Spring has sprung in this land that W.S.Churchill once describedas“an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in a mystery” - or words to that effect.
What the fuck was he on about, I wonder?
Another observer of Russian mores - one Madame de Stael, I think - said “Russia is a land of secrets, where there are, however, no secrets.”

I think I might just know what she was getting at.

When I arrived here in 1989 the USSR was in its death throes, though nobody knew of this at the time. The parlous state of the Soviet Ship of State notwithstanding, those fun lovin’ lads n’ lasses in the KGB were still going full steam ahead in their sworn undertaking to defend Soviet internal security. One of their chief activities at that time was to latch onto any small incident, no matter how trivial, in which a Westerner was involved, in the hopes of magnifying said incident out of all proportion, thereby enabling them to put the frighteners on some poor bastard so as to blackmail him or make him more amenable to any shady proposal that they may at some time suggest to him.

Twats!

April 11, 1990. My birthday. Voronezh, central European Russia. Perestroika is in full swing. There’s fuck all in the shops and Gorbachev has cut down on vodka production and sales and hiked its price. Everybody is really fucking well pissed off because they can no longer get pissed up. And everybody’s skint - bar yours truly! Being a student at Voronezh State University, I was getting a grant off the Soviet Union to the tune of 400 RUR a month. The average grant received by Russian Students at that time was 30 RUR!

The only bright note at that time was the Lambada. Russia was undergoing a Lambada craze. All bastard day you could hear its strains, see its videos on the TV. Lads used to stand with permanent hards-on, ogling at the TV screens in cafes and bars, totally gobsmacked at the raw sexuality of this dance.

FUCKIN’ DISGUSTIN’!!!

So I decide to book a banquet at the newest hotel in town. I paid top price and ordered the best grub and invited my best Russian buddies and the nicest pussy in town. There were about 40 guests in all. It was the best party anyone could ever remember and it cost me 36 quid in total - a king’s ransom for Russkies then!

Everyone got steamin’ and everyone was dancing the Lambada like it was going out of fashion. Around 11 pm, the cops started drifting in. It used to be lights out at 9 pm, those days. Thinking I was a foreign businessman and not a student (I hate fuckin’ students, me!), they didn’t quite know what to do, but they were none too happy because people were CLEARLY ENJOYING THEMSELVES!!

Then I made my big mistake. It was Easter Saturday and suddenly I come over all religious and decide to go to midnight mass, as I’m a sucker for Russian Orthodox Church choirs. As soon as I had cleared the scene, the cops came in heavy handed on the boys and the shit really hit the fan. Knives were drawn, dogs set loose, twattin’ sticks were twattin’ and warning shots were fired as the cops read the riot act. Many arrests were made. I was arrested the following morning just after I’d got me leg over in a sobering up exercise.

Although they codded on that they were detectives, it soon became clear that my interrogators were boys from the KGB. Slowly, slowly they began to up the intimidation stakes. I had to make a confession that I’d “organised acts of hooliganism” - a serious offence in the USSR. I’d get a year for that if I confessed, as the judge would be sympathetic for my avoiding time wasting, they told me. They gave me a statement to sign. It was written in Russian. I demanded a translation. That’d take several days, they rejoindered. The interview had so far been in English by means of a translator who spoke in Dickensian English. The British Embassy here always advises that if you get in trouble, never sign anything and demand an interpreter. And if it be the case, you should also never let them know you can speak Russian.

Making no progress, they started being smarmy: “We can see you’re an intellectual…” “Clearly, you are an English gentleman…” and, believe it or not, “We do so admire your Mrs. Thatcher…”!

In the end, they began to lose their rag. “ Listen,” they said, “if you don’t sign this, you’ll end up getting 5 years.”

“Five years!” I say. “What for?”

“One year for organising hooliganism, another for causing criminal damage, another year for threatening the manager, another year for threatening the police, and finally,” added the chief joker and the smarmiest of them all (there were 3 of them), “one year for rude and immodest dancing.”

“I don’t get you,” I said disbelievingly, “What are you on about? I can’t dance to save my life!”

“You were dancing the Lambada,” says snidey chops with a sneer.

“Yeah, like the whole of Russia has been doing for the past year?” say I, “So what’s the big deal?”

“But you were dancing the ENGLISH Lambada!” he concludes triumphantly.

“Fuck me!” I think, “Salt mines here I come!”

So then I drop bollock number two in this saga. I say to them in Russian, “Well, if I get banged up here for five, I’ll come out speaking fluent Russian!”

They go fuckin’ berserk! “You can speak Russian!” they shout. “Why didn’t you tell us you can speak Russian?”

“You never asked,” I say nonchalantly.

Snidey chop’s face turns puce. “How much of our conversation could you understand?” he shouts at me.

“About 70%” I say, lying through my teeth. I’ve got them on the defensive now. The ball’s in my court.

They suddenly metamorphose into Mr. Nice Guys. They tell me I’m free to go for the time being, that they’ll have a talk with the investigatory judge to see if they can get me off with a year in jug - or even with only a fine. They say they’ll telephone me in a few days.

A few days pass. My best mate, Ivan, puts me in the picture. He tells me they’re just trying to put the frighteners on me and that I’d done very well - so far. “They’ll ask you for a present, next,” says Ivan, “Give them nowt. And don’t agree to meet them alone. Always have at least two witnesses if you must see them. Best not arrange to meet them at all. Just keep on fuckin’ them off and then they’ll get pissed off and leave you alone. But if you start dancing to their tune, they’ll never be off your back.”

And this is just what I do. A few days later, snidey chops rings. He tells me the room number of a hotel where he and his two other stooges wish to “interview” me again. “And don’t forget,” he says, “the day of the interview is my birthday!”

“Fuck you!” I think, and on the day of the meeting I don’t turn up.

Another day passes. Another phone call. It’s my friend snidey chops again. “Did you forget about your interview, Woden?” he says.

“No,” I reply.

“So why didn’t you come, Woden?” he enquires, adopting a hurt tone.

“Listen,” I say, “there’s no way I’m going to take part in secret meetings with you and your colleagues. The only possibility of my meeting you is on condition that I have present with me at least two witnesses.”

“You haven’t told anybody about our proposed meetings, have you?” he hisses.

“No,” I lie, “not up to now.”

“Good,” he continues, adopting his smarmy tone once again. “And why all this talk of ‘secret meetings’, Woden? We don’t want to hold secret meetings! Just don’t tell anyone about them.”

Amazed by the Orwellian doublethink of the KGB, I agree to meet them again, but once more, I don’t turn up.

I heard nothing more off them after that.

They call themselves the FSB now. (Federalnaya slyzhba bezopasnosti - Federal Security Service) I wonder if they’ve changed tactics? Somehow, I don’t think so.

Woden The God