Autobiographical

My life and the future

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  • Emergence of Russian Presidency and inevitable friction, a trip to London and a new art contact

    The biggest political event in early June 1991 was the first-ever election in Soviet history of a Russian President, with Boris Yeltsin winning the backing of over 45 million voters, equivalent to over 57% of the Russian electorate. His running mate and now Vice President was a former military officer Alexander Rutskoi who had been awarded the title of Hero of the Soviet Union after his role in the Soviet-Afghan war, which had lasted a decade, ending in 1989.  

    Yeltsin’s growing role in politics over the past few years was now bolstered by actual popular support, thereby undermining the position of Mikhail Gorbachev as Secretary General of the Communist Party and Head of State of the Soviet Union, given that Moscow was the centre of power in the USSR. It was clear that this situation could not last, in particular, in view of the enmity between the two men and the tensions this was creating in the politburo. Admittedly Gorbachev would get a short-lived respite thanks to the US-USSR summit scheduled for late July. 

    Meanwhile, I was delighted to finally obtain an exit visa to go home for a week, heading back with British Airways on a flight paid by my dad that I naturally reimbursed once I had accessed my bank account back home and recovered some cash in the midst of an abortive attempt to salvage my relationship. Nevertheless, it was a positive break. I spent some good time with friends, including Simon from Europa and Paul from Novosti in London, and also saw my mate Phil from university who was making good progress in his career in sales.

    I was also offered some proofreading work from the managing editor of Europa Publications who proudly told me that they would soon be switching to electric typewriters. I was a bit ahead of them in that sense. I spent one night over at a friend’s place, only to come home and see that my mum was distressed. Both my parents were still recovering from my late brother’s passing, which had also hit my other brother Adrian hard and led to actions on his part that were naturally a concern in particular for them. As Helen was in Japan and I was in the USSR, we were of course upset to hear this, but had been less affected due to the distance.

    However, I was now seeing the repercussions close up. My father had suffered atrial fibrillation the night of my absence. He hadn’t been sleeping well and had always had high blood pressure. He took me aside and asked me to promise to watch over mum if anything were to happen to him. Naturally, I agreed and did my best in subsequent years to keep that promise. Luckily he seemed better before I left.

    I returned to Moscow, flush with cash and recharged. I was also fairly busy at Novosti as most of the Russian translators were either on holiday at their dachas in the summer or working as interpreters and earning in the process a considerable amount. Their English was phenomenal.  At Novosti we all worked on Olivetti desktop personal computers, primarily the Olivetti PCS 286, which had an Intel processor and operated on MS-DOS 3.3 It also required the use of a 3.5-inch floppy disk. In the morning we would receive a page cut out from one of the newspapers for translation from one of the clerical assistants, usually Vera or Svetlana. Subsequently, they would download the translation onto a floppy disk and take it way for printing. Or Jennifer, Steve and I would receive a printed text for editing, plus the original Russian. Similarly, if we had freelance work from a client, they would provide us with a disk for downloading the translation. 

    I had one strange client that year from North Korea, who requested that I edit a book of recollections of Kim Jong Li, the late leader of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, on Juche, the country’s official ideology. They agreed to pay cash dollars, so naturally I accepted the work from two emaciated North Koreans in shabby green suits that didn’t fit. They said they were 25, but looked over 50. When I handed over the edited version, I saw the two of them again, plus a third individual sporting a black leather jacket and black sunglasses who looked far healthier and younger. After receiving payment and a bottle of vodka containing a worm, I commented that he looked like a member of the secret police, leading to weak denials. Not surprisingly, I didn’t receive a repeat commission. 

    As I was busy, I would now hold occasional parties at my top floor flat with small balcony, attracting up to 30 people, from Tim and Moira, Jennifer, Steve and David to Suzanne, Pavel, a number of artists, some actors and actresses. Naturally it was cramped, but loud and fun. As well as the Kazakh artist Manas Kisamedinov, I was to have the good fortune to get to know an outstanding painter, draftsman and book illustrator, who had a phenomenal knowledge of both ancient and modern art, boasted a rich vocabulary and stood out due to his elegant dress attire. His name was Genya Gritchin and I was to see him regularly, learning a great deal more than he would ever derive from me. I am glad to say that I have re-established contact. He has been successful throughout his career and now lives in Genoa, Italy. I attach here a link to his website: https://www.genyagritchin.com. I also provide below some more photos of his works from back then and the people I have mentioned from those days, kindly provided by Suzanne. I feel very lucky to have managed to reconnect with such established artists as Suzanne and Genya. It is good to see that they achieved the success that they more than merited.

