JJZ-109

I don't know about you, but I find personalised number plates on cars to be really crass, a kind of nouveau-riche rite of passage.  The other morning while making my way to the metro station, I stumbled upon a Volkswagen van parked outside my building which I don't believe had a personalised plate, but if it did...well, goddamn.

Is it weird that this triggered thoughts of a certain Simpsons Halloween episode?

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"I told myself spreading news was part of a traveller's nature, but if I was being completely honest, I was just like everybody else: shit-scared of the great unknown. Desperate to take a little piece of home with me."


-D.

When I saw it was time for a change...

Aha.


A week in the northern city of Sankt Petersburg brought me intense rest, peppered with a dash of culture and a ladelful of expense.  Seriously, the main cities in Russia are fucking expensive-if you ever decide to go there yourself, make sure that you've taken out a second mortgage.  That, or, you know, sell your children or something.


Before I left, I promised a series of photographs documenting my journey, none of which actually detail my adventure to the architecturally stunning metropolis, but feature more prominently the random bullshit we all tend to glaze over when recounting the trips that change our lives.


I should preface this with a rather blunt confession, however.  Sadly, despite a feverish search for the remains of Grigori Rasputin's legendary appendage (reputedly on display in an Erotic museum/VD clinic-I shit you not), I was unable to locate the street and instead wandered for endless hours, robbed of the opportunity to mark the trip with a sight of (literally) epic proportions.


Anyway, without further ado:

Before I took the overnight sleeper train from Moscow, I decided to start the holidays on a high: a fucking good steak, a pitcher of Hoegaarden and an Oreo Ice Cream Cookie.  Munching on the steak made me realise something-the Big Texan Steak Challenge that Adam Richman demolished was a mere 7 times the size of the steak I consumed.  I could totally fucking compete.  Any doubts to my eating prowess, direct your queries to Sir Bitchalot.

A Wild Irn Bru Appears!  Who would have thought that the Russians had a taste for Scotland's national soft drink?

Better get used to the pictures of food and drinks...My daily breakfast on the trip.  Equivalent to £4 sterling.  Yup.  That's two pancakes and a small (A SMALL) coffee.  Cause I'm trying to watch my figure.

The story: walking along the street on my oddy knocky, ahead of me I caught sight of an army officer completely decked out and I resolved to take a picture that reflected how goddamned Russian he looked.  I couldn't very well just whip my camera out, as I'd be locked up for spying on State secrets, or something, so I surreptitiously slipped my phone out of my pocket and this was the result.  The most disappointing part-a mere three seconds after I took this, he very nearly landed on his arse.  Nothing more amusing than seeing a stern Russian army officer made a cunt of.

Imagine: I have to come to St. Petersburg to try Carls Jr.  Oh, and while I'm at it, both Chilli Cheese Fries and Double Western Bacon Cheeseburgers have seen fit to supplant any previous affection I had for other major Fast Food produce.

Ignoring the small detail that the river is completely frozen over, that's actually a rabbit on the middle of the ice.

"Are you sure it's Deit?"

There's a big fella who I've not spoken to in quite a while back in the old country, but I sincerely hope he's reading this as I still fondly remember our drinking sessions together and wish he could have joined me in this one.

White Russian?  I've had a few in my time, but this was the first to smell like petrol and burn on the way down (and that was even after about 4 pints of German beer) .  Aside from the alarmingly brown nature of the drink, I think they just mixed equal parts Vodka, Kahlua and pure ethanol.  Cheap, too. 

I think she was awarded the prestigious 'Employee of the Month' plaque for her hard-work ethic, her customer-winning smile and her "can-do" attitude.

"The Galeria?"


Okay, okay, okay.  You've seen nothing that really shows that I was in Saint Petersburg.  I will cave in just this once:

The Hermitage.  Also commonly known as "The Winter Palace", it is a massive and opulent building which has been converted into a State art and culture museum of sorts that could be likened to the Louvre in Paris.  Interestingly, for all you nerds out there, the Hermitage is one of the National Wonders in both Civilization IV and V.

Now that's all you're getting.

