The Curious Case of Vladimir Putin’s Birthday Party
As a foreigner living in Moscow you notice a lot of things which, even on a charitable interpretation, we might regard as a little strange. Such as the apparent custom in Russia of ensuring that even the most mundane road journey involves a near-death experience, or the fact that you can get away with smoking in most nightclubs but not in Red Square, or the fact that there is nothing, but nothing, that they will not serve with gherkins.
It’s what makes it a great place and if you don’t like it you probably shouldn’t be here.
In some ways it all originates from the fact that over 75 years or so of the surreal cruelties and irrationalities of Soviet rule, and the anarchy that followed in the ‘90s, most Russians have developed a truly stellar ability not to give a fuck — it’s the only defence mechanism for living in a country previously run by Boris Yeltsin, a man who would often get so drunk that he would do things such as fall off a bridge into the Moskva river.
Daily life in Moscow is, naturally, full of minor absurdities. Roads with camera-enforced parking restrictions are lined with cars with their number plates removed, while across the street some road workers have dug a three foot deep ditch across a pavement and provided no way around, so Muscovites in suits and stilettos can be seen casually clambering in and out of a muddy ditch on their way to work as if it’s perfectly normal. Which it is; but when cigarettes are 70p a pack who gives a shit right?
Conducting this particular circus is, of course, the man so good they named him twice: Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin, our glorious president. May his bare-chested reign last a thousand years, his judo prowess be unchallenged and his love’s name ne’er dare be spoken.
This week, on Wednesday, it was dearest Vova’s birthday and, since all work and no play makes Jack a dull head of state, he took a break from personally crushing the Islamic State into submission to celebrate God’s divine gift to the world of yet another year of our vase-finding, tiger-tranquillising saviour. For truly He is merciful.
But VVP is not a man to just go to a soft play area for party hats, weak Ribena and a few slices of Colin The Caterpillar cake. No no: he elected to celebrate by making a ‘surprise’ appearance in a professional ice hockey match for a team in Sochi, in front of a sell-out crowd.
Imagine, for a moment, the idea of Iain Duncan Smith, on his birthday, jogging onto the field at Upton Park to play right-mid for West Ham. Imagine Slaven Bilic having to explain to Alex Song that he won’t be playing this week because it’s IDS’ birthday:
“Look, Alex, these things happen. Nobody complained when Tony Benn played tight-head prop for Wasps to celebrate his golden wedding anniversary.”
So the scene is this: the crowd are excited in the stadium as the players enter one by one, they have ‘no idea’ that Putin will be playing. Suddenly, in his best ‘80s boxing announcer voice, the man on the PA shouts ‘NUMBER 11: VLADIMIR VLADIMIROVICH PUTIN!’ and everyone goes fucking mental as he emerges onto the ice.
Putin is skating round the rink blowing kisses to the crowd, men are getting involuntary erections, women are suddenly giving birth to babies they never conceived, which shoot forth swaddled in the Russian flag.
Putin catches one of the baby-projectiles, kissing it on the forehead and executing a flawless aerial double-helix. Len Goodman kneels on the ice and screams ‘ELEVEN!’ as the walls themselves begin to weep with joy. The opposition team are all now either unconscious or praying. Putin has become a centaur.
Ok so I’m embellishing a bit, but that was more or less the tone of the Russian news coverage of it I saw: Putin does something, crowd goes mental, rinse and repeat:
‘Look at nash President, look at him. See his glory. Feast thine eyes upon his well-defined pectorals and shed tears.’
One Russian, however, recently told me that she didn’t understand what was so funny about Putin and, maybe, in a country where you can’t buy French cheese because of the foreign policy, she’s right: it’s actually much less painful to accept the cult of Putin than spend time ruminating about the new kind of kleptocracy that he’s created.
A friend of mine once worked for a (now very successful) company in Moscow, which sells t-shirts with Putin or Russia related slogans on them. When it opened I looked at some of them, and asked him:
“Is this supposed to be a joke or not? I think it is, but my Russian isn’t quite good enough to be sure.”
To which he replied:
“Well, my friend, I think it is too; but it’s funny that you should ask, because most of our customers don’t seem to have noticed.”
If you tell a joke about Putin in the forest and nobody gets it, is it still a joke?
@milo_edwards
