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| Not me, I'm afraid. |
Anton is a fantastically cool guy, and he also speaks English, which is useful seeing as I'm the only foreigner in attendance. Unfortunately, Anton has been on tango sabbatical to Buenos Aires for the past few weeks, leaving us to Gennady and Lena. I don't have any pictures of Gena, but he has danced far longer than Anton, so the class is in good hands.
Shiny.
The only other time I had been at Luzhniki was in the summer of 2007 for the Metallica concert, which was pretty terrible. Not because of Metallica, they’re alright, but because of Luzhniki itself. As a concert venue it’s dreadful, as you can barely hear a damn thing in the stands (which is where I was at the time) because it echoes all over the place. But more importantly, the whole place was riddled with Moscow’s police force (or, rather, the Милициа - Militsia).
The moment you arrive at Sportivnaya Metro Station, you will see them standing around grumpily watching the platform. The moment you leave the station, you are confronted with the first of many rows of them.
This pattern repeats all the way towards the stadium, where you have to pass through at least two security checks before you even get a glimpse of the interior.
Admittedly, trying to keep several thousand people in a small area in some sort of order is a logistical nightmare, and the Militsia did pull it off despite being extremely menacing. To be fair, I’ve seen worse in Glasgow (Up Front Security are a particularly charming bunch). But none of it was particularly relaxing.
Given my previous experience at Luzhniki, I had very low expectations in the run up to being graced by Bono’s presence, and I was genuinely surprised… but not by U2. When the support group came on, I had a very odd sense of déjà vu.
It took a few seconds to register, but it turned out that, of all people, Snow Patrol was the warm-up act. And even without fancy audio visual equipment and costumes (lead singer Gary Lightbody was scruffy as usual) they were far more entertaining than the main act. Mostly because of this moment…
…After their set was done with, at least another hour was spent standing around, taking in the pleasant atmosphere of being intimidated by the local law enforcement while watching roadies do all sorts of things on the stage that was specially made for the 360° tour.
Eventually Bono, The Edge and the two other guys no one else cares about came out to the tune of David Bowie’s “Ground Control to Major Tom”. I’m not sure if it’s their “thing”, like how Metallica always kicks off its gigs with The Good, the Bad and the Ugly’s “The Ecstasy of Gold” by Ennio Morricone. If you’ve not heard the track in question then, well, make up for it now.
I think it’s fair to say that Morricone is more effective in kicking off a rock concert than Bono’s crooning of “Singing in the Rain” as it had actually started raining the moment the lot of them walked on stage, which didn’t stop until we left. And yes, I got soaked.
Despite not owning a single CD, I pretty much recognized every single song played on the night because – unless folk are unaware at the dilemma major artists are facing nowadays – U2 weren’t there to promote anything new. All these guys now have to go on tour to keep going.
It’s not like the old days where you would have to sell a million copies to go to number one. With music downloads and the ubiquity of iTunes, U2 et al. simply can’t sustain themselves on record sales alone. This is why the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan are constantly on tour, and will do so until Keith Richards can’t drool over the frets anymore.
And who wins here? Well, the Russians do. An ever-increasing number of bands are flocking to Russia. Elton John was here with his Red Piano recently. Madonna was in St. Petersburg. The Prodigy can’t get enough of Moscow’s money. Looking at the billboards outside my balcony right now, I can see that ZZ Top, Placebo and Sheryl Crow are incoming.
Yet I digress. Truthfully, the gig wasn’t the best because, despite playing their timeless hits, the four Irishmen didn’t exactly rock out. It was more about the spectacle of the thing. All the flashing lights, all the camera angles, all the moving bits of the stage etcetera.
But what was both disappointing and baffling was Bono fulfilling the South Park/Family Guy prophecies of acting like the biggest tit on the planet. At one point there was a pre-recording by one of the dudes on the International Space Station reciting what I think was a stanza or two of one piece, which was followed by Bono holding his arm up and head down like the Black Power salute at the 1968 Olympics saying something along the lines of “Frank De Winne up der in the Inter-nash-un-al Spays Stay-shun, folks. Guys, just, y’know, keep ah-skin questions. Just keep findin’ ahnsers…”
…to the bemusement of all Russians in attendance. And then Desmond Tutu appeared on screen with an equally cryptic statement. And then the first four articles of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights scrolled up.
A bunch of other surreal stuff appeared on the big screen, which was eventually closed off by an appearance of people carrying Amnesty International Chinese lanterns to Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, co-sung with the vocalist of Russian band DDT and noted activist Yury Shevchuk.
Afterwards it was a tiresome trek back to the metro station with several hundred other soaking wet people. Upon (eventually) returning home I jumped in the shower before gulping down a large glass of Chilean red.
[Photo of Bono found at Alf Broflovski’s flickr profile.]
So last Sunday (15th) was amusing. Actually, the previous Wednesday (11th) was genuinely entertaining, as I attended my friend Dima's wedding, which was an absolutely wonderful day and I'll write about it later. A couple of hundred pics are on flickr from the day.