Anyway.  Reflecting on this post, I should totally do a blog about the mundanity of travel.  And food.  Mainly just food.


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"I'm gonna go have a smoke right now. You want a smoke? You don't smoke, do ya, right? What are ya, one of those fitness freaks, huh? Go fuck yourself."


-D.   

I'm a 30 year old boy.

It's a truly sphincter-clenching concept, but children seem to be on the cards for quite a few people that I'm friends/acquaintances with.  Facebook status updates abound with the latest ultrasounds and "oh, Fucker just kicked me" and the smugly-self-satisfied commentary that can only come from folks who consider themselves to have made it because they've managed to get up the duff.

Cause they can't get enough.

Excuse me if I seem rather cynical-I think children are great and I'm usually able to achieve more rapport with kids than quite a few adults (I'm looking in your direction, Ass-hat); nevertheless, in no possible world can I imagine that I would be a good parent.  A passable parent, at times, perhaps, but ultimately doomed to pass on a multitude of eccentricities, warped logic and weird habits.  I'm reminded of the first stanza of Philip Larkin's poem, This Be Thy Verse:


"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had.
And add some extra, just for you."


There are several things that bother me about having children.  First of all, despite what anyone says, I find it to be by and far the most selfish thing that an adult can do.  "Wait!  Having a child is actually one of the most selfless things a person can do," you opine.  I'm sorry, but that's bullshit.  Raising a child because you wanted one constitutes ultimate selfishness on your part.  You are fundamentally choosing to mould a child in your likeness and submit them to a lifetime of toil, failure and rejection. And perhaps the most depressing aspect of this selfishness is that the parent ends up sacrificing much of who they are in the process of bringing Little Billy into the world.  I'd wager that a hefty percentage of the parenting population are actually, to a significant extent, unhappy with their lot in life.


Wait-did that sound like something I just pulled out of my ass?  Here: try this for size.  I know I've just thrown what may seem like a random and meaningless article at you, but it's well worth the read.


Ok, maybe several studies by eminent psychologists haven't convinced you to forego a life without sleep, so what about economics?  Disposable income?  Bar a love of big-screen televisions that get used as computer screens and for my beloved (but little used) xbox, I'm a relatively frugal sort of guy.  I'm lucky if I eat out once every two weeks or so, I rarely indulge in alcohol nowadays (mind you, when I do, it can be somewhat catastrophic) and clothes have to be almost coming apart at the seams before I'll even consider buying any new threads.  Bearing this all in mind, I can't fathom how a couple, let alone a single parent, can afford to bring up more than one child.  Aside from having to feed, clothe and house another human being, who is unlikely to appreciate the huge sacrifice you've undertaken in rearing them, think of all the birthdays, Christmases, random treats, pocket-money and cash-intensive hobbies that they are likely to celebrate in their piddling little lives.  There are only two options in this sort of scenario-you're unable to afford special treats on your income so are forced to explain to the child why they can't get a particular toy for Christmas when all his friends are getting one and be vilified for years OR you work longer hours in order to buy the "good life" and risk having a child who is spoiled.  Am I the only one who sees a problem with this?   


It could be argued that there's some sort of social preconditioning taking place in our age.  I see it all the time in those movies (usually starring Adam Sandler)-the 30 something singleton doesn't want to commit after living a life of unbelievable bachelorhood.  A kid turns up, for some reason, and said kid proceeds to fuck up Sandler's entire life.  Strangely, by the end of the film our man-child's story arc climaxes with him having the epiphany that it isn't so bad after all, he loves the child really and wants to adopt him/marry his mother.  The problem is that kids don't quite take to routine the same way in that adults do-I teach children who, every single fucking day without fail, manage to forget a multitude of things: pens, pencils, jotters, homework, workbooks and even, yes, to turn up at the right fucking time.  Children go through phases like this as often as I manage to plough through food and it's not until they are well into their twenties that they grow up and establish a more regular routine for themselves.  


Hell, some adults I know haven't even managed that.

 "Weren't you Ross's son in Friends?  What happened to your career, little buddy?"
"Wait, weren't you The Hot Chick and The Animal?"
"Point taken."