    And then George and Mikhail met in Moscow. And I was unfortunately far in the background. But that is another story.

    Genya Gritchin in his Moscow flat

    Early work by Genya Gritchkin

    Another early work by Genya Gritchkin

    Pavel, Suzanna and yours truly

    Pavel and Manas

    Yours truly

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  • Sunshine, the sea, red wine and khadchapuri

    In early May 1991 Jennifer came up to Steve and me in the corridor at APN and asked us whether we would like to accompany her to Georgia. Accommodation would be free, as would most of the food. All that we needed to do was buy a cheap rouble ticket on the national carrier Aeroflot – no exit visa was required from the authorities, as this was a trip to a republic of the Soviet Union. Accordingly, there would be no passport control. The trip would last four days and coincided with the May Day holidays. Steve and I were sold on the idea from the outset, curious to see another republic and understand the appeal that the final destination had held both for Stalin and subsequent Soviet leaders, as well as anyone who had the necessary connections to go there.

    Jennifer’s friend lived in the coastal town of Sukhumi in Abkhazia, an autonomous republic within the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic. An ethnic Abkhaz, Abga (meaning wolf) was a policeman there, as was his brother Davit whom we would meet later that day. Skirmishes between the Abkhaz minority and Georgian majority between 1989-1991 had been reported in the press. They both stated categorically at the time that there was no antipathy between Abkhaz and Georgians. Clearly, once again the events had been orchestrated by an external third party. A lot of the blame for conflicts in the Soviet Union and subsequently can be laid at the door of the divide and run policy implemented by the politburo under Stalin. 

    Leaving Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow on a chilly Friday morning where winter was loathe to take its leave, sleet all around and the temperature hovering around 5-7 degrees Celsius, the plane was to land almost four hours later in warmer climes in Sochi (plus 15), home to the North Caucasus summer beach resort town bearing the same name. And then it was a drive at maximum speed in two hours to Sukhumi – normally the journey would take almost three hours.

    Sukhumi was at the time a beautiful compact and well-kept city off the eastern coast of the Black Sea, boasting a history dating all the way back to the 6th century BC, settled first by the Ancient Greeks and then the Romans. Previously known as Tskhumi when part of the Kingdom of Akzhazia established in the 780s and then as part of the Kingdom of Georgia in 1008, the city had also been occupied in different eras by the Ottoman Empire and the Russian Empire, before being subsumed as an autonomous republic within the Georgian Soviet Socialist Republic. That is, before the fateful war from 1992-93, engineered by “big brother” under Boris Yeltsin, with similar events happening previously in Nagorno-Karabakh (Azerbaijan and Armenia) and subsequently in Moldova, Chechnya (twice), Georgia again in 2008 and then in Ukraine from 2014 until now (late 2026).

    As well as the idyllic setting, situated as we were in a brick house close to the sea, the variety of the food was a total shock to the system, from the local khadchapuri (cheese bread), to the nut-based dishes, copious amounts of fruit, especially mandarins and grapes, spicy vegetables and meat and excellent Turkish-style coffee, and one more item I had sorely missed in Moscow: wine. 

    I was soon to discover that Georgia is rightly known as its birthplace. For it transpired that wine-making dated back 8,000 years there! Among the techniques deployed in the country, as well as home-made wine concocted without sugar, Georgia is home to the tradition of making wines in clay pots known as Qvevri which are placed underground as part of the fermentation process. As of today (2026) there are over 500 known grape varieties in the country.

    On that first evening in Sukhumi the policeman Abga invited us to attend an outdoor wedding reception, attended by at least 1,000 people, both Georgian and Abkhaz. Admittedly we arrived late to the main event. However, there was still food in abundance, wine and the Georgian version of vodka, chacha (grape vodka), 40% alcohol-proof. A toast-maker (Tamada) would make a number of toasts. After each toast, you would be expected to down a shot and then sniff brown bread, allegedly in a bid to reduce the impact of the chacha running through your body. If the gap between them was deemed excessive, our neighbours at the table would readily propose additional toasts. As most people were already inebriated after several hours of such toasts, I managed to fake it on a number of occasions, drinking water instead, but still felt the worse for wear when we left late in the night towards 3:00 or 4:00 AM. At some point Abga stopped the car abruptly, He told us to get out. He took out his pistol and fired towards the surrounding forest into the night. He then said it was our turn. However, this was not an offer, but an order. So we duly took our turns to fire, hoping against hope that we did not injure anyone in the process. 

