brewer: Baltika Breweries Where it is brewed: St Petersburg Bottle capacity: 1.5 litres Strength: 4.7% Price: It cost me about 137 rubles (£1.32) Appearance: Pale golden Aroma: Strong corn Taste: Hybrid lager & keg bitter with satisfying after taste Fizz amplitude: 5/10 Label/Marketing: Soviet Would you buy it again? Would do Marks out of 10: 6
Mick & Olga Hart celebrate their 19th wedding anniversary in Svetlogorsk, Russia.
Published: 5 September 2020 ~ Englishman Married Twice in Russia in One Day
31 August 2020 was our wedding anniversary. Nineteen years together and never a cross word. At least, I used to think so until I learnt more Russian and discovered that what for years I had presumed to be my wife’s words of endearment were in fact expletives. How does it go? Ignorance is bliss.
To mark the occasion of my good fortune and her bad, I suggested that we take a trip to Svetlogorsk, the Baltic coast seaside resort, and retrace our steps in time. There, we would visit the church where we were married and call in at the hotel nearby, Starry Doktor (Old Doctor), where betwixt the two ceremonies, the first at the church and the second at the Russian equivalent of the UK’s registry office, we had, with our guests, stopped off for a pizza and something light to drink.
Olga, my wife, had wanted a church wedding but in Russia church weddings are not officially recognised by the State, which meant that we would need to be married twice on the same day: first in the church in Svetlogorsk and then at the registry office in Kaliningrad.
Before I could be married in the Russian Orthodox Church, it was necessary for me to attend an orthodox church to seek absolution for my sins.
As I was in England prior to the wedding, and living at that time in Bedford, I had to travel to the Orthodox church in Kensington, London, in order to honour the obligation that the Orthodox church required. On hearing about the purpose of my trip, some of my friends opined that I would be there for a very long time.
Today, 31 August 2020, the plan was to call in at Starry Doktor first, for an old-times’ sake pizza, and from there walk to the church.
As well as being our wedding anniversary, another anniversary of almost equal proportions was about to be enacted, which was that this would be the first time that I would eat something and drink beer in a restaurant, discounting one bottle outside a beachside café a few weeks back, since the coronavirus air-raid siren sounded, which for us was sometime in March this year.
The masked traveller
We travelled by train, as we were in the mood to do so, equipped with regulation coronavirus face masks and antiseptic hand wipes, both of which became progressively useless as normal life took over.
It is difficult, if not perfectly ridiculous, wiping hands, wiping the top of bottles, wiping, for example, a sweet wrapper and in the process of doing so forgetting what order you are doing it in or whether you have done it at all. The best anyone can achieve in normal circumstances is to go through the motions and then give up.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
Arriving in Svetlogorsk we found that the number of visitors, which after a very heavily subscribed summer season due to the Russian state’s incentive to boost domestic tourism in the wake of coronavirus restrictions, was at last diminishing. Autumn was on its way; holidays were over; school term was about to resume.
Nineteen years ago to the day, the weather had been superb. Mr Blue Sky had garbed himself in his best robes for the occasion and his friend, Mr Sun, although as bright as the proverbial new penny, had turned down the heat with respect to the presence of autumn.
Summer, like the madness of youth, was fading fast and as it ebbed away was being replaced by that distinctive autumnal tinge. In autumn the air becomes thinner and our senses more finely attuned, especially our sense of smell. Summer is the time of noise, laughter, exuberance; autumn the soft and mellow fragrance of yellow and auburn leaves, of mossy dampness and that enticing nip in the air that tells of winter’s imminence. It is the seasonal ante-chamber, the last stop for quiet reflection, before the cold embrace.
When we left for the coast by train this morning, it had just stopped raining, but upon our arrival in Svetlogorsk (I can hear Victor correcting me ‘Rauschen’) the sun had broken through and someone up there was being kind to us on our anniversary as the temperature was perfect. We are autumnal people.
