Travels Round the Word

Taking one for the team in Moscow A much more serious situation arose once when we were in Moscow. Note: Unlike some, this tale is 100% true and accurate! I narrowly averted disaster, by ‘taking one for the team’. I need to set the scene. All Russian men do their year’s conscription in the army. It is not a pleasant experience. The Russian army does not follow Queensbury Rules, and it is not managed as a team. It is based on fear and extreme brutality. When statistics were still available, it was reported openly in the then fairly free press that in one year in the early 2000s, 565 soldiers died. In the barracks alone that is, not counting anything on a battlefield. This alone gives an insight as to why the Russian Army’s performance is so wretched, and combat so vicious, in any of their wars, from Chechnya to Georgia to Ukraine. The experience lives with the survivors. It is best not to engage in physical difference of opinion with any Russian: he will have been in uniform. Moving on, early in our six+ years in Moscow, we hosted a few UK undergraduate students, studying Russian and in Moscow for their intercalated year, and got to know quite a few others. England were due to play Russia in some important qualifying match. The students prevailed upon me to find a suitable pub where we could all watch it. At that time, we had not yet discovered ‘Silver’s’, the legendary and best Irish pub in the city. I wandered around our respectable and relatively affluent Taganska district, and tested a few options. I found a good spot, and checked that the match would be on. All well. On match day, we all met and entered the pub, as arranged. But we were shepherded UP-stairs, not as expected. Some slight misgivings. One. Up there, we were allocated a large table, in the corner, furthest from the only exit. Not great. Two. The pub filled, the match started. The students quaffed their Baltika beers and as students do, got steadily more ‘sociable’. England scored, the students cheered, the locals scowled. 2-0, more cheers, locals getting unhappy and restless. Late on, the fourth and final goal went in. A drubbing. Despite desperate warnings, the youngsters were enjoying themselves. The rather larger group of much larger men, between us and the exit stairs were very close to looking for a distraction from their defeat. That rule of three again: the position in the pub – the wrong team winning, too easily – and half cut students inciting well less than gruntled also half-cut locals. Recipe for disaster. Something had to be done. Luckily, I was wearing my Spartak Moscow FC scarf, in red and white. I had been to a few games at the famous Luzhniki national stadium, and knew the chants, amongst very little other Russian then. Scarf up, I sang “O-li,O-la, Fpiriod Spartak Moskva; Karasne-Bely, Krasne-Bely …” (Advance Spartak, the red and whites …), you get the picture. No false modesty here, the effect was sensational: I very nearly died. I am not sure of what, but the combination of over-friendly bear hug, stale tobacco fumes and secondary vodka inhalation were together pretty toxic. But tensions evaporated faster than the vodka spirit, our students got to the stairs unscathed, but hopefully chastened, and I felt good. I felt even better when the most beautiful girl in the world (second most, obviously, after the Memsahib, who watched this whole spectacle), slid off a leather settee, stood up, stood up some more and floated towards me. I was ready for my hard earned reward. She stood oh, so close (Russians have a very short social distance norm, even when sober) almost nose to nose, looked me in, or rather through the eye, and breathed: “You Spartak?” “Da!” I replied enthusiastically. Wham! A full force slap from her left hand and arm thwacked me in the cheek. “Me CSKA!” And turned away. I had very truly ‘taken one for the team’. Well worth it! I have great respect for Russian dentists, too.