    All nursing a hangover, it came as a relief that Saturday was more leisured and offered a welcome break from alcohol. We were driven to a packed sandy beach in Pitsunda in Gagra District, the favourite haunt of former Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev, who was incidentally deposed from power while holidaying there in October 1964. Gagra was so popular in the Soviet era that it merited a mention in an amusing call from a phone booth in a scene in the 1973 comedy Ivan Vasilievich Changes His Profession directed by Leonid Gaidar. The sea in Pitsunda was warm and a beautiful green, while the atmosphere veered from fairly raucous and boisterous to comparative silence as the beach slowly emptied.

    Sunday was similarly fairly calm at first, that is, before we were offered a chance to sightsee in Sochi. And the moment when the two brothers decided to pursue at breakneck speed in their Lada two Russian girls in a taxi all the way to Sochi, with the three of us crammed in the back. When we raised objections to the chase, we were dumped on the road side unceremoniously. 

    We decided there and then against a day-trip to Sochi, returning instead to Sukhumi. After walking for a while, we caught a bus back to the city, all struck by the original ornamental designs of various animals in vivid bright colours at the bus stops. After enjoying a leisurely afternoon by the beach, eating fruits and drinking coffee, we completed our stay that evening at a local café, wolfing down both egg and meat khadchapuri and enjoying some excellent Saperavi red wine surreptitiously brought to the table in the evening.  

    The next morning we agreed to return to Sochi Airport without relying on Abga’s aid, catching instead a taxi and admiring the beautiful greenery and scenery. The fresh air throughout the trip was indicative of the lack of pollution in the region. And then we endured the long flight back in an overpacked plane and return to the Moscow cold where an increase in the political tension was palpable.

    Before I move on, I feel obliged to mention a young courageous Russian journalist Dmitry Kholodov who reported from Abkhazia on the ethnic cleansing of Georgians in Sukhumi in 1993 during the first Russian-Georgian war, conducted with the clear approval of Boris Yeltsin’s regime. He was to uncover more murky dealings in the Russian army only to be murdered in 1994. As was the case of many journalists over the years, the Russian police and secret services failed to find the culprit, which was not surprising as they were clearly protecting their own work sanctioned by the Russian regime. An article in Wikipedia mentions Kholodov’s superlative journalism https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitry_Kholodov.

    Painting of pre-war Sukhumi by Georgian artist G. Gurtskaia

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  • Abortive reforms, pay cut and breaking out

    Unfortunately, as I am not blessed with the striking memory of my good friend Russell Edwards, confidence coach and top teacher of special needs kids (if you want to learn more about how he can help, just go to his website https://www.russellrkedwards.com), it takes an effort to recall those heady days of 1991 in Moscow.

    However I do recall walking late one night in March 1991 with Ludmila in the deserted streets of the centre of Russia’s capital (there was a curfew in place) and approaching the Kremlin to observe tank and other army drills being conducted in preparation for some as-to unknown threats, perhaps connected to the dire state of the economy, attributable to mismanagement, the collapse in the oil price and the fall in revenue from vodka sales due to the anti-alcohol drive that had been launched by Mikhail Gorbachev, and to the desperate measures on the brink of being unleashed. 

    For the past few years the USSR had survived solely due to the artificially elevated status of the Secretary General of the Soviet Union as a reformer, which had led to the release of over USD 150 billion in loans from foreign lenders by 1991, equivalent to over USD 360 billion in purchasing power in 2026. However, now payback was expected in the form of reforms, and the politburo as a whole balked at taking any meaningful decisions, opting instead on half-hearted measures that in the process only precipitated greater political and economic instability. The vast communist empire was on the brink of bankruptcy.

    It goes without saying that such economic missteps spring to mind as they had a devastating impact on people’s incomes in general and mine and that of other foreign translators/editors in particular. The initial abortive measure, implemented on 22 January 1991, the Pavlov Reform named after its architect Valentin Pavlov, who was at the time Minister of Finance and subsequently Prime Minister, was intended to confiscate large denomination roubles in a bid to tackle rampant inflation, but merely caused chaos owing to the minimalist three-day deadline established for the exchange of the notes and naturally failed to achieve its goal.

