Autobiographical

My life and the future

recent posts

about

  • Back to reality – the final countdownĀ 

    After a carefree year teaching at the school complex near Sofia Antipolis in the south of France and working there in the summer basking in the sun, the return to England in September 1986 was marked by rain and cloudy weather yet again. The time abroad had an adverse impact, in particular, on my Russian that I hadnā€™t practiced or studied for a year. Admittedly, I was no longer that worried about French, although I had a lot of novels and essays that I need to read to catch up in both languages. 

    It was indeed a strange time and indicative of the negative influence of the five-year course, albeit supplemented by the highlights of the year in France and three months in the USSR. I was overcome by a sense of loss as the camaraderie of the previous period was gone. Russell and Phil had already completed their courses, making their way in the world, as had my close friend Nats. Similarly, I didnā€™t really know any of the students on the French course and only knew one guy also studying for the same period as me, completing a combined German and Russian degree, former soldier Tony. He could be amusing on occasion, but was let down by sexist views and his habit of expounding ultra-Thatcherite propaganda. 

    I suppose the only benefit was the lack of domestic distractions, offset by the long-lasting international liaison. Indeed, Robin came over for Christmas in Richmond while my parents were in Saint Quentin, and I would reciprocate with a month with her during the Easter break, with part of the time in Minnesota at the house of her parents, interacting as well as with her brother Raleigh, and spending the rest studying in Madison when Robin was taking courses for her arts degree.

    Looking back now, I realise that I should have started proactively searching for work in my free time as in that case it is highly likely that I would not have wasted several months or even a year in various positions that hardly boosted my career or earnings. I ascribe this failing and lack of forethought to youth and naivety. It was also probably the one period when I went out the least, spending as I did a lot of time with my parents and assisting them with various family issues as best I could. 

    Notwithstanding the lack of outings, I constantly felt short of time, trying to balance essays and revision for both languages, and completing the various projects for the additional voluntary paper I did in French proficiency, which involved primarily comparing the bias in the countryā€™s right-wing and left-wing press.Ā Ā 

    Then I took mocks which went OK, followed shortly afterwards by the worst part – the exams marked by external examiners. If I failed them, that was it – five years down the drain. I remember leaving the final Russian language paper a few minutes early and noting how a maths student had left one remark on his form, penning the note ā€œthree wasted yearsā€. He had departed after just 15 minutes. I hope things worked out for him in the long run.

    I was far luckier in that respect, obtaining a 2:1 in the BA Combined Honours Degree in French and Russian, obtaining a first in Russian, but let down by my French where I missed a first by 1%. This was definitely something that I hadnā€™t expected when I started the course, all the more so after the time in France. 


    And as had been the case when I had left school, I recall experiencing a profound sense of emptiness and regret as I walked out of the building after completing the final exam and trudging down Mile End Road that sombre Thursday for the last time. 

    On the one hand, I felt incredibly lucky to have been able to devote five years to a wonderful period of internal development, to have seen two countries from different perspectives, and to have had the good fortune to have met so many good and kind people, a number of whom I was to stay in touch with and see at a later date.

    On the other hand, the future was unknown and I didnā€™t feel that sure of myself. I wish my friend Russell had already been offering in 1987 his successful consulting courses on coaching people in confidence, as I would definitely have learned a lot and probably engineered a very successful career on the back of that support. 

    I had absolutely no idea whatsoever how things would pan out. I didnā€™t know what job to do, I hadnā€™t a clue where to look and doubted that anyone would be remotely interested in a young language graduate. In short I was totally unprepared. I probably should have heeded my dadā€™s advice then and applied to do an MA and then a doctorate, but I was driven by other pressures to start earning money. Money was of the essence, as it has been ever since.

    I would offer now the following words of wisdom to my previous self, or more usefully to anyone graduating or to anyone whose children are currently in the throes of studies who might possibly be perusing this blog: Work as much as you can while at university, so that you are able to draw on some experience and have employment references to offer potential employees, preferably in retail or another people business, try to arrange interviews in your final year and also consider apprenticeships. And nowadays, above all look at careers where automation is unlikely, such as construction, teaching, nursing and social care.

    Leave a comment

  • An idyllic summer in the south, barring the near-death experience

    When the year came to its inevitable end and I said my farewells to both pupils and teachers, I really didnā€™t want to leave. I had no desire to return to England after a break of nine months, which was no doubt the reason why I had been more than happy to spend time with my mum and dad in the quaint village of Saint-Quentin-la-Poterie and to pass three weeks with Robin in Chicago, Wisconsin and Minnesota in the Easter break, even attending a few classes at Madison incognito. 