We walked the short distance to Starry Doktor, and I was both pleased and discomfited to see that my favourite property, the old Mozart café, had at last been bought and was now being renovated. Whatever you do, please do not spoil this wonderful example of Gothic Rauschen, I heard myself whisper.
We passed the smallest antique shop in the world, thankfully not open today or we would have bound to have been in there buying something, and found ourselves opposite the newly constructed and open Hartman Hotel, a resplendent establishment if ever there was one, which, with its imposing vintage automobile swishly parked outside, is bound to give Svetlogorsk’s Grand Hotel and Hotel Rus a challenging run for their money.
Information board outside Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia
Starry Doktor, we were pleased to find, had not changed. And neither can it, as the information board outside the building denotes. There was no change inside either, not to the layout and décor or in the reception that we received, which was rather Soviet in kind.
“We’d like to order a pizza. Can we eat outside?”
“No”
“But we can order a pizza?”
“Yes.”
Olga looks through the menu.
“What sort of vegetarian pizzas do you have?”
“You will have to look.”
“OK. Can we have cheese and tomato?”
“We don’t do that. We do cheese with tomato paste.”
“OK. We will have that.”
“Which one do you want?”
“Cheese and tomato paste?”
“You need to look in the menu and tell me which one that is.”
Back to the menu.
“Margherita.”
Smiling and being ‘mine welcoming hostess’ was not apparently on the menu either and as we were the only patrons, we found ourselves acting in that strange way that one does in cafés and restaurants when the atmosphere is not quite to one’s liking, ie talking in low whispers. Nevertheless, this was all part of the traditional service and being us, odd, the nostalgic input was strangely appreciated.
When the pizza arrived it was not thin crust; it was very thin crust. If I did not already have a pocket handkerchief, I could have folded up a piece and used it as such. However, it was not without taste, and putting behind me almost all notions of misapprehension regarding coronavirus and drinking from a bar-room glass, my first beer for yonks on a licensed premises was greatly appreciated.
Starry Doktor Hotel, Svetlogorsk, Russia; August 2020
From Starry Doktor we walked the short distance to the small church where we had been married. On the way we were dismayed to find that one of our favourite houses had been swallowed up by a new, totally out of scale, brash ‘look how much wealth we’ve got’ refit. I could not be sure, but since our last visit in the spring of this year, it looked as though another gargantuan villa, again completely off the scale chart, had sprung up between the pine trees on the opposite side of the road.
“Will they ever stop building?” Olga grumbled.
Just for us, or so we would like to think, the weather was getting better by the hour. Our little red-brick church, resting on top of an eminence, with its three or four tiers of steps leading up to the entrance, peeped through the birch and pine trees; the sunlight peeped through them too, impressing the surface of the church with dainty twig and leaf patterns, whilst the sky above smiled bright and blue and the air about us blessed our senses with that first cool note of autumn.
Svetlogorsk Church, Russia, August 2020
If you were watching my words as moving images on a screen, we would now defer to the cinematographic technique where everything goes wavy, the implication being that we were going back in time. So let us do just that, and ripple away to the day of our wedding in August 2001.
Englishman married twice in russia in one day
On this day, 19 years ago, we were residing, with our wedding guests from England, at the Lazurny BeregHotel ~ alas, another victim of Svetlogorsk’s build ‘em big and build ‘em high development. Lazurny Bereg, which was a mid-sized building and a nice hotel with bags of character, has since been replaced by something high-rise. I am not sure whether the new-build is an apartment block or a block of flats for holiday lease ~ c’est la vie.
The church service was set for 11am, so it was breakfast at 9am, and togged up and ready to go by 10am, but first we had to run the gauntlet of a series of Russian games, pre-wedding reception frolics, which, to be quite frank, as I was as nervous as ~ you know the word ~ I could just as well have dispensed with.
My wife to be was being waited on by friends, who were helping with her make-up and dressing her in her wedding apparel ~ well, that’s what she told me they were doing? Meanwhile, at an appointed time, I was instructed to go to the front entrance of the hotel with my brother David and our friends from England, then, when the word was given, I was to enter the building and proceed upstairs to the first-floor hallway where our hotel room was situated.