    Gorbachev also made a significant political blunder when he held on 17 March 1991 a USSR-wide referendum on whether the population backed the preservation of the Soviet Union. Six of the 15 union republics refused to take part – Armenia, Georgia, Moldova, Estonia Latvia and Lithuania). At the same time, a question was included on the referendum on whether the post of President of Russia should be created. In total 71% of the population approved the idea of a Russian President and Vice-President.

    Meanwhile, economically, on 2 April the government increased retail prices substantially in a bid to tackle the ongoing economic crisis, but to no avail. And on 4 April, in another attempt to curb the black market, the government devalued the currency significantly, thereby rendering bank savings worthless overnight. 

    And on that basis, the already miniscule monthly salary of 300 dollars of foreign translators/editors was for some reason halved, with immediate effect. No logical explanation was given. Admittedly, I cannot say that this had an immediate impact as I hadn’t been paid this amount once and would only receive a lumpsum payment in my UK bank account at the end of 1991. However, it was still a shock and belied the concept of egalitarianism and communism that the authorities had sought to foster. Although management at APN didn’t announce this move to foreign workers officially until June, leaks were synonymous with the lack of control in society in general right then, and so we knew about it the very next day.

    It is a strange feeling when you find your worth undermined like that. A nameless authority had simply decided to cut our pay in order to achieve some undefined arbitrary goal, with total disregard for the plight of the individual (the USSR’s “socialism with a human face” was put to the test once more and proved wanting). Admittedly, the elderly Russian population was hit the hardest when their hard-earned savings built up over years to fund the purchase of a car or save for a comfortable future were decimated. 

    At the time it felt like a kick in the gut and something I hoped never to experience again and above all, never to see applied again indiscriminately to the public at large. And yet today AI is wreaking similar havoc through countless industries and is causing untold misery. And like coding, journalism, entry-level positions at law and accounting firms, and many other professions, translation is one of the sectors at risk all over the world driven by the push for AI in an alleged drive to improve efficiency, backed by shortsighted governments and once-respected magazines such as The Economist, forgetting about the inevitable shortfall in tax revenues and increase in spending on unemployment and other benefits, and totally ignorant of the threats to the economy on the one hand and humanity in general on the other, with countless leading AI researchers and firms now acknowledging (in September 2026, including Anthropic CEO) that they are powerless to understand the risks posed by the technology they have created. As the saying goes, genius and madness are two sides of the same coin. 

    It feels curious writing these words as I am looking back more than 35 years to the final months of the Soviet Union. However, the comparison seems apposite at least at this moment in time. Naturally, the impact of the abortive reforms on Soviet citizens in that period was tragic, although the population would unfortunately be exposed to a far worse situation economically soon. And so here the barter and order systems, moonlighting and other survival methods came to the rescue in general. 

    From that moment in April, what with the treatment meted out to me in January and the increasing disrespect being shown,  I no longer felt compelled to put in a full-time shift and changed my working hours independently from 9:00 AM to 6:00 PM to an evening shift from 4:00 PM to 10:00 PM. I also indicated that I expected an exit visa as soon as possible to go home for a break, given that the agency was reneging on its promises. 

    I also needed extra cash, as I was running short. Enjoying life had a cost. At the very least now I could seek temporary or potentially permanent employment elsewhere. So I would wander the icy streets of Moscow, face virtually hidden by scarf, winter coat and the ridiculous hat I wore to fend off the cold, dropping off my CV off at various offices and foreign chambers of industry and commerce, including the small fledgling office of Price Waterhouse (prior to their merger with Coopers to become PwC) on Paveletskaya Street, where I was invited in for a chat over coffee and biscuits. 

    At the time they had about 10-15 people. They expressed an interest in potentially hiring me at some future date. As my Russian language was finally improving from constant practice, I was now part of the team translating articles of the leading business daily Kommersant (meaning businessman). I would also spend many a Sunday editing horrendous English translations of scientific publications, receiving in return cash dollars.

    I was to get lucky that summer. However, I was first to meet another foreigner whom I would spend time with over the years, including a visit to see him in Toronto and Montreal in 1999. And I would meet through him another Canadian friend, Tim, who was to play a pivotal role in my life and who remains dear to me to this day. 

    But back to Stephen Beaupre (Steve to his friends), who was a dapper good-looking chap, sporting long dark hair and possessing the deepest brown eyes and at least back then an ironic sense of humour. He joined APN right around the time our  salaries were cut, but had the good fortune to be accorded a two-room flat in the centre of Moscow, something I wouldn’t have minded, rather than the backwaters where I resided. And he was to accompany me on a trip organised by Jennifer to a republic that means even more to me today. But that is another story.