    Once again, fate was to come to my rescue, admittedly bolstered by curiosity and determination on my part. In the last few days of the school year, I was called in to see the director of the school. He told me that the feedback had been universally positive on my performance as a teacher and readiness to take up extracurricular activities such as writing and acting in a play and promoting the region and the school. I asked him whether there might be any opportunities to work at the complex in the summer as I had heard that it was open all year round. I was aware that I would be able to retain the flat, enjoy free breakfast and remain eligible for the discounted cost of lunch and dinner. He informed me that there was a summer scheme and that I should apply to the events director Jean-Louis. 

    Upbeat, I duly went to see the director. However, his response was blunt. There were no vacancies that summer. Surprised, I went back to the school director. An hour later I was told to go and see Jean-Louis again. Now his demeanour was totally different. He smiled and went on to explain that there had been a misunderstanding. It now transpired that there had been a vacancy all along, but it had been reserved for someone else. However, they were no longer available. I was naturally overjoyed, as that solved finance for the summer and next year – I had not been eligible for a university grant for a couple of years under Thatcherā€™s reforms of the education system, so I would do my best to earn as much as possible every summer to cover the year. Funds would be boosted this time by the savings from teaching, as private lessons had covered most expenses.  

    I returned home for two weeks to do some shopping and catch up with my good friends Chris and John, playing tennis and losing, and suffering a similar fate in snooker. It always looked easy on TV, but was much harder in practice. 

    Then it was time to take the buses again from Victoria to Paris and Paris to Nice where I would have to catch another bus. I was about to do so when I heard some furious beeping at the stop. I turned around to see that it was emanating from a brand new red Ferrari. And I immediately recognised the laid-back driver.

    It was Momo, a good-looking six-foot two prince from Cameroon, one of the business students I had got to know at a couple of soirees held by CERAM. For some reason, as soon as I got in, Momo was keen to let me know that he had bought his driving licence back home. As my nostrils detected a clear whiff of weed, Momo decided that it was now time to flaunt his ability to drive at a speed I have never known before or ever want to experience again. Death never seemed so close for 30 minutes. Still I was grateful for the ride and offered him a beer at the local cafƩ-bar at the entrance to the school complex, but Momo declined, citing romantic plans. By contrast, I slumped into a comfortable couch there and I immediately ordered a pint that was downed more rapidly than usual.

    The school made the most of the empty rooms in the summer, offering the equivalent of cheap guest houses for local and foreign tourists keen to explore the south and have access to a hot breakfast and a canteen serving more than passable meals. I forgot to mention that throughout the school year and the summer I had also partaken of the breakfast of hot coffee or hot chocolate with fresh baguettes, butter and jam. 

    In a way, the job was reminiscent of my experience at the camp site – accompanying guests to their rooms and providing keys, taking a passport and deposit, taking payment, exchanging currency and on occasion making the beds and cleaning the rooms if other members of staff were not available. I worked as part of a team with a number of young and amicable French kids aged 19-22. On occasion we would head down to Antibes, local bars and midnight swims.

    As well as enjoying their own trips into town and to the beach, the tourists could participate in sports programmes at the complex (basketball, football, other games), as well as day tours organised by a couple of young former university students from the South of France Jean-Christophe and Thierry Plompen. Thierry has been a good friend ever since. Incidentally, he grew up not far from Saint Quentin. He has had an extremely successful career as an international consultant, working primarily in Luxembourg and Paris, although he did come over to Moscow the early 1990s on one occasion on an assignment for a courier firm where we got to meet up and spend most of the evenings and week together. 

    Robin also visited in early August. We had the good fortune to see Bruno as well, who had found work in the region that summer and bought us tickets to see The Cure playing in FrĆ©jus, a resort and port town in the Provence-Alpes-CĆ“te dā€™Azur region. They were superb and the three of us danced the night away. The Cure had a tendency back then to end concerts with their debut single Killing an Arab, which is based on the novella The Stranger  by Albert Camus. Owing to misunderstanding of the meaning of the lyrics, some rocks started to be thrown – clearly, it was time to leave. Interestingly later on the Cure stopped playing the song for a while due to the response internationally, before reviving it in 2007-2008 as ā€œKissing an Arabā€ and then later ā€œKissing an Ahab.ā€

    As well as making a good friend in Thierry and enjoying the chance to consolidate my friendships with Bruno and Jean-Pierre by heading to Paris with them at the end of my stay, I left on good terms with Jean-Louis who frankly acknowledged to me at the end of that summer that I had done a good job, adding that I would always be welcome back there. In another life I might well have taken him up on that offer. Alas, it was not to be.