The word was given and in we went. As soon as we reached the first flight of steps we were met by a delegation of my wife-to-be’s, Olga’s, friends. Two of these could speak English, otherwise the scenario would have been considerably more complex. As it was, we worked out fairly quickly the nature of the first game. Apparently, I was not allowed to see my fiancée unless I crossed the palms of those before us with rubles, ie I had to pay a levy!
After a great deal of banter about would you take a cheque or how about an IOU, I offered two and six, but the Russians were having none of it. We had to pay and pay in rubles.
Never mind whether my wife was worth 200 rubles, about £1.30 at that time, unfortunately I was ruble-less in Russia. As luck would have it, my brother David’s wallet was better endowed than mine, and he handed over the requisite notes. He reminded me about a year ago, however, that I never did pay him back and that technically my wife was his, a subject on which I will say no more …
Having stumped up the cash, we were then escorted to the first-floor hall. Neatly laid out on a table in front of us were a series of family photographs featuring children. I was asked to guess which one was Olga. I think I was on the verge of getting it wrong when one of our friends blurted out the answer, who then shouted “David’s paid the money and I got the photo right, your claim [on my wife] is looking more dodgy by the minute!” This is what happens when you let Londoners come to your wedding!
Now it was time for Olga to emerge from the room in all her finery, but instead, the hotel door opened and there stood a large man dressed in women’s clothing. He gave me a Goliath hug, informing me as he did that if I did not pay a ‘ransom’ I would have to marry him instead. He would not have dared to suggest such a thing today, given England’s queer reputation! But back in 2001 things were not so very far gone.
If only she’d have shaved!
Once again it was down to my brother to make good with the rubles, who by this time was protesting that my lack of rubles was clearly a fix.
At last Olga appeared. She had decided to forsake the Russian trend for large, voluminous and pleated wedding dresses for something less ostentatious, and she looked lovely. Mind you, Andrew, the man in drag, was not a bad second.
It was only a short journey from the hotel to the church, but a mini-bus had been hired to get us there. As the church service was to be presided over by an Orthodox priest, who naturally would be speaking Russian, I had been given cues and, acting on these cues, instructed as to what my responses should be. So nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I love Orthodox churches. The richly painted and opulent icons together with the mist from and smell of wax candles intermingled with incense creates the most hallowed of atmospheres, and our church, although modest by big city standards, had an ethos all of its own.
Englishman married twice in Russia in one day
The ceremony required us to walk in circles at given points in the service and to have two people standing behind each of us holding gold-tone crowns above our heads. One of Olga’s friends did the honours for her, whilst my brother held the crown above me. He complained later that his arms had ached considerably and that the task had not been made easier by the tight fit of his jacket. If I said it once in those days, I had said it a hundred times: avoid cheap suits from Hepworths.
My brother, David, crowning me
All things considered, the service went well. Yes, it was a pity that when the priest asked me if I had another wife as an impediment to getting married that I answered yes instead of no, but I think I got away with it!
The wedding ceremony (blurry pictures courtesy of pre-digital photography, although the originals are sharper than this)
Outside, after a good round of photographs, this was the point at which we walked across the road to Starry Doktor, where we congregated outside for a drink and a pizza. I stayed on non-alcoholic beverages as we had a heavy itinerary in front of us.
Pizza time was essentially a way of killing time. In Russia, as I mentioned earlier, church marriages are not officially recognised by the State, and in order to be officially married, to have the marriage registered, we had to travel into Kaliningrad and get married a second time at the official registry office.
Forty minutes later, a cavalcade of cars whisked us off to the city, about 25 miles away. It was quite impressive, even allowing for the gallows humour about fleets of black cars and funerals.
The registry office functioned from inside one of Kaliningrad’s big old concrete monoliths, which has since been given a face job, but back in those days it was a daunting sight, all weather-stained and pock marked.