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  • Solo show in the Central House of Artists, a harbinger of impending transformations

    I apologise for the delay. I had a deluge of legal and corporate translations and edits to complete by tight deadlines. Truth be told, I also needed a break after the last entry. Following the visa debacle, I was fortunate to have a distraction that would not only strengthen my ties to Pavel Ouporov and Suzanne Scherer, but also introduce me to sculptors, painters and actors who would all bring me considerable cheer and play an important role over the coming years. 

    I must admit that I was curious as to why Pavel and Suzanne had needed all that plaster and other art materials weighing over 60 kilogrammes. However, I would soon realise why they were essential to their first joint solo exhibition at a modern art space located on the first floor in a major gallery that had back then two names: The Central House of Artists and the New Tretyakov Gallery. It was planned as an extension to the famous fine art State Tretyakovka Gallery in the centre of Moscow off Yakimanka, which displays icons, paintings by the 19th century Russian artists and Dutch Old Masters, as well as sculptures, and would assume the latter name for good after 2019. 

    The Central House of Artists had opened fairly recently, in 1979, initially to house famous Soviet and Russian artists from the 1920s to 1960s, including works by Malevich, Kandinsky, Chagall, Mukheva, Popova, Falk and Filonov. When approaching the exhibition centre, you would enter via a garden stacked with massive imposing outdoor statues from the Park of the Fallen Heroes (such as Lenin).

    The exhibition was timed to open at 4:00 PM. Luckily, I now felt a liberty to leave early and could walk to the gallery from work, as it is situated 15-minute walk away opposite Gorky Park which had gained international renown due to the thriller of the same name released in 1983, based on a novel by Martin Cruz Smith and starring William Hurt and Joanna Pacula. The park had also been mentioned in the song Wind of Change (lyrics: I follow the Moskva Down to Gork Park Listening to the wind of change, a song penned by the German band The Scorpions after their visit to the Soviet Union. Released in January 1991, it would become a hit later that year after the failed coup in August.


    The Central House of Artists had also gained a reputation for promoting up and coming artists. And Pavel and Suzanne definitely fit that bill: Soviet and American artists working as one to produce a compelling commentary on the grotesque elements of existence in the USSR, reflecting the numbness, tedium and absurdity of various professions in the USSR. While the farcical nature of the regime had been depicted in the small graphic work I had acquired from Pavel back in 1989, now that image was magnified. 

    In one work Pavel and Suzanne recreated the square booth protected by glass occupied by an elderly Soviet citizen that any visitor to the Russian, Ukrainian or Georgian metros would encounter at the bottom of escalators in every single metro. The bored employee would sit and spend all day trapped in that claustrophobic box watching passengers go and up down the stairs. The highlight of that suburban life would occur when occasionally the employee had dial the red phone on their desk to announce the stoppage of an escalator due to its malfunctioning. It was clear that the street smart Suzanne had accentuated to Pavel for this work and many others the myriad of peculiar aspects of Soviet life that would seem entirely normal to Homo Sovieticus, but bizarre to a foreigner. I still cannot fathom why this tradition continues to this very day. 

    The exhibition was a resounding success. Shortly afterwards Pavel and Suzanne would take up offers to exhibit in the USA and set up office in Brooklyn, New York, where they built up a considerable following, touring the US and elsewhere and constantly developing as artists.  After the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple, they decided to move to the quieter planes of Florida. I provide here a link to their website, so you can read more about their story, current and previous works. https://schererandouporov.com

    We would stay in touch and I would visit them in Brooklyn and interact with their two iguanas.

    Before they were to depart, I remember an invitation to Pavel’s flat in March that year where they requested that I serve as a nude model, taking me outside on the roof in the freezing cold to photograph me for a subsequent work. Admittedly, I had a few drinks of vodka before and after that experience. I suppose I can modelling to my list of professions. 

    Naturally the event, replete with champagne and vodka, crisps, bread and cheese sandwiches, was attended by, journalists, actors and actresses and a number of artists from the best-known art school, including Pavel’s fellow students/graduates from the famous Surikov Institute, amongst them the sculptor Andrey, painters Artur Gafarov who now lives in a Siberian city with three dogs and two cats, and Manas Kisamedinov, a Kazakh artist who would become a good friend over the years. Unfortunately he passed away far too young, as had his father, the famous Kazakh illustrator Mukhtar Kisamedinov.

