Waste Paper

I spent the whole of Saturday morning reading articles about Brexit. Thanks a lot, Britain. That’s four hours of my life that I’ll never get back. What’s even more annoying is that the next evening, I tried to explain the whole Brexit sitch to Olga, and here’s what I came out with:

‘Errrr, well some stuff’s happened since this annoying blond guy got in charge. Parliament has passed a bill which says that he’s got to postpone Brexit if he can’t get them to agree to a deal, but he says he doesn’t have to listen to it. Nobody really knows who’s right. Or what’s going to happen now. We’re probably going to have an election, but we already knew that, we’re just a bit closer to it this week than we were the week before.

Yeah.

I guess nothing’s really changed actually.’

Four hours. For that.

Then I skyped my family back in (Much) Greater London, which was very nice indeed. My brother joined the conversation from Lancaster, and we all chatted about The Great British Bake Off like the totally un-institutionalised and hip family that we are.

The train bridge near my flat.
If you look carefully, you can see the type of train which does the trans-Siberian route

That evening I went to a rap gig in a basement bar. I know right? My appreciation of the event was severely limited by the fact that I kept on thinking ‘woah you’re at a Siberian rap gig Theo. Do you realise how cool that is?’ 

Olga, who met me in town before the gig, said that her taxi driver was watching comedy on his phone while driving. I found that pretty terrifying. But she had an even better anecdote too: once, she was in a taxi with a driver who was watching a science lecture of some description (as you do). Apparently the lecture actually brought up the fact that trying to multi-task increases the risk of car accidents, but the driver kept on watching. When she pointed this out, he just said ‘ah driving’s a reflex, it doesn’t count.’ Eek.

The band was called Makulatura, which means waste paper. It was just two guys rapping away. Every now and then I’d understand a word and I’d go ‘OOOH OLGA, THEY SAID I! THEY SAID I!’ I think everyone in the crowd probably noticed that I was English. Got some pretty unimpressed looks. It’s a shame that I didn’t understand all the words really, because I’ve looked some of them up since, and they’re really interesting. Here’s my rough stab at a translation of one song called Freedom is a Ghetto, done with no concern for rhythm or rhyme:

I’m still lying here surrounded by zombies,

Once again I re-write my f***king lyrics.

Through the window I see the edge of the sky hiding behind the clouds,

It’s so dark that the setting sun burns my eyes.

I’ll never get out of this building,

Never go with you to that Dolphin concert. I know

I’m lying when I say that my wife will take me home.

You see our quiet life was devoid of content,

So my dad takes me home, because I’m still the same tear-stained kid,

We walk through the forest together, and he holds my hand.

He hides his confusion and reads me stories

Like the story of the giant with the blue eyes.

The taiga still intrigues me and scares me

As we watch the flashes of lightning,

And I try to remember the feeling of flying in zero gravity.

It’s so easy to get lost between fear and pleasure,

Dreams and reality, earth and the setting sun.

When our mining town melts in the heat

There’s a mirage of the sea on the horizon at the bottom of the hill.

You’re a writer, so just tell stories,

Just call me any time and I’ll share your grief.

I know you aren't a cop,

I know you’ll never drop anchor.

You’re the freest in our family

And I bequeath you all my rage

...

To each and every friend in your micro prison,

Your cell walls covered with ironic slogans

And political memes, soon enough the Kremlin

Will ram it like a shock wave,

You just have to wait.

You just have to be funnier. You think, but I know

That photos from the protests will win the photo show.

The leader in a clean shirt; a sales manager

Smiling fussily, resplendent on a throne.

Each one will become an invaluable small businessman.

He walks up the steps and says that’s quite enough

Freedom is a ghetto, your commune is a Telegram chat

The activist was poisoned with a pint at the afterparty.

And when he becomes an old lip-smacking liberal

He’ll remember how he defeated a tyrant with hashtags and spam.

I’ll stay on my bed and skim through your tale,

Just an unlucky pirate who’s lost his schooner.

Maybe I’d like to side with you, but the banner doesn’t allow it,

I’m not among the pariahs and the hand-shakers.

You’ve cast all the roles in your play, so I’ll have to write my own

And I’ll meet you one day at the Winter Palace.

Always forget where you are,

Standing right on the edge.

Freedom is a ghetto,

I’m bored, I don’t need heaven.

I know that a lot of that doesn’t make sense, which is probably largely because of my translation, but I think some of it is really profound, and it also has some great imagery.

And while this rap/poetry was going on around me I was thinking ‘I wonder if my hair’s long enough to do the Mop Head yet?... Am I doing it? Ah I must look so dope right now.’

Pfft. Please. I am easily cool enough to be here

After the concert, we bumped into one of Olga’s friends called Sergey. When we’d chatted for a bit, we asked if he wanted to come and get something to eat with us.

‘Yeah’, he said ‘but I’m a vegan’. 

Olga went kind of pale. ‘You serious?’

‘Nah course not.’ He slapped her on the shoulder genially. 'Where we going?’