From a small portico the entrance led into a hall of typical marble effect. We had first to cross this hall into one of the small offices at the far end and get ourselves ‘booked in’. However, my passport, which at that time I should have been carrying with me day and night, was back in Svetlogorsk in the hotel. This omission caused something of a bureaucratic crisis in spite of the fact that the young lady in the office had seen and spoken to me half a dozen times the previous week, when we had visited the offices to ask questions about procedure. Just as it was beginning to look as though we would all have to come back next month, the issue was finally resolved upon the discovery that I was carrying a photocopy of my passport, which was accepted under the circumstances, but only after I had received a jolly good telling off ~ pity I could not understand what the young lady was saying.
All sorted, we were then ushered into an adjoining room, an antechamber to where the main event would take place. This was the ‘red room’. Why? Because it was; the walls were maroon and the furniture reproduction Louis something, the rather loud nature of which caused one of my compatriots to draw parallels between it and a bordello. He should know, I thought.
All looking amazed about something in Kaliningrad registry office’s ‘red room’ (31 August 2001)
We ambled around in this room for about ten minutes before being called into the official wedding chamber. This was a vast room indeed, highly ornate but empty except for a table and chair at one end, above which hung a large example of the Russian coat of arms. At the centre of the desk stood a small Russian flag and behind it a large ledger, which was waiting for me and the witnesses to sign.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding in Kaliningrad registry office, Russia, 31 August 2001
When it came to the crucial moment, the placing of the ring upon Olga’s finger, the music that was playing in the background was intercepted by the Beatles singing, of all things, ‘Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away …’ This, obviously, set the British guests rocking in the aisles, whilst Olga’s two female friends cried bitterly, not inspired by the romance of the moment but by the inconsolable belief that they were losing a friend forever, who, once married, would be whistled off to degenerate England never to be seen or heard of again.
From the ring and Paul McCartney, it was off to the front desk. I took up my position on the seat in front of the ledger and to the solemn refrain of the Russian national anthem, which thundered around the room, duly signed my name in the book. Olga then followed and the witnesses came forwarded and scribbled their monicas in the space allocated for this purpose.
Signing the official wedding book … Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The music changed to something full of glad tidings and amid the congratulations that we were well and truly spliced, and the kisses and kind words (Clive, my London friend, “Well, you’ve done it now!”) large bunches of flowers appeared and at last a tray of alcoholic beverages.
Outside, under the portico, the tradition of throwing the bride’s bouquet mirrored that in England and was caught by one of our English friends.
Now, all the official gubbings done and the church service completed, you would have thought that we would be off to the reception ~ not so. First, we had to honour the tradition of being driven around the city, a trip culminating in a visit to Kaliningrad’s principle Soviet war monument, where, in front of the eternal flame and at the steps of the commemorative obelisk, we would pay our respects with flowers.
The photographs that were taken here are among some of the most potent and memorable of that day and also reveal how lucky we had been with the weather.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding. At the Soviet war monument, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Before joining our other guests at the reception venue, we had one last call to make. This was for wedding photographs to be taken outside of Königsberg Cathedral and in the pillared vestibule containing the grave of Immanuel Kant, the German philosopher.
You can be sure that by the time we arrived at the reception hall, I was ready for a drink! But there were yet two more Russian wedding traditions that had to be observed before we could indulge.
The first was biting the loaf. Both my wife and I were assigned to this task, one after the other, the idea being that he or she who took the biggest bite would be awarded the role of dominant marriage partner. Olga went first and, always up for a challenge, I followed making sure that I took a massive bite. Whilst everyone was congratulating me on having taken the biggest bite, as with most things marital I had bitten off more than I could chew. Fortunately, the next act involved gulping back a glass of wine, which saved me from choking on the bread, and then we chucked our glasses over our shoulders and into the street behind us. One glass broke and the other glass bounced, but I never did ask what the symbolic significance of this was.
Our reception was held at what was then known as The Cabana Club, a restaurant/café bar with a Latin American theme. It was a good choice, an attractive venue equipped with three large rooms. One room served as the wedding reception area, the other as a dance hall and the one at the back a very large and quiet lounge, with comfy seats and soft music.
Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding reception at The Cabana Club, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
Alas, The Cabana is no more. It appears as if the building has been parcelled off. If I am not mistaken, a portion of the premises is now occupied by a small bar frequented by students and young folk, but as the interior of this latter bar is rather small, the rest of the old Cabana Club must have been subdivided for other purposes.
The reception
In essence, Russian wedding reception rooms are not so very different in configuration from their English counterparts. A table is placed at the head of the room for the bride, groom and other officiating ceremony members and the guests occupy either a chain of tables leading from the principal along both sides of the room or, as in our case, owing to the shape of the room, are dotted about here and there in groups. I believe there had been the usual head scratching about who should be sat with whom, and some license extended to unusual combinations, but at the end of the day concord was achieved.
One departure from British formality is that whereas in the UK it is customary for the best man and groom to speechify, in Russia everyone has a go. The food is served, and each guest in turn interrupts the eating process by standing up and delivering a speech as a precursor to toasting the newly wedded couple. Another significant difference is that whereas British tradition swerves heavily towards the jocular, speeches typically embroidered with satirical tales of lurid happenings from the stag night before and often inter-sprinkled with a ribald confetti of innuendos and smut, Russian speeches are characteristically deep and philosophical, well-meaning and sincere. They are also very long and made longer in our case as those guests who were bi-lingual acted as translators for their Russian companions so that we, the British contingent, could understand the sentiments expressed.
Among our guests was Sam Simkin, esteemed poet of the Kaliningrad region, and, of course, our dear friend Victor Ryabinin, artist-historian. I can see him now, peeping out from behind a picture that he had painted especially for us, delivering his speech with customary sincerity and humility. His presence was, as always, a source of warmth and reassurance. Sam Simkin presented us with a landmark book which both he and Victor Ryabinin had composed, The Poetry of Eastern Prussia.
Many guest speeches later, the dreaded moment arrived when I had to perform my speech. The content of this speech had been a bone of contention for months. I had to produce something which Olga could translate effectively to the Russian contingent, but the idiomatic nature of my speech and its typical recourse to innuendo made it difficult in this respect, and there had also been some controversy between Olga and myself about the tone of the piece.
The props that I would be using had also fallen under the critical spotlight: there was a doctored image of President Putin and the then Mayor of Kaliningrad with caption saying something about British invaders, a photocopy of one of our British wedding guests wearing a German helmet and, the pièce de résistance, a pair of hole-ridden and ragged Y-fronts. Whilst I had no doubt that the turn and tenor of my speech would have gone down well at a wedding party in Rushden, England, I was not entirely convinced, given the criticism aforehand, that it would be as well received, or for that matter understood, in Kaliningrad 2001.
Go for it! So I did. But all the way through I felt that I was on very shaky ground! In the event, I pulled it off ~ and I am not just talking about the underpants ~ better than I could have hoped for, but I was glad when it was over.
It really was time now to sit back and just get drunk, but Russian wedding parties are not like that. Before we could even think about relaxing in the traditional sense, we had a whole afternoon of games to contend with.
I will not go into detail about all of these, but restrict my comments to two. One had me wrapped in a blindfold. In front of me sat a row of ladies on stools with their legs crossed. My job was to walk down the line and fondle each of their knees and by this process, whilst blindfolded, identify my wife. I was not complaining and, yes, I did get it right!
The knee-feeling game: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia 2001
The second game was one we had played when we first came to Kaliningrad in 2000, at a New Year’s Day party. This game is one which we later exported to England and used to good effect at some of our own parties.
It goes like this. Three or more male players have a long piece of string attached to their trouser belts. Attached to the end of each string is a banana. Lined up in front of the players are three empty matchboxes. On the word ‘Go!’, all of the men have to thrust their hips in order to swing their bananas. As their bananas make contact with the matchboxes, the boxes begin to move. Each player has to move his matchbox in this way, the winner being the first to propel his matchbox over the finishing line by the powerful thrust of his hips and the decisive way he handles his banana.