    I also was fortunate to meet through Pavel and Suzanne a wonderful individual and superb budding journalist David Stern, who was to make it on his own all the way to the top and was, last I heard, living in Kyiv with his family. He was also a courageous, intrepid, loyal and super smart guy. And I was lucky enough to spend some time with him over the years.

    It goes without saying that the drinking in and outside the building, and smoking in the corridors was to continue at the residence of Ludmilla, a former model, actress and artist from Ukraine, until the early hours, rendering the start of work the next day very tough. 

    Looking back, to a certain extent this would represent the last year when artists would be able to benefit from the Soviet system of free accommodation in art studios and grants, albeit small, and thereby not have to address the concern of having to sell their work to consumers or abandon their artistic dreams to make a living in another sector. 

    At the same time, perestroika must have been a godsend, as no topics appeared to be off limits either for discussion or painting/sculpture at the time, given that the control of the KGB (the Committee for State Security) and other law and enforcement agencies continued to wane, with different factions focused on their own needs, siphon cash and assets out of the country to the west and planning to wage a battle for the future at that time of uncertainty. 

    Financially, though, things were about to get harder for everyone, including yours truly….

    Picture of Suzanne Scherer and Pavel Ouporov in front of one of the works

    Picture of journalist David Stern next to one of the works

    The underground booth in all its glory

    Pavel Oupourov and Suzanne Scherer outside the exhibition centre

    Attendees admiring the works

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  • Shuttle trading, my brother John and socialism without a human face

    By the end of January 1991 I was getting accustomed to the cold, the odd fall in the ice, the daily change at work from boots to the normal shoes kept under my desk, washing clothes in the bath with soap, dealing with the beady eyes and endless scuttling in the flat and embarking on trips to the local Rizhsky market located near Rizhsky railway station, one stop from my local Alexeyevskaya. The markets had emerged after the adoption of the Soviet Law on Cooperatives promoted by Mikhail Gorbachev in 1987.

    Their appearance had been a godsend for the general public, offering access to fresh meat, vegetables and fruit and other products, whilst enabling the authorities to test out reforms on a limited scale. The food markets would inevitably trigger the appearance of retail analogues nearby where the products on display varied from Western clothes and shoes to electronics (radios, cassette players, computers)  and western rock and pop bands on cassette tapes.  All these products would be imported by so-called chelnoki, the word literally meaning shuttles and in this case shuttle traders. This was the nickname assigned to those individuals who would manage somehow, clearly through bribes of some sort, to exit the Soviet Union to buy goods and then re-enter a few days later with the various products that would be sold at a significant profit. 

    I must say I wondered at the time about the ease with which they were able to leave, especially when I was prohibited from doing so, with my one-entry visa. That became a concern on 30 January when I received an unexpected phone call from my mum. She told me that my eldest brother John had died at the tender age of 40. 

    I always remember John as a gentle soul who was unlucky in both love and the choice of career and who only reconciled with my dad on his death bed. John had in later years blamed my dad for the school in Portsmouth, forgetting that he had instigated the move.  I had become close to him ever since the age of 15 when I had taken several buses to get to his house in Surrey and prevent him from committing suicide, bringing him back to my parent’s place in Ealing. I was to go there on a similar mission when 20. Owing to the age difference, my earliest memories date back to his ill-fated first wedding. However, I have learned more about him since then from my beloved sister Helen as they were much closer age-wise. She remembers him fondly as a great elder brother. And he was lucky to have her around.

    When he was twelve, John told my dad that he was interested in becoming a priest. My dad took him at face value and paid for his education at a boarding school in Southsea, Portsmouth, St John’s College, which closed in 2022 owing to a sharp fall in enrolments. The all-boys school had been founded by the De La Salle Brothers and promoted the Catholic faith. However, in the end John decided against following that path. Academically, he was good in English and excellent at mathematics. He was also acknowledged there as a great actor. My dad went to see a performance and couldn’t believe how good he was on stage. As soon as he turned 18, John returned to London, started working as a stockbroker and was successful. However, the atmosphere in the capital those days was tainted by what appeared to be mandatory alcoholic lunches where ideas were shared. John continued for a time to appear in a number of plays at a local amateur dramatics club, lived then in Hampstead with the flat Dad created for him at the house and had a lovely schoolteacher girlfriend. 