So any semblance of a life that you had before your precious little bundle of joy has been born should be bid adieu.  No more Saturdays sitting around in your underwear eating pizza, playing video games and surfing the internet for free porn.  At least, not when they are in the house.  


What's perhaps worst of all is that, reading various comments on Facebook, you'd think the runts were angels gifted from up on high.  I've seen baby chimps that are better at triggering the "aww" reflex.  Babies can appear cute to new parents, but come on-let's call a spade a spade, eh?  And that's disregarding another self-evident truth which was perfectly vocalised by one of the greatest TV shows of all time: "The older they get, the cuter they ain't."


The personal invective I'm displaying towards children belies the fact that I actually like them.  A lot.  God knows some day I would like to have some of my own.  That said, when that day comes, I will do my damnedest to ensure that I don't parade my sprog around as an extension of me and my accomplishments, plaster ultrasound after fucking ultrasound all over Facebook and strive to have conversations with other people that are not predicated upon "guess what little Fuck-be-nut slipped into my coffee this morning (Hint: it rhymes with schmalcohol)!"  


And don't even get me started on weddings.   


*Rather than rewrite the entire paragraph, I'm including this as a landmark example of a character arc that follows, for the most part, this formula.  Before Sandler, too.
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"Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness. "


-D.

What do they call a Quarter Pounder in Russia?

A PORN 4N3 bYPrEP®?

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"I know a thing or two about a thing or two!"


-D.

Hostel

For those of you who are as avid a film-fanatic as I am, you tend to watch pretty much everything and anything (since how can one be a connoisseur if one has only tasted the most exquisite?).  That's why (years ago) I ended up watching the film Hostel and its sequel a few years later, the appropriately yet unoriginally titled Hostel II. I have to admit that I was fairly ambivalent to both flicks; I could sense the wasted potential that existed for a decent slasher/horror film which paid tribute to mid 80s films of the (almost defunct) genre.  What Eli Roth happened to serve me, to my dismay, was a series of lukewarm scenes of torture porn.  Roth had hoped to play upon the fears of young American backpackers indulging in wanton sexual congress and figuratively straying off the path in far off foreign lands; the reality is that Hostels are a far scarier place than Eli would have us believe.


It's easy for me to chastise in retrospect, but I really don't know why I allowed myself to be persuaded-while shopping around for accommodation in St. Petersburg,  I ignored the insistent voice of reason within my head that bellowed "NOOO!" and booked a room in a relatively well-known hostel.  I forewent any real debate over the matter and reasoned that the savings I made from doing so would fund extra activities in the city, but mainly (let's not beat around the bush here) to pay for a few extra beers.   Hostels are undoubtedly useful for the budget traveller, and they also happen to be of benefit to those in dire need of the familiar in lands that are not their own.  The dilemma that one is most likely to encounter is not imminent kidnapping and torture for the sadistic pleasures of extremely wealthy Western customers, it is that these places seem to attract a certain type.


When the chips are down, I'll admit that I like to think of myself as a liberal sort: I believe in (most) public services, people's ability to good by one another, the importance of education and having a social as well as an environmental conscience.  In the same breath, I can also lay claim to what might be considered more conservative values: I don't believe big business is out to fuck us all; as flawed a regime as it may be, capitalism has raised millions (if not billions) out of poverty; and I believe that globalisation and the inevitable sharing of knowledge that comes as a result of it can provide untold benefits to the human race (perhaps at the expense of traditional concepts of "local culture", but that's best left to another post).  When someone disagrees with my beliefs, rather than throw a tantrum I'm willing to try to see things from the other person's point of view: the world is not simply black and white, but instead a grey mess populated by almost 7 billion voices.  Plus, even with a degree and post-graduate education, a smattering of foreign languages and as diverse a variety of reading materials as I can stomach, I actually consider myself unqualified to speak on any subject in any real depth.  I feel like I don't really know anything.  


The hostel type would not align themselves to my values.