David Hart prepares his for the ‘banana game’: Mick & Olga Hart’s wedding, Kaliningrad, Russia, 2001
To this day, the controversy persist over who won the contest and who cheated. In the final analysis, I think we agreed to compromise. The summation was that whilst the Russians may have had the biggest bananas, the British contingent had the best hip movements.
Cue wavy lines across the final image.
That was 19 years ago. This was not the first time we had returned to the little church on top of the hill in Svetlogosrk, but it was possibly the first time we had made the definitive connection between our wedding and the life we have had together since. The first time we had returned on the day of our anniversary.
We stood before the lectern where we had stood 19 years ago. We had a cuddle and kiss and Olga took the mandatory photographs for her Facebook account. And then we lit two candles and placed them in the sand-filled stand in front of one of the icons.
“Let us say thanks to God for each other, for the times we have had and hopefully have to come,” says Olga.
We also said thanks for all the experiences we had shared and for the people we had met along the way, including thanks for Victor ~ especially for Victor.
Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was radiant. It was a glorious day in Svetlogorsk (‘Rauschen, Mike’), as perfect as the day on which we had been married.
Mick & Olga Hart outside the church where they were married in 2001. Photo taken 31 August 2020. Svetlogorsk (Rauschen) Russia, the Kaliningrad region.
Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 2)
28 December 2000
Andrew’s and Ina’s flat was located in a newer and higher apartment block than the one we had just left. It was situated on an estate of high-rise flats, access to each building being controlled by intercom. This was a more than satisfactory security measure as there was little chance of breaching the heavy metal outer door without the lock being triggered.
Up three or
four flights of steps we went until we reached the door to their flat. We rang
the bell. There was the sound of a dog barking, the sound of a dog being told
to stop barking, the sound of a dog ignoring what it had been told and the door
opened. Standing there was Andrew, whom we had met briefly a few hours ago, and
his wife, Ina. “Hello! Welcome!” she intoned, welcoming us literally with open
arms. Andrew looked on, smiling amiably; the disobedient dog barked and barked
and barked and, whilst Olga and Ina launched into excited conversation, Joss
and I honed our skills in the art of the one-legged boot hop.
Russian Hospitality
It did not
take me long to realise that if Andrew and Ina had been a double act, Andrew would
have been the silent partner and Ina the live wire. Ebullient, expansive ~ both in speech and body language ~ Ina was
a dynamo of questions, curiosity and inquisitiveness. She was also a natural
organiser, a multitasker before the word acquired cult status, delegating
roles, assembling guests and playing the role of the perfect host as if she had
been born to it, which I had no doubt she had. Her social skills and
extroverted flair enabled her to introduce the other people present: her
friends Helen (whom I had met in Svetlogorsk) and husband Valordia and her,
Ina’s, son, whilst transacting other important hostess functions, such as seat
placements, finishing touches to the table arrangements and the all-important
consideration of who wanted what to drink. I did not know at that particular
time that at parties and social gatherings, Ina was often called upon to fill
the role of master of ceremonies, which she did comfortably and with
confidence, but had I have been made aware of this fact it certainly would not
have surprised me.
Of Helen I
have already written, but what of her husband Valordia? Like Andrew, he was another big man. Tall and
broad, with a receding hairline and big, thick, black moustache, he reminded me
of more muscular version of John Cleese and, as he had less English language at
his disposal than Andrew, who only spoke the odd word or two, but did so to
humorous effect, by relying on facial expression as his principal means of
communication Valordia’s John Cleese attributes became finely tuned and
compounded as the night went on, or perhaps, as the vodka went down.
One other person who was in our company that evening, whom I have not mentioned yet was Olga’s daughter, Polina. She was a tall, slim, 16-year-old, so I was not at all surprised when we took our seats at the table that brother Joss was occupying the chair next to her.