    However, one day he was coming home and on the middle of the zebra crossing when he was knocked down by a car which sped off without stopping. Luckily a kind passer-by contacted the ambulance services, and he recuperated almost fully. While in hospital, he met a nurse and ended up marrying her. They had two children whom my parents rarely saw, which meant that we lost sight of John as well. I recall seeing them once when I was 14. As I say, I was to see more of him luckily in the time to come. 

    Suffice to say that later in the marriage his wife asked for a divorce and then moved in with a neighbour. John was heartbroken, but soldiered on. Eventually he met another lady and had two children with her. The children have issues, but are lovely. 

    However, in January 1991 John was fired by a Japanese stockbroker that he had recently joined due to staffing cutbacks based on the LIFO principle (Last In, First Out). He came home the worse for wear at his property located near my parent’s place in Richmond, only find a note from his second partner, demanding that he leave. 

    Unfortunately, she didn’t bother to tell our parents what she had done, something that was unforgiveable and something I said to her at a later date. John swallowed some pills, regretted it, but then collapsed. He ended up in hospital for a few days where he made up with dad. This event would inevitably have an indelible impact on the other children, but more so on my parents, and especially my father. John had life insurance, which covered the mortgages on both houses. But that was no compensation to us for the loss of someone so dear.

    And so I turned up at work on 31 January, shaken and desperate to head home and see the family. I told Sergey and he promised to do his utmost to resolve the problem. However, he got back to me with the grim news that Soviet management at the top of APN refused to give me an exit visa to attend the funeral and support the family back home. I had only just arrived, had cost the agency money and management determined that there was no certainty that I would come back. All my attempts to reverse the decision, indicate that I would cover any expenses and would definitely return were to no avail. And this is one thing that I will never forgive that quasi-communist regime for taking away from me: a total lack of compassion and indifference, and a real chance to say goodbye to my brother. Whenever left-wingers in the UK back then cited the USSR as socialism with a human face (and some even do so today), I just laughed at their ignorance. Unfortunately, this is when the drinking took over. However, not as badly as it could, owing to the lack of alcohol in the shops and limited access to the journalist bar at APN. I just felt numb. 

    I often think of John and remember the good times, going for a pint and playing pool, walking in parks, chatting, smiling, laughing and hugging. He would often wax lyrical about all his kids, all the more so the elder two whom he was prevented by his ex from seeing or contacting. John was really special. I just wish that he had lived longer and that I had had more time to spend with him. And that I had been with my other brother Adrian and sister Helen and beside my parents at a time where I might have been able to lend a helping hand. 

    However, it was not to be. I had now seen for myself the cold, unyielding and faceless facet of the USSR and realised yet again that it was doomed in no so small part for that reason. 

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  • The order system and the communist elite, the importance of a bottle, alcohol and the head-splitting hedgehog

    Admittedly, there was a third option. Instead of queuing for hours and hoping against hope that the butcher might look kindly on you, exchanging a high-demand ticket for a good cut of meat, or paying far more than state-regulated prices at open-air markets, some people were able to benefit from the so-called Zakaz system. The transliterated word Zakaz is the Russian for Order. Established in the 1980s to distribute higher-quality goods that were in short supply to a limited number of workplaces and offices, as well as to the privileged few in the USSR (known as the nomenklatura), this enabled specific groups to avoid any contact with the public as a whole and not have to queue in vain for hours at food shops that offered at most second-rate potatoes and carrots and meat that looked far from fresh. 

    Naturally the elite in the socialist system would enjoy access to the most varied selection of goods. As George Orwell put it in Animal Farm: all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. This was so true that it is not surprising that Orwell’s superb novels 1984 and Animal Farm castigating the alleged communism and hypocrisy of the Soviet bloc were banned in the USSR. My dad had always claimed to be a Marxian and not a Marxist, as there was a fatal flaw in the entire concept: the people at the top did not adhere to the same rules and restrictions imposed on the rest of society, and corruption naturally became endemic. Admittedly, the ban on his books was lifted in the late 1980s by Mikhail Gorbachev, the last Secretary General of the Soviet Union.

    In a way, these elites could be compared to the aristocratic ruling class, tech bros and the majority of the rich we see today in capitalist societies who do their utmost to avoid paying any tax whatsoever, while enjoying every single benefit available to taxpayers.  The communist elite were no different: they ranged from politicians and high-ranking bureaucrats in every industry to academics, army officers and other individuals with special status, writers, actors, athletes, journalists, etc, who were primarily paid-up members of the Communist Party (and this approach had been practised in all the states in Eastern Europe in the Soviet bloc until late 1989). 