  • Life as an English assistant teacher: sun, copious amounts of wine and a minimal amount of teachingĀ 

    The Complexe Scolaire de Valbonne or Valbonne School Complex (now the College and Lycee of the Centre International de Valbonne) looked massive to me, consisting of two state schools offering both the French curriculum and an international section, with some foreign students. Most importantly, unlike other English teaching assistants placed in the region and other parts of France, I was provided with free accommodation on the site with a sizeable dorm room. I was also entitled to eat lunch and dinner as a teacher at a discount for 13 francs a go, equivalent to just over one pound (including a small bottle of wine at lunch and dinner seven days a week). It goes without saying that the pay of 4,000 francs a month (equivalent to 400 pounds sterling) more than covered expenses.

    I should also say a word about the location. Antibes and a beautiful beach were only five kilometres away. However, fool that I was, I treated the prospect like the French in the south: no rush to go, as the sea and sun werenā€™t going anywhere. In fact, I rarely visited the cafĆ© at the end of the road, unless I was providing private English lessons.

    I was also fortunate that other lodgers included a number of French students in their first year from the CERAM Business School, with CERAM standing for Centre for Education and Research Applied to Management. I became good friends with Jean-Pierre Giraud from Marseille with a strong accent who was to move to Nice, and a top class auditor now, and in particular Bruno Aboukalil, well-known today as the President and Founder of Mercuris Conseil, which creates and/or manages corporate websites for small and medium enterprises. He lives as always in Paris, his favourite city. 

    In 2009 the CERAM was reborn as SKEMA Business School after a merger with the Ɖcole SupĆ©rieure de Commerce de Lille. Today the science and technology park Sophia Antipolis is home to more than 2,500 companies, from Air France to Cisco, Orange, ST Ericsson, Nvidia and Toyota ED2, and a hub for a number of academic and research institutions, including EURECOM and the European Research Consortium for Informatics and Mathematics. I apologise for the details, but I acquired a good knowledge of the area and remain fascinated by the place to this day, primarily due to the report I wrote in French for QMC on Sophia Antipolis based on research and face-to-face interviews with a number of high-ranking officials and executives. I even won a prize, a book token! 

    Under the terms of my one-year contract, I was expected to teach English 12 hours a week to different classes, with the ages of pupils ranging from seven to 19. It was a challenge to manage some of the classes where the students were on occasion only a couple of years younger than me. The teachers were lovely. One beautiful young couple, a brunette resembling Isabelle Adjani and her husband who could have passed for a young Alain Delon,  invited me to their place on a couple of occasions. Great conversation, music, fine wine and dining. What a life for a 21-22 year old!  

    A number of pupils boarded at the school, primarily foreign, but also better-off French kids, mainly girls who were very attractive. However, I managed to reject their advances and was glad I did, as I subsequently learned that previous English assistant teachers had been sacked and faced police enquiries. 

    Looking back, I donā€™t think I ever did a full stint, as lessons would be cancelled or a film would be screened instead of actual learning. I still recall watching for the first time there a superb film from 1963 directed by Joseph Losey with the screenplay penned by Harold Pinter -The Servant, starring superb actors, including Dirk Bogarde, James Fox, Sarah Miles and Wendy Craig. It is a superb portrayal of the master-servant relationships in different areas of society, including religion. The story focuses on the ability of the working-class servant to gradually dominate his rich master.  If you havenā€™t seen it, I highly recommend a viewing.

    Naturally I never complained about the reduction in the workload. And then there were the few days in February when it snowed and school was cancelled as any minus temperature posed a risk to the childrenā€™s health.  Or I would have a valid excuse for doing less hours: on occasion I would be asked to take a trip to Nice to provide a voice-over for oral exams or speak about the experience of being an assistant, or talk on other programmes.

    Outside of the curricula. I was also asked to replace a DJ on Sundays for a couple of weeks on a local radio channel, which gave me a chance to play 10CC, The Jam, George Michael, Queen, David Bowie, Talk Talk, Elvis Costello, the Specials, the Cure and many other bands. 

    I was also asked to participation in the creation and acting in a play, naturally organised by a philosophy teacher who had a thing for drama, where I was the only male – no complaints – and which was staged twice and sold out. I did have a video recording once, but that disappeared at some point unfortunately. 

    Evening discussions with the French business students, naturally accompanied by cheese and wine, were also entertaining. I enjoyed in particular the opportunity to discuss with Frank, a native of Cavaillon, the intellectual merits of the Rambo movies. I have to admit that I didnā€™t share his admiration of the films. I should have recommended that he contact Hollywood with his concepts.

    The holidays were also packed and I didnā€™t return In Christmas 1985 I got to spend with Robin and my parents in Saint Quentin before seeing in the New Year in Paris and returning to the south after a short stay with Bruno. Meanwhile I enjoyed Easter holidays in Chicago, Madison, Wisconsin where Robin was studying and Minnesota where her parents lived. 

    And then I had an unforgettable summer. But that is another story.

    Leave a comment

  • Back to reality, France on the horizon and a romance to ruin all plans

    After the three-month break from university in the USSR and the subsequent Christmas and New Year holidays, it proved hard to settle back to the daily study routine, in part due to family issues that may warrant attention at some point. 

