A Christmas Karel

My apartment is big - big enough for a skittle alley in the hall and a badminton court in the living room. I really must visit all the rooms someday. But why are doors in Russia so big? They're all about 8ft high. Great location though - only a walk to Red Square and Kremlin, the river Moscow and all the famous churches. To be fair, Moscow is full of stunning architecture. 
My local pub, the Plomnikov, is very nice and more expensive than a certain olde hostelry in West Sussex. One can get a nice steak and and pint for about £50. It's My My for me though. It's a Russian buffet style, fast food place where you can also get a pint. Very good and very reasonable. You pronounce it Moo Moo and to help you remember that, a lifesize (and lifelike) model of a cow is placed outside each Moo Moo restaurant.
Finally got internet in the apartment just in time to have my mornings ruined by listening to TMS describing England getting battered by the Aussies. As the great David Bowie might have sung, had he been commentating alongside Blowers:
Ashes to Aussies
England to arses
We know why, 
It's all them Sarfies
The weather continues to be mild - that means around zero.
The Embassy pantomime is now cast and rehearsals have begun. Oh, didn't I mention the panto? Oh yes, I did. I am staggeringly undercast as a villager cum chorus person. By the time I arrived all the big parts had been taken - no big part for me, snigger - which is fair enough but an appalling waste of talent. There are 3 of us in the chorus and I shall clearly have to take the lead as my lovely (but not so talented) fellow chorussers haven't been in a panto before. Even if they are girls who can sing better than me. I'm just waiting for Time Out Moscow to call for an interview.
And so, number two daughter arrives to spend Christmas hols with daddy. I shall refer to her as M. It's a good start as, on M's first day, we have the office Christmas party followed by a mega reception at the Ambassador's gaff. We are both impressed by the splendid residence and its view across the river to the Kremlin. Hello Vlad - looking cool in those peejams. M amuses herself on Friday and on Saturday, we make our way - on the Metro, no less - to Ismaelovo market. The Moscow Metro is absolutely amazing - the station architecture belongs in museums and the stations themselves are enormous. But, when you change lines (ie Circle to Piccadilly) you change station names. We get off at Ploshad Revolution on the dark blue line and change to Teatro on the green line - same station. Takes a bit of getting used to and all the signs are in cyrillic. We do lots of Christmas shopping, usual stuff - furry hats, petrushka dolls, soviet posters - all marvellous. And it's snowing all day.
Sunday is Kremlin day and the snow is melting fast. M makes friends with the Kremlin cat.

And so to Christmas Eve. A short day at work and I do my impression of an Oligarch by giving all the local staff a bag of gold each. This is, of course, Sainsbury's finest gold chocolate coins. Most of them guess it isn't real gold.
M and I have Christmas Eve dins at Katchapuri, a famous Georgian resto. It is excellent and we decide we really like Georgian pickles. Here is a picture of the pianist who is right next to us - we give him a glass of red which he likes. Well he glugs it quickly.

play it again Samski

We make our way back home across the river, stopping to see the big sheets of ice in the river. Apparently, the tourist boats prevent the river from icing over completely.

Christmas day is spent chez some nice new friends and we enjoy their very good selection of red wine. Of course, we take it easy in view of our proposed trip to Saint Petersburg the next day.

The next day. We are not at our best. I hope M has forgotten we have planned to go to St P. She hasn't. Our first challenge is to get tickets. Why didn't we buy tickets online, you ask? The short answer is that we spent the best part of 4 hours trying. So we queue and, using our best Russian, attempt to buy tickets for the 1330. Nyet. Oh, is that it? A friendly person in the queue translates - it's full. M somehow understands there are tickets on the 1640 - she's clever. We hang around, sightseeing and lunching. I quote from the guide book which describes the area outside the station where we wander:
"..a seething mass of beggars, families with everything they own in tow, street hawkers, drunks, drug dealers and, in the evening, prostitutes. Over recent years it has assumed an unnerving atmosphere to say the least so it is advisable not to linger here long..." Methinks the author had a bad experience outside Leningradsky station.
We are supposed to be travelling on the Sapsan (Peregrine Falcon) train which zooms along at 200kph but board an old fashioned looking locomotive which has separate compartments. It is very pleasant, if a bit bumpy. Tea and snacks are served, which is nice.
Top tip, don't arrive in St P at 2100 without a map and just a guide book for Moscow. We have to take a taxi to the hotel and I negotiate a fare of £20 from a starting price of £40. Still probably too much.
Our first dinner and drink is in the Wild Duck. An Irish hostelry which features a real duck running around the pub, seemingly following the waitresses and trying to bite their legs. I suppose that constitutes wild. We don't like this plate of lard which is called smoked bacon on the menu:

It is the Vodka platter and I can only imagine that you need to drink a lot of vodka before you can eat copious strips of lard
M and I, on our own, are reasonably proficient at finding our way around. M has made it most of the way round the world and I have managed to reach my sixth decade. But together, we are a disaster. We have difficulty finding our hotel again.
Lots of sightseeing - St P is a lovely place. We see a fantastic ballet, Swan Lake, in the Hermitage Theatre and then go for dins. We discover the Metro closes at midnight so decide to find dins near the hotel. Nothing is open and we finally have to go to Burger King. But, not just any Burger King. You can get a pint in this BK. Draught beer no less. We notice some locals coming in for a pint and a bag of chips. Beats a soggy kebab I suppose.
Another day in St P then back to Moscow on the real Sapsan. Very modern, very fast.
M and I decide to have a quiet last day - that means getting up, going out to find brunch. No, let's have a big fry up at home and M changes back into pjs in the afternoon.
Next day, I wave goodbye to M at the station and go home alone.....
It's New Year's Eve and the there's a party in the Embassy bar. Shall I, shan't I? But I'm in Moscow, there must be a big shindig in Red Square.
I'll get there early and have a pint before midnight. Oddly, all the restaurants and bars are closed at 2200 as I walk down the main tourist street Ulitsa Arbat. What's happening? I make it down to Red Square and not a bar, resto, offy or kiosk where I can get a beer. No wonder lots of people are carrying bottles and cans. I'm even prepared to pay the exorbitant prices of a 5* hotel but they are all closed.* The cops are everywhere and they mean business. I don't think anyone will playfully try and nick one of their furry hats. Lots of folk in fancy dress and a curiously large number of Father Christmases. There's an excellent rock band playing on a massive stage - Russian Robert Plant backed by a versatile band. By midnight, it's absolutely packed and you can't move. We all sing Олд Лангзаин and tootle off home.
* I discover the next day there are bars open all over Moscow - except Red Square. Идиот

Chapter One

And so the intrepid writer morphs again. Rather like Dr Who or that bloke out of Quantum Leap. From the steaming Tropics to the fierce winter of the fantastic city of Moscow.

The first impression is that it's not as cold as I expected and there's no snow. No problem, the next day it snows and I am congratulated by my colleagues for bringing the snow with me.

Something is not right on the way from the airport to my apartment. Can't put my finger on it. The roads are jampacked, Moscow traffic is as dense as I was told to expect – but what's wrong? I know. All this traffic and not one car horn blaring. Lagos, Islamabad, Dacca, Rabat it's not. It's dark a lot of the time too.

For anyone who's lived in the tropics and experienced the trauma of going from icy air conditioning to 100% humidity – instant perspiration attack. Well, here you go from sub zero outside to sauna conditions inside. And the air is so dry, I feel my skin dessicating. Yes, I know I'm a wuss, no one else complains this much.

My first foray to the supermarket and I notice an awful lot of smoked fish and smoked meat and pickles. Traditional cold weather fare to get you through the winter I remind myself. Excellent selection of breads. I try some interesting looking salami type meat and hard Russian cheese that you could probably make cricket bats from. Note to Alastair Cook - you've tried everything else, what about cheesy bats? Armed with the shopping, I arrive at the checkout and right behind me is a chap with one item who makes a gesture which I interpret as “can I go before you as I've only got one item?” Of course my man. He stumbles past me and I notice his face looks like he was recently on the losing end of a bare knuckle fight or he has face planted on the pavement once or twice. His one item is a bottle of vodka and his breath (as he passes) indicates it's not the first of the day. He takes a long time to pay because he has to search his pockets for every bit of change, all the while rabbiting away to me - presumably apologising for taking so long. Disapproving stares are levelled at him from the other shoppers. I have to tell him I don't understand when he asks me something (probably for some dosh to help him pay for his booze) Anyway his face lights up and he says loudly to me “Ah, me Rooshyan alchoholic!” I smile diplomatically but my fellow shoppers are not amused. He must have found enough money because he trots off with his purchase. No stereotyping now.