"That's interesting," I thought, as the apartment itself was part of the same building I live in. Most apartment buildings in Moscow have multiple подъезды (pod-yez-dh lit. um... well, езд comes from a verb of motion, but it means entrance). I was in a rush to get to the other side of town where the registry office is at, but after seeing the burly Russians attacking the blaze I became plagued by the idea that I might not have an apartment to come back to after all the wedding fun times. My fears didn't manifest themselves, and my apartment was fine after I came back home at two in the morning.
That was, of course, until Sunday. Coming back at about three in the afternoon - I can't recall what I had been doing before then - I noticed the apartment stairwell stank of what could best be described as burnt plastic. Подъезды smell funny most of the time, usually of stale piss because tramps have a tendency to pass out on the stairs in the winter, but this time round it was especially pungeant.
One astute neighbour also noticed the stench, and was pacing up and down the stairs looking for the source. I became paranoid and started feeling the floors of my apartment wondering if any of the parquet had suddenly become especially hot (not easy to tell when your apartment is hot to begin with given the recent heatwave). And wouldn't you know it? The apartment directly below mine was actually on fire.
By the time I had realized it was probably the right moment to vacate the place, I heard a colossal banging from downstairs. Firemen were already there and were attempting to force their way in with a crowbar, hose at the ready (meaning I couldn't really get past, but I guess I could have jumped off my balcony, which is only about twenty-five feet from the ground). Then I got a phonecall from one of my Russian friends who lives nearby, inquiring, "Umm, Ben, there's smoke coming from one of the windows of your building, are you alright?"
At that point I noticed that some burly firemen on a crane were peering through my balcony window at me to see if I was alright and rudely hung up on my friend to chat with them.
Given the sturdiness of doors you find in some Russian apartment buildings like the one I'm in (where the ceiling is about three meters high), the crowbar wasn't sufficient, prompting the appearance of an enormous diesel-powered angle grinder to saw through the bolts, which made a hilarious amount of noise.
Obviously, no one was in the apartment at the time. In fact, I can't recall the last time I had seen someone entering or exiting the place in the past year, so I suspect it may have been an electrical fault. I'm vaguely sure I heard mentions of an electric blanket, which might have explained the initial stench.
Anyway, the fire was put out relatively quickly. No towering inferno, I regret to disappoint, just a stairwell full of smoke (ironic, given the fact that the thick amount of smog that had descended on Moscow over the past fortnight had finally lifted). A fireman came in to inspect my place afterward and found no smoke or soot damage, and merely said that I should just leave the window open for a while.
Oddly enough, my friend who called me earlier was still waiting down on the street, which was nice, but, because of his particularly unique character, I was wondering if he was less interested in seeing me safe and well and instead more excited by the prospect of me emerging from the подъезд half on fire. He simply grinned when I later made this observation.
Not wanting to enjoy the stench of burnt plastic, I left the building for a few hours to both get a drink and let the excitement die down.
A few days later, I encountered a couple of my immediate neighbours talking by the lift. Unfortunately for them, who weren't present on the day it happened, it turned out that the fire had kicked off underneath theirs, and that there was some sort of soot damage here and there in the apartment. Although most of the apartments are uniform, a lot of them used to be all one large thing, called a коммуналка (com-oo-nal-ka lit. a short form of communal apartment) in which several families would live. After the Soviet Union died, a lot of these apartments were split up.
The flat below me, however, hadn't been completely rearranged as the ones above, and covered the same area of the two apartments above i.e. mine and my neighbours'.
But anyway, no lives lost and mostly superficial damage. Here's to the next disaster. Perhaps something less dramatic, though, like the power outage in four of St. Petersburg's city districts last night.
Someone should invent some sort of clamp specifically for Ikea furniture.
4) At this point, carefully open the front passenger door of the first car, lest you break it. Confront the driver brusquely, state where you're going and how much you are going to pay. If he agrees: jump in beside him, as opposed to the back seat and off you go. If not, slam the door in his face and walk to the next one. Eventually, by the third or fourth, you'll get where you want for what you want. Always negotiate a price before getting in, and, although this should go without saying, never get into a car with two people in it.
Britain's David Haye put on a magnificent performance to claim the WBA heavyweight crown from Russian Nikolay Valuev in Nuremberg.
Haye, 29, won by majority decision, winning the fight on two judges' scorecards, with the other judge scoring it even.
The Londoner, giving away seven stone to his 7ft opponent, fought the perfect fight, staying on the move and making the lumbering Valuev look every one of his 36 years with his speed.
With his win, the Londoner becomes the first Briton to hold a world heavyweight crown since Lennox Lewis retired in 2003.
In addition, Haye is also only the second former cruiserweight champion to win a portion of the heavyweight crown, after four-time champion Evander Holyfield.
"It means everything to me," said Haye. "From when I was a baby, I said I would be the heavyweight world champion.
"It's a dream come true. I've fought the biggest heavyweight champion and caught him with big shots.
"I made him look like an amateur. People doubted my skills, but I did enough to win.
"Here I am, heavyweight champion of the world and I'm loving it. I'm going to clean up the division."