    Admittedly, I felt far more confident about my Russian language skills and found it far easier to read novels in the Russian original, such as Fyodor Dostoyevskyā€™s Crime and Punishment (1866) and Nikolai Gogolā€™s Dead Souls (1842). The endemic corruption in the latter novel appeared to presage the future in Russia, as did the harrowing History of a Town (from 1870) by civil servant Mikhail Saltykov-Shchedrin.

    By contrast, my French was stagnating, which was not surprising in the circumstances. However, fate smiled kindly on me. It just so happened that a representative of the French education committee paid a visit to Queen Mary College (QMC) that year and interviewed everyone on the course who planned to spend time in France either as students at a local university or as teachers. I admitted that I would prefer the latter due to the opportunity to work, be more immersed in the culture and mix primarily with locals, and naturally be paid. Asked what I would consider the ideal placement, I mentioned that I had enjoyed working for two summers at a camp site in the Bordeaux region and loved the south of the country. Preoccupied with other concerns, this was put on the back burner. It goes without saying that I thought my chances were pretty low. 

    Meanwhile, the most of January 1985 involved packing and marking boxes, as I helped my parents prepare for the move from Ealing to Richmond. They had wanted to downsize for a while and also live near a train station and cut back on car use. In fact they achieved two goals: keeping the mortgage, they used the proceeds from the sale to buy in addition a property in the  rural French town Saint Quentin de la Poterie (with 2,000 residents) located five kilometres from the bigger town of Uzes. While small, it boasted a bakery, cafĆ©, wine bar, church and a supermarket, plus a pottery. They would in future spend every summer, Christmas and New Year there, that is, until my dadā€™s health unfortunately deteriorated. 

    Richmond was a pleasant change, with more greenery, few tourists and less shops back then. Furthermore, I no longer had to walk 20 minutes to the train station. And like Ealing Broadway, travel to QMC to Mile End road was direct on the District line, so I could continue making the most of the journey to catch up on reading or essays. Similarly, when out late at weekends, if I didnā€™t stay over with a friend, I would walk home from Hammersmith or if lucky Turnham Green, gradually sobering up on the way.

    And then, out of the blue, I received an official invitation from the French authorities to teach English from September 2025 to June 2026 at a French school situated right in the heart of Sophia Antipolis, which was bidding, as I was soon to discover, to become the Silicon Valley of the Cote dā€™Azur. 

    However, first of all, I was to encounter someone who would play a role in my life for some time and radically change future plans. The day after the end of term I had found a two-day dreary agency job involving the opening of share applications for newly privatised state companies and the separation of the cheques inside. However, there was no ban on chatting to people there and I arranged to meet some of them that evening and went home to change. I was about to head out when the doorbell rang. It was a young American lady. She had forgotten the number of the house where she was staying (she was from Minnesota and had just arrived in the UK for six months to work and travel). It transpired she had missed the right property by one door. Anyway, we had a great chat and arranged to meet the next day. Her name was Robin.

    Subsequently, I found a job for July and August at a British retailer on Oxford Street, Selfridges. They needed a staff member for the shoe department on the second floor. While it was a stressful and hectic environment, at least the time passed quickly. The key was not only to sell shoes, but also ā€œfanciesā€, which were expected to represent 10% of sales – ranging from the cheaper items, such as shoe polish and insoles to the big-ticket wooden shoe trees. All the employees were really friendly and helpful.  Whoever sold the most in a week would get a bonus. One Indian guy always came top. He was a consummate salesman. He went on holiday for a week in mid-August, coinciding with my last week in the job. I ended up selling the most! I had made the most of the opportunity to chat to customers and put them at their ease and clearly that had done the trick. The money was useful for a great holiday in Crete. And with that trip over, it was time to prepare to take the bus from Victoria, make a switch in Paris to another bus to Nice and then hitchhike to the final destination. 

    Leave a comment

  • The Soviet Union, the KGB, forever wars, double talk and George OrwellĀ 

    One final word on those three unforgettable months in the USSR. It would be remiss of me not to mention here Tatiana, a lovely girl from Voronezh who made the experience far more enjoyable and fascinating than it otherwise would have been. She left an indelible and positive mark on me. 

    The relationship also led to interactions with a close friend and roommate of hers from Burundi, apparently an African princess, as well as with her friends outside of the hostel, including trips to a foreboding and cold Soviet hospital when one of them fell seriously ill, as well as picnics in areas far from the prying eyes of the secret police, known as the KGB (Committee for State Security) back then and now as the FSB (Federal Security Service). 