Whilst a gross over-generalisation, hostel-types tend to be a sub-set of the Middle-Class Hippy strain.  Either on a gap year or, having found no job adequate to accommodate them back home after university, they resort to an aimless journey through foreign lands, stopping off long enough to undertake some menial work here and there in order to fund their vices and their continuing journey.  You'd be wrong to think that I'm bitter about this sort of person: on the contrary; it is, after all, somewhat how I came to decide upon the career path I now follow.


That said, because the hostel-type has never had a real job or had to deal with the responsibilities that adults encounter daily (that is, deal regularly and diplomatically with people with a vast array of alternate world views), they are often pompous, opinionated and, to borrow a favourite South Park metaphor, clearly adept at appreciating their own farts (and by proxy, the farts of others within the same sub-species).  This is, I'm sure you'd agree, a real shame since I feel that Hostel-type's heart is fundamentally in the right place.  If more people had similar views to them, perhaps the world would be a much fairer place.  Then again, perhaps productivity would fall the world over as people devoted their lives to growing twatty beards, ensuring they had enough beer and weed to survive the day and most importantly, learning how to play the Jeff Buckley arrangement of "Hallelujah" on acoustic guitar in a vain attempt to get laid.

"Oh, for the love of Christ could you just learn to play another fucking song?!"

Fuck it.  Next time I'm booking a hotel.


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"Ain't nobody likes the Middle East, buddy. There's nothing here to like."


-D.

Movies, Games and Videos: The Reboot

Plot?  I think the title sums it up pretty well.

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"I'm sorry, Honey. I love this thing because you gave it to me. But the truth is... it is one fuckin' ugly tie."


-D.

Here comes the sun.

You know that spring feeling?  It's great, isn't it?  It's even better here in Moscow where the winters are unrelenting.  The ice has melted.  The snow has all but cleared.  The sunshine is falteringly peeking out from behind clouds, slowly warming the hearts of even the stoniest Muscovite.  People in the UK are living up to British middle class clichés by updating their Facebook statuses with comments about lazily wasting away their days in beer gardens/their own back garden.  


All of a sudden, this morning I wake up to this:

I'm hoping silence will adequately convey my feelings on this issue.
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"Here's the thing... I don't give a ten-penny fuck about your moral conundrum, you meat-headed shit-sack... That's pretty much the thing."


-D.

Postcards from a Metro Station

It's no secret what a marvel the Russian Metro system is; I've regularly taken the Parisian, London, Beijing and *shudder* Glasgow Metros and I would gladly take the Russian one and never look back.  It costs roughly 60 pence (27 roubles) to get anywhere in the city AND you don't pay dependent on the proximity to the centre (something that London's Metro falls afoul of).  Trains are available within a three minute time frame;  sometimes you'll wait under a minute, sometimes you have to wait up to three minutes.  Anything more than that and the Russians themselves start to get impatient and check their watches.

Despite getting the Russian equivalent of Neds populating the Metro on the odd occasion, you're actually far more likely to see swathes of people reading and, from what you'll see in this post, the architecture far surpasses anything you'll see on the Clockwork Orange.  

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"Knock, knock! Who's there? Go fuck yourself!"

-D.

No need for the potty-mouth.

Wait a second...Light Blue Line...What's that I see?

Someone clearly ran out of famous Russian poets to name Metro stations after, then?

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"Sure. Who doesn't like tits?"


-D.

Addendum to 'The Ugly Side of Russia'

If there is anything that is a searing indictment of the behaviour exhibited and discussed in 'The Ugly Side of Russia', this is it.  

Devoted to the memories of those who lost their lives in 1941 against the Nazis.

I snapped the photograph of this memorial as I pass it daily after exiting the Metro on my way to work. I find it ironic and more than just a little sad that not one of the Russian members of staff knew what it was intended to represent.

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Wait for me, and I'll come back!
Wait with all you've got!
Wait, when dreary yellow rains
Tell you, you should not.
Wait when snow is falling fast,
Wait when summer's hot,
Wait when yesterdays are past,
Others are forgot.
Wait, when from that far-off place,
Letters don't arrive.
Wait, when those with whom you wait 
Doubt if I'm alive.
1941

-D.