Out came
the vodka and before you could say ‘Bugger, that’s a big glass full!’, the
party was underway.
In between toasts
Food aplenty
The table
was already groaning under the weight of several large platters of different
salad mixes, umpteen bowls of pickles, large salvers of meats and fish, plates
of bread of various types and colour, bowls of spuds and other vegetables, and
it just kept on coming. I cast a rueful glance across the battlefield, hoping
that the aggregate diners were supporting an appetite equal to the gargantuan
volumes, and would have been quite content with my little plate of salad to
which Olga, urged on by Ina, kept adding. One thing I could rely on and that
was Joss: his first plate runneth over, and he was having no difficulty in whapping
back the vodka.
Conversation around the table was competing with the rattle of knives and forks on plates and with background music. Russian and English was spoken in sporadic bursts. Ina was keen to know ~ that is, keen to know everything about the British way of life: our customs, traditions, what we valued, how we socialised, our political views. There was no end to her curiosity, and whenever she could not think of the English word she wanted, she would briefly revert to Russian, as she asked Olga or Helen for clarification. All three ~ my wife, Ina and Helen are English language teachers ~ and as this was one of the few occasions when Helen and Ina would get to converse with native English speakers, amongst their other questions were ones which were language related: did we say it this way, was this word correct in this context, and what other idioms did we know? Andrew, who could understand a little English and also speak a few words, would throw in the odd phrase here and there, with humorous intent, whilst Valordia would breathe in with surprise, shake his head wisely, purse his lips when comments got saucy and chuckle whenever appropriate.
Soviet helmet? ~ no, that’s my brother
Kaliningrad Russian Hospitality
It was in
the midst of such frivolity, just as I completed my second course, that ‘the
boys’ jumped up, the lights went down, the background rock music found a new
high level and within seconds everyone had stopped eating and were leaping
around the room. This impromptu dancing spell lasted all of five minutes, after
which ‘the boys’ and some of ‘the girls’ made their way to the large covered
balcony for a smoke.
Before and after this eating interlude, many toasts, some very long and meaningful, soulful and sincere had been made, necessitating the quick downing of a large glass of vodka followed by an immediate refill.
Smoking over and it was back to the grub. I was just deluding myself into believing that I was doing rather well, when out on a huge plate came Ina’s pièce de résistance ~ a monolithic cabbage pie baked entirely with me in mind.
“It’s all
for you,” Olga beamed.
England expects every man to do his duty and I tried, believe me, I tried. But although I had three helpings, and must admit that it was rather good, my blighted guts had by now reached saturation point.
The boys
were up on their feet again; the rock music was blaring; the floor of the flat
was shaking ~ as was the pendant ceiling light ~ as those who had the energy,
not to mention the inclination, strutted their stuff on the ‘dance floor’. And
then it was off to the balcony for yet another smoke.
The evening
continued much in this same manner until no more food, no more dancing, no more
smokes and no more energy was left ~ only the vodka remained, and that we kept
on drinking.
Improving his looks
Relics of the Soviet era
Between times, we somehow made space to consider some nostalgic relics from the Soviet era. A visor cap was produced, of police origin complete with badge; two pairs of shoulder boards ~ one army and the other marine; and, Joss’s favourite, which he could not resist but wear, a rubber gas mask with a long respirator pipe. I mention this last item specifically, since having included the photograph I would not want you to get the wrong idea about what sort of occasion our evening had been.
Both Joss and I came away from this evening well fed and watered. Our hosts could not have looked after us better. We had experienced our first taste of Russian hospitality and in the process had learnt something of each other’s culture on a personal level, beyond the headlines and stereotypical dross bandied around by the media. Years later I came to understand the true significance of this first encounter with real Russian people. It was the first step in the direction my life would take me. I had no knowledge then that the adventure had already begun, but the good and open nature of the people I had met, the glimpse into a cultural world that I never knew existed, and the first faint, barely noticeable but deeply perceived singularity of this strangely magnetic city and region, so structurally imperfect but spiritually complete, had already begun to pull me in.