    While the name of that state organ has changed, the drive of filthy lucre, corruption and amorality of its members remains, albeit possibly even more abased than previous iterations existing since the rise of the current regime to power in 1917. Naturally Stalinā€™s reign stands out owing to the scale of the repressions and deportations of different peoples. However, it was merely a continuation of the criminality instigated after the revolution. Democracy appeared to emerge in Russia after the collapse of the Soviet Union, but seems more and more to have been a sham, with Soviet functionaries adopting new clothes, but still driven by the same desires.

    By the way, if you are interested in learning more about the excesses committed by Stalin and his merry band of assassins known as members of the Politburo, I highly recommend the works by Simon Seabag Montefiore, in particular, the final part of the trilogy: Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar. Regardless of their religious and ethnic background, every member of the criminal grouping was seeped in blood.

    Naturally, Tatiana was a product of her time and her thoughts on politics and the individual epitomised the indoctrination described so perfectly in George Orwellā€™s masterpiece penned in 1947-48, which coincidentally referred to that very year – 1984. While total surveillance had yet to be achieved, propaganda reared its ugly head every day.Ā  Animal Farm also deserves a mention for the excellent portrayal of Soviet ideology and hypocrisy.

    Tragically, news think, double speak, thought crime, good think and big brother are just some of the concepts that we now see all over the so-called ā€œfree worldā€, while the perverted concept that ā€œwar is peaceā€ has been perceptible in all the conflicts that have erupted ever since then, most notably after 2022, with religion not only defending, but even encouraging man to commit murder and promising to absolve him of all guilt. The current wars that appear to be never-ending render John Lennonā€™s song Imagine all the more potent today.

  • Time in Russiaā€™s second city where the food and atmosphere belied its status

    In the previous entry, I intimated that we were going to Saint Petersburg. Of course back in 1984 it was known as Leningrad. The city had initially been called Sankt Petersburg after Saint Peter by Tsar Peter the Great in June 1703, becoming the capital of the Russian empire in 1712. A little over 200 years later it was renamed Petrograd (city of Peter) by Tsar Nicholas after the start of World War I with Germany in order to remove the German words Sankt and Burg. And in 1924 it was renamed Leningrad after the death of Vladimir Lenin. It was also termed the Northern Capital of Russia and was the second largest city after Moscow in terms of population (approximately 4.8 million), albeit the countryā€™s smallest division by area – 1,439 square kilometres. A port city situated on the River Neva, it is also home to countless palaces and museums, a legacy of the time when the royal court and parliament were based there.

    Departing Voronezh for a week in early November 1984 where it was minus 2Ā°C, the pilot announced at the time of our descent that it was minus 19Ā°C. Initially, we all thought that this was a weak attempt at humour. Soviets didnā€™t joke about the weather, unfortunately. I had never known such bitter cold or icy conditions. 

    Although to be honest, after the disappointment of Moscow and Voronezh, this was the only negative. Nothing matched the beauty of the official buildings there, in particular the State Hermitage Museum, which holds the worldā€™s largest collection of paintings ā€“ 3 million items, although naturally only a tiny percentage are exhibited at any one time. Similarly the Kirov Theatre was recognised internationally for the quality of its operas and ballets. The tours organised by the state tourist monopoly Intourist did deliver on their promises. 

    We also found from English students based in the city one place where the food was amazing, compared to the fodder we had been living on – the buffet at the Hotel Evropeiskaya, now known as Grand Hotel Europe. So we were regular visitors during the week.

    The atmosphere was also much freer, no doubt as it was no longer the capital and also due to the cityā€™s proximity to Finland, attracting a significant number of Finnish tourists throughout the year. We were invited by one Russian couple to their flat in a suburb where we were treated to an inordinate number of pancakes with various fillings, including caviar which was cheap back then. It has to be said that the blocks of flats looked dreary, but you could probably say the same name for a number of countries in the early 1980s. 

    At the same time, however, the housing was virtually identical to similar accommodation in other parts of Russia, indicative of the tight control of the Soviet state on architecture when Leonid Brezhev had been General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (from 1964-1982). 

    This peculiar aspect is reflected in one of the best Soviet tragicomedies from the late 1970s, Eldar Ryazanovā€™s The Irony of Fate, played on TV every year on New Yearā€™s Eve, where the hero gets totally inebriated in a bath house on New Yearā€™s Eve and is mistakenly put on the plane to Leningrad in place of one his friends. Drunk, he takes a cab to a flat that has an identical address to his motherā€™s pad in Moscow and ends up falling for the actual resident, a stunning actress who was actually Polish – Barbara Brylska.Ā Ā Ā 

    So Leningrad was a breath of fresh air. And then after that welcome break for a week, we headed back to Voronezh, then Moscow, and the UK. While we were glad to be returning home, we all had mostly good memories of our time in the Soviet Union. And in future I would go back there for both a short and long stay. But that is another story.