Approximately 10,000 fans were in attendance at the Nuremberg Arena, including a sizable and vociferous British contingent, to see David do what many thought was impossible and slay Goliath.
Even more remarkable, Haye managed to do it with a suspected broken right hand, which trainer Adam Booth said gave way in the third round.
"His head is solid, the hardest thing I've ever hit," said Haye. "It's like hitting a solid brick wall.
"I'm pretty sure my hand is broken, but it's a small price to pay for being the heavyweight champion of the world."
The first round was largely a fact-finding mission for Haye, circling anti-clockwise away from Valuev's big right and scoring with the occasional flurry to the head and jab to the body.
An immaculate-looking Haye visibly grew in confidence in the second stanza, landing with two sharp left hooks and a stinging left-right combination that forced Valuev to cover up.
Valuev landed with his first meaningful blow at the end of the round, a ramrod jab, but it was more of the same in the third, with Haye having little problem slipping Valuev's left hand and scoring with flashing lefts of his own.
Haye had made Valuev look decidedly sluggish and one-dimensional in the first quarter of the contest. Even though the Russian showed more urgency in the fourth, the Englishman was able to extricate himself from any potential trouble.
With both hands now slung by his waist, once again he had the better of the action, landing with a couple of left-right-left combinations and skimming Valuev's jaw with a huge right hand on the bell.
Haye found the mark with a left-right-right combination in round five, and it was becoming abundantly clear as the fight wore on that unless he was to tire down the stretch, the title could be his.
Valuev managed to pin Haye in a corner and unload with two clubbing blows to the body at the start of round six, but Haye hit back with a hurtful upper-cut and a big over-the-top right.
There were signs that Haye was beginning to tire in the seventh, but he came storming back in the eighth, stiffening Valuev up with a rigid jab before landing with a rasping right to the body.
The ninth was close until Haye unloaded with perhaps the best combination of the night, a left jab followed closely by a right straight down the pipe and Haye landed with two more right-hand bombs in the 10th as Valuev began to look desperate.
With Haye's staying power questioned in the past, the last two rounds, if it got that far, were always going to be tense, but Haye continued to move in round 11, leaving Valuev needing a knockout to win it in the final stanza.
In the final round, Haye almost achieved the impossible, very nearly flooring Valuev with yet another vicious left-right combination with a minute to go. Valuev regained his balance, but Haye continued to pepper the Russian until the final bell sounded.
"From my point of view, the main thing which went wrong was the pace," said Valuev.
"It was like a marathon for me. It was like a track event. I wasn't ready to run that much.
"The judges made their decision and I think the last round made the difference, especially the end of it."
Haye, who was awarded the fight 116-112, 116-112, 114-114, is only the third Briton to win a world heavyweight title since Bob Fitzsimmons lost his crown to James J Jeffries in 1899.
His victory also injects some much-needed vim into a previously moribund heavyweight division.
With 23 wins (21 KOs) from 24 fights, Haye now says he intends to clean up the heavyweight division.
That would mean defeating WBC champion Vitali Klitschko and his brother IBF and WBO holder Wladimir Klitschko.
But his first defence of the WBA belt will likely come against American John Ruiz, who earlier on Saturday beat German Adnan Serin in the seventh round by a technical knockout.
Haye said he sees few problems against former WBA champion.
"I don't think he is the most entertaining. He has won the world title before and you don't do that by being a bad fighter," he said. "I will be way too fast, I will knock him out."
(That pic isn't from the workout session, just a press conference, but you get the idea)
Pictures property of AP and Action Images
"Чим платити?" written on the billing invoice above is in Ukrainian. Although I don't speak it, the language itself is very similar to Russian, and I'm pretty sure it means "What are we paying for?" considering the article I nicked it from is about tariffs in Kiev.
Let me go on the record now by saying this: I fucking love Kroshka Kartoshka. I'd have a picture of me hugging one of these things, were it not for the fact that my mobile phone has a very poor camera, and convincing a Muscovite passerby to photograph me doing so isn't an option either. So why's it so fucking good? They sell baked potatoes. I know of only one other outlet in the world that does the same, and that's Spud's on Bradbury Place in Belfast, which is a rather dingy little establishment and one that is especially grimey on a Saturday night.
Teremok, contrary to Kroshka, deals with pancakes (or blinis, to be accurate). Much like with Kroshka, there are a variety of toppings. I'm a ham n' cheese man, but you can stick in chocolate and banana, or red caviar and cream if you're of the crabmeat mayonnaise mindset. They sell their own brand of квас (Kvass - a drink made from fermented rye bread. Ever-so-slightly alcoholic, but you'd have to pound away about 3 litres of the stuff to get the same buzz as a pint), which also goes down well.
Not a chain of food stands per se, nor to my taste either, but it's a staple of Moscow so it merits attention. Shwarma is essentially a donner kebab, but wrapped up in an unleavened bread thing to resemble a sausage roll. Not sure of the meat's origins, which is why I tend to stray from them. Like with kebabs, however, you only eat them when you're hammered.