I am now learning pavement etiquette or how to win in the war of the walkers. When it snows, there is usually one narrow strip on the pavement – usually on the road side of centre – where everyone tries to walk. If you walk close to the buildings, you are in danger of being covered in melting snow off the rooves or worse, skewered in the head by a falling icicle. I recall the advice about sitting under coconut trees in the Tropics. I go to some dangerous places. Then on the side of the pavement nearest the road is all the snow, slush and ice in piles so no one wants to walk there either. So you always have people coming straight at you. Who moves first? I have worked out a strategy – a wussy strategy naturally. I wear a hood and heavy boots so I can always move to either side.

But to make me feel better, I manage to kick a pigeon. RSPCA please read on. Now, everyone tries to do that in London, don't they? The thing is, the flea ridden, mangy specimens in London are so streetwise they always manage to get out of the way. Not so, this pigeonski. I just hang my foot out as usual and connect (to my surprise) with it's feathery rear end. Now when I say “kick”, I don't Jonny Wilkinson it over the nearest minaret, it's just a little tap. I expect its little pigeon toes are quite cold and it can't move very quickly. And it looks a lot more presentable than its London cousins. I won't kick any more, promise.

I am out looking for a place which has wifi (and beer) as my internet at home doesn't work. I chance upon a hostelry which calls itself “Molly Gwynn's”. I think my rudimentary grasp of the Russian alphabet has failed me. No, I go inside and it is definitely Molly Gwynn's. It sells the black nectar and one or two other Irish beers so there is an Irish connection – but Gwynn? And for some reason the waitresses are wearing tiny tartan skirts that you might have difficulty making a scarf out of. But they've got wifi. Now look at this picture.

Would you adam and eve it. What are the chances of finding my favourite local beer in Kent here in Moscow – and advertised in Russian too. I'll have a pint of lager please.

On the way home, I drop in to a produkti (a kind of mini market/cornershop) I buy a couple of things and then, just as I'm leaving, I spy some fresh bread which looks like cheesy topped flatbread in the display cabinet. Mmmmmm, I'll have one of those please. The guy behind the counter points at a handwritten sign without lifting his head. What's that I wonder. I try again, he looks at me, annoyed, and says something which doesn't sound like “can I help you, sir” A fellow shopper spots my confusion and says with a smile. “He says they are closed and will open in 20 minutes”. So half the shop is open and half the shop is closed even though the breads and cakes are out there on display. I diplomatically call him an arse under my breath and leave.

2 days later, I return to said emporium. It's closed again. I keep calling to the “customer service agent” behind the counter who is doing such a good job of ignoring me, I wonder if I'm there. Philosophically speaking, if everyone ignores your presence, are you actually there? Answers on a postcard (what's that?) to Emeritus Professor of Philosophy and Bullshit, James McGee – somewhere in Sussex. Making hand gestures to a non existent watch, I ask when they will deign to get off their whitehall farces and open up. 17 o clock is the reply. As it's 1845, I think they mean 7 o clock. Given that my Rooshyan is rubbish, it's only fair not to correct their poor command of English. Sure enough, 7 oclock – 19 o clock, Boris – the handwritten sign is taken down and they're open for business. Or are they? I'm bored with this story now, aren't you? I got meself a cooked chicken and a cheesy bread in the end. Lovely.

By hell, it's cold this morning. 14 under, apparently. Have I ever been in such cold conditions? Sober. Skiing doesn't count.

Good evening I say to the brass мииркот who is holding his gloved hands, soccer defensive wall style, over his parts. He looks worried