    Leave a comment

  • Street fine, socialising, vodka, beer and different roaches

    Looking back, those previous entries conjure up a sombre mood of the despair of life in the sticks, whereas most of the foreign students made the most of the time to build friendships and improve their Russian. There were some, however, who stomped around aggressively, sounding off all the time on the infinite advantages of living in London. Suffice to say, I wasnā€™t one of their number. No doubt that was why I preferred to hang out in the main with students from other unis.

    On a lighter note, I recall one event in late September while it was still hot when I had gone walking on my own in the city centre. I suddenly heard a whistle blowing furiously behind me. A swarthy red-faced policeman beckoned me over. He appeared a tad tipsy. I had jaywalked, unaware that this was allegedly a serious offence and ordered to hand over there and then 3 Soviet roubles, equivalent at the official exchange rate to GBP 1.50, or go to the station. I duly coughed up and I was given a receipt, albeit one that didnā€™t look that official. I suppose petty corruption was endemic in the backwaters, rising in magnitude in bigger cities.

    Against the claustrophobic backdrop engineered by the KGB operatives in the hostel pretending to study, preening around in their tacky tracksuits imported from East Germany, the most developed economy in Soviet satellite states,  and sporting opaque sunglasses, there was a sense of camaraderie amongst most of the British students. Unless otherwise preoccupied, we would cook dinner together, consisting primarily of potatoes and carrots, on occasion supplemented by tomatoes and cucumber. 

    The only other option was the cockroach-riddled canteen on the first floor, offering something bearing a remote likeness to meat, thereby rendering vegetarianism all the more appealing. I did my best to mix with a small number of Russian students staying at the hostel who were extremely friendly if you made the effort and avoided politics and trumpeting the benefits of capitalism over socialism. 

    Indeed I ended up spending time with them along with students from Bath and Nottingham, going out for long walks, and singing Simon and Garfunkel songs, such as The Boxer and The Sound of Silence, on the way back after a typically liquid outing to our temporary home. Russian acquaintances also enabled me to discover local beer halls where the beverage would be served with a fish from the Caspian Sea (Caspian roach), commonly known as vobla. 

    This was definitely a preferable experience to the small and dingy standing-room only bars on the main street. Known by the Russian name of Ryumochnaya, a diminutive of the word Ryumka (meaning glass), they served primarily cognac and vodka, together with some basic sandwiches (two slices of black bread with a slice of some form of meat or cheese).

    On other occasions, I made it into the countryside where I would attract considerable attention primarily no doubt due to eclectic clothes that were my size and long hair that made me stand out a mile. As the Soviet economic system was based on centralised state command and no attention was paid to the differing requirements of population segments, it didnā€™t pander to the individual and it was extremely hard to find anything, most notably shoes that were a perfect fit. As a result there was a black market in Western clothes and a considerable amount of home-made clothing. Barter was also a key feature in the Soviet Union – for example, butchers would be able to trade the best meat for theatre tickets or items of clothing, or other goods. Such trade was portrayed in Soviet comedies, most notably in the 1997 Georgian filmĀ MiminoĀ about a pilot who aspires to fly internationally and his adventures primarily in Moscow.Ā 

    So that was Voronezh, a tranquil place prevalent to stifling control, albeit this was far less noticeable than in Moscow and avoidable to a large extent in case of travel to more remote areas with Russians guiding you. However, in November 1984 I would have the opportunity to experience greater freedom in Russiaā€™s former capital Saint Petersburg. 

    Leave a comment

  • Living in the past and afraid of the futureĀ 

    Voronezh was the epitome of a smaller Russian city, defined by the focus on the past, the mythologisation of the Great Patriotic War and the constant refrain of the all-encompassing nuclear risk that could only be averted by the constant vigilance of the USSR. Any external interference from the West should be prevented at all cost. And so it was. 

    We had all hoped that we would have an opportunity to interact with Russian students at the local university. However, it transpired that this avenue was closed to us over fears that we might indoctrinate Soviet youth with our bourgeois values and vulgar ways. Naturally, this was a downer, especially given the alternative. We received language lessons from one sole teacher a floor down from our rooms in the hostel. I suppose the commute was short, a positive feature when winter struck or one of the regular vodka sessions went on way too long. 

    However, the teaching was good and definitely improved my Russian language skills. The lessons involved the perusal of the press, mostly about the war, although I remember in particular the discussion of one article where the author was criticising the bias in the USSR against left-handed people who had been forced to change and join the right-handed majority if they wanted to avoid social stigma. 

    Looking back on that time, I suppose this reminds me today of a particular trend in the UK in previous centuries, and even in those days when the BBC, other media and professions were biased towards graduates from the right schools with the appropriate accent or people with good connections.


    And if we consider the appalling attitude to non-conformism in general in the 20th century, we donā€™t have far to go – it is hard to believe now, but homosexual acts were only legalised in England and Wales in 1967 for men who had to be at least 21. One excellent film describes such amoral treatment of one of our heroes in World War II, The Imitation Game, Alan Turing, the famous mathematician and codebreaker, convicted in 1952 of the crime of ā€œgross indecencyā€. What a superb performance by Benedict Cumberbatch.

    I apologise for the digression. That film stands out compared to the movies on show at the time at the local cinema in Voronezh, as well as imported foreign ā€œmasterpiecesā€ that would obviously criticise Western society. I recall to this day viewing The Prize of Peril, a French-Yugoslav collaboration based on a science fiction tale where an unemployed individual is hunted by five armed men for a big cash prize in a popular reality TV show. Our cultures were apparently overrun by corruption and degradation.

    Other outings as part of our studies included afternoon performances of plays by Chekhov, Ostrovsky and modern Soviet playwrights, once again where there were hardly any locals. We were also brought to events which emphasised the continuing relevance of the Great Patriotic War to the countryā€™s communist leadership (politburo), with constant references to nazis and the immense sacrifice that the peoples of the USSR had made. It is worth recalling here that the Soviet Union only entered the war in 1941 after it had been invaded. The country had signed in 1939 with Nazi Germany the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of non-aggression. In 1939 the Soviet Union had invaded instead both Finland and Poland with the blessing of Nazi Germany. For some reason these events did not merit any discussion.

    And while it is true that the country subsequently played a significant role in World War II, no mention was made of the assistance provided by the allies back then, in particular, the supply of weapons under the Lend-Lease Act adopted in 1941. It is worth noting that even in 1984 Stalin remained a hero among the people and any talk of the repressions of the 1930s was out of the question.

    Indeed we gained the impression at the time that other countries (excluding the 15 USSR republics) had not really featured in the fighting against Nazi Germany, Italy and Japan. Today, in 2026 over 80 years later, as the past is portrayed in nostalgic tones, the same tale is being told on Russian TV, albeit with one marked difference. Now it transpires from this new revision that Russia fought Germany on its own, notwithstanding the greater casualties per capita suffered by the peoples of Belarus and Ukraine in the Great Patriotic War. No wonder George Orwell is one of the most popular authors in the country today. The influence of the war was also palpable on countless nights where tanks could be seen and heard manoeuvring past midnight outside the hostel, another bizarre anachronism almost 40 years after 1945. Meanwhile the present was dominated by a sense of angst propagated by Soviet TV about a possible nuclear world war that could break out at any moment.  

    However, life at the time for a naĆÆve 20-year world was not as bad as it might seem. But that is for another day.

    1. exuberant866032a357 Avatar
      exuberant866032a357

      A wonderful post. Thoroughly enjoyable šŸ˜‰

      Like

      Reply

    Leave a comment

    Leave a comment

  • A New Reality: Trains, Toilets and Termites

    So Voronezh it was. A relatively small town in the South-West of Russia, with a population of approximately 850,000 in 1984, located 535 kilometres from Moscow. To get there, we were loaded onto a rickety overnight train. As it was still September, I couldnā€™t fathom why everyone was wearing boots. Late at night in almost pitch darkness I had to go to the toilet. It was then that I understood: there was a blockage, apparently a regular occurrence on the night train, leading to overflow. Hence the need for boots to stay dry. I evidently failed in that mission. And naturally there was no toilet paper, one of the phenomena I had read about, but had obstinately refused to believe. However much one might have mocked British Rail back in the day, on my return to the UK I was grateful for the cleanliness and care for customers in comparison. As the train approached the city, virtually all of us were overcome by a sense of apprehension.

    And yet it was bright and sunny that morning, lifting the mood.. We were deposited by bus at Hostel No. 2. It would probably be more appropriate to call it a dorm or student accommodation. We were divided into groups of two and taken up to the 4thfloor, if memory serves me right. Two of us would be distributed at random to a room with four beds. The other beds were occupied allegedly by Soviet students, but most likely KGB operatives or both. They would monitor our movements in the days and months to come. I appeared that one of the two in the room I inhabited was a high-ranking party member, as a procession of changing young females would pass the night regularly with him. However, at least we now had the perfect opportunity to practice our Russian which was admittedly rudimentary at that point.

    As well as the Soviet guards checking our every move, we were to become familiar with similarly unpleasant termites in the kitchen, corridor and worst of all in our rooms – at times the beady-eyed cockroaches seemed omnipresent, scuttling around freely, most ominously during the night.

    The toilet was another unpleasant feature ā€“ the flush hardly ever worked. So after doing your business, you would put the ā€œinformativeā€ material that had served as your toilet roll in a wastepaper basket. It goes with saying that the pungent smell and unavoidable sight of the product within hastened the time spent on that seat.

    And this is the moment when we realised why the daily newspapers Izvestiya (News) and Pravda (Truth, albeit not really) would sell out fairly quickly. They would be cut up by the locals into squares and assume their main function as toilet paper.Ā Ā 

    I remember one day in early December when the supermarket Detsky Mir (Childrenā€™s World), which sold all manner of goods, from chess sets and toys to school supplies, shoes and clothing, also unexpectedly had a delivery of Soviet toilet rolls. Naturally this long sought-after product triggered a long queue within a matter of seconds.Ā 

    As a rule, such queuing was a feature of everyday life, as the Soviet central planning system led to inefficient distribution, overproduction and the simultaneous inadequate supply of the goods most in demand, with little consideration of the requirements of different population categories. For example, there were never enough shoes of the right size, while the quality tended to be shoddy. The population would wait until the arrival of better imports from the German Democratic Republic (East Germany).Ā Ā As this was the height of the Cold War, the majority of resources in the USSR, and in particular in Russia, would be channelled to heavy machine building and the manufacturing of various weapons, once again marked by overproduction, in particular of tanks.Ā Ā 

    So shopping in general was a protracted experience and bizarre to a Westerner. Initially you had to queue up in a store and indicate what you wanted to buy. The shop assistant would hand out a piece of paper where they had written down the name and price of the good, for example, potatoes. Then you would go and join a second queue to pay the cashier at a kiosk, have the chit stamped and then queue for the third time to hand over the chit for the potatoes. Of course, if you had the misfortune to forget anything, you would have to repeat the whole process. Even more strangely, I was to experience this bureaucratic nightmare a few years later at a bookshop where I was to spend considerable time in the centre of London. But that is another story.

    Leave a comment

  • Behind the Iron Curtain: Cold as Ice

    At least, that was the initial reaction we all had when we landed (what a classic hit from Foreigner, though). Perceptions change over time though. Today it is very hard to imagine the size of the Soviet Union –  over twenty-two million kilometres, with Russia accounting for seventeen million. According to a 1989 census of the USSR (there was no census in 1984), Russia accounted for more than half the total population ā€“ an estimated 147 million out of 286 million in the Soviet Union as a whole – and at this time the USSR had the third biggest population globally after China and India. While Kazakhstan was second biggest in terms of size,  Ukraine claimed that ranking in terms of population, with over 51 million people.

    Back in those days students would be sent from different English universities to a few cities in Russia or to Minsk in Belarus for three or 10 months, depending on their degrees. It would no doubt have been enjoyable to spend that time in Moscow or Saint Petersburg, or even the Belarusian capital, but I didnā€™t have the contacts. So it came to pass that I ended up in Voronezh for three months, plus a few days in Moscow and a week in St Petersburg. 

    We were sent there at the start of our third year in early September 1984. After four hours on a British Airways flight to Moscow, in the good old days when the airline was prestigious and you would be treated to a good lunch and copious alcohol with your ticket, we immediately sensed the stark difference in mood and surroundings on leaving the plane. The drink didnā€™t block that out.

    The international terminal Sheremetyevo-2 was a dark and forbidding place. Its bleak look added to a sense of dread. Given the flight restrictions imposed on Soviet citizens (it was virtually impossible to travel abroad back then), the building was virtually empty. In addition, nobody smiled at us, from the porters to passport control and customs officers. It made you  feel that you were not wanted and should at the very least have the courtesy of looking miserable.

    After the luggage arrived, every single bag was opened and searched meticulously for potentially illegal anti-Soviet propaganda (in particular, such provocative material as bibles), or more probably in the hope of confiscating cigarettes or booze in excess of the set allowance. Then we were left to sort out the mess that had been made, picking up the items that had been chucked on the ground. On leaving the environs of the airport, we were shipped onto a sterile yellow and white LIAZ-677M bus and taken to a shoddy hotel in Moscow. 

    And the food wasnā€™t much better. Cheese, boiled eggs and hard brown bread, and some kind of meat. The Indian tea was good with sugar, while the coffee took a while to get used to. 

    We visited the usual tourist traps: Red Square, St Basilā€™s Cathedral and Leninā€™s Mausoleum. Unfortunately, in case of the latter, a long perusal was prevented by the guards and pressing from people behind us.

    The most frustrating aspect was the lack of interaction with the population. Everything was controlled and everyone we met in Moscow was clearly a KGB stooge at some level. Nats and I decided with a couple of others to try to eat in a restaurant at 1-2 PM. However, either it was closed for lunch or we managed to secure a table, but nobody would serve us even though we were surrounded by empty tables.


    And then the following morning we were split into different groups: the lucky ones staying in Moscow or bound for Saint Petersburg, Minsk (Nats) and Voronezh (yours truly). The journey there was also memorable, but for all the wrong reasons.

    Also from 1984, but just before departure.

    Leave a comment