    And it should come as no surprise that a significant number of these people, who would trumpet for years the moral superiority of the USSR compared to the decadent west, had managed somehow to open bank accounts in Switzerland and other countries and squirrel off state funds either through secret channels or via a number of the so-called Soviet dissidents who had claimed asylum in the west, but were in fact stooges of the secret services, or via foreign agents operating in the free world. They were nowhere to be seen when the country was effectively bankrupt at the end of 1991. According to various estimates, when foreign investment poured into Russia and enterprises were privatised in dubious ways after 1992, the accounts of these individuals represented over 50% of these funds.

    So the ruling elite would naturally be granted initial access to food in short supply. I assume that they were other lists for luxury goods, cars, etc. Unfortunately, I never had the good fortune to flick through the pages of such documents.  However, as I was working for a leading propaganda vehicle, I was presented one day with a massive book, which listed all manner of products that I had not seen in the shops, from caviar, all manner of fishes and meats to Soviet champagne and various concoctions I had never seen.  It must have been at least 20 pages long. This was the order book for the press agency. My eyes literally glazed over and, as you can imagine, I ticked a significant number of items, excited at the prospect of obtaining all these sought-after products and at such low prices. I thought: finally, I would be rewarded for agreeing to work there on such a low salary. You had to go to a particular address at the weekend to pay and pick up the goods.

    When I arrived on Saturday and finally found the place hidden away as it ways from the prying public, I realised even more how privilege and status mattered. On arriving, I watched in excitement as a number of people came out laden to bursting with goods and got into chauffeur-driven cars. When it was my turn, I was initially angry, but then smiled wryly as Orwell’s take on communist hypocrisy came to mind: out of the list of goods I had ticked, I was given two cans of fish and some buckwheat. After trying out this option on two further occasions with similar results, I decided to stick to the open-air food markets.

    While I was walking down the street in that first snowy winter, I was struck at how everyone would carry every day either a plastic bag, all manner of briefcases, even suitcases and rucksacks that had clearly been acquired from the west. At first glance, they didn’t seem to be that heavy. I couldn’t fathom why there would be such a plethora of carryalls as you weren’t as a rule allowed to take anything out of your workplace.

    And then it clicked: one day I saw a massive queue forming outside a store that was selling Soviet champagne, cognac and vodka. I managed to the front. However, I was denied the opportunity to buy anything when I reached the counter – because I didn’t have an empty bottle to exchange for the vodka or champagne on top of the price. I promptly bought a couple on the underground package towards work from a red-faced tramp whose bloodshot eyes lit up at the sight of five roubles.

    Fortunately, Vadim knew his way around the APN building and could somehow get into the bar reserved for the agency’s journalists which was stocked with all manner of Russian and Western alcohol at discounted prices. However, I have to admit that those trips, which were frequent in February that year, were brutal on the liver. Vadim introduced me to an alcoholic combination that I have sought to avoid ever since, known as the hedgehog (transliterated Russian word ezh). You would down a shot of vodka and then follow that by drinking a pint of beer almost at the same speed. The first time I was almost legless after a few of them. I got used to it though, but had stopped imbibing it by that summer.

    I did indeed drink a lot of vodka in the first half of 1991, as there was not much else on offer: the local beer Zhigulevskoye would give me the runs, while the Soviet champagne was far too sweet, and the Armenian cognac didn’t meet my taste buds. I would indeed get wasted a fair bit in the evenings back then for reasons that will become clear soon. I also took up smoking again, mainly buying imported Marlboros from kiosks on the street. I attribute this to the people I was spending more and more time with as the months passed: as well as Tim and Moira and some great translators, I would hang out with a lot of artists and actors whom I met in early February at Pavel and Suzanne’s exhibition, where smoking cigarettes and weed, when available, was par for the course. 

    And then something happened that I will never forgive or forget.

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  • Passports and permits a necessity at all times, moonlighting and a barter economy

    It was already 8:50 AM and I had to get there by 9. No zebra crossing and no traffic lights. To cross the road to APN, I had to walk down a number of steps, along a corridor of underground kiosks and then up the other side. As well as the kiosks, you would pass by individuals hawking various goods, from chewing gum to cigarettes, single batteries and even empty bottles. I will turn to their practical value in another entry. They serve as the basis for a short story I hope to publish one day.

    Then I rushed through the corridor leading to the building and headed towards the entrance when an armed security guard stepped out of his booth, stopped me and demanded identification. I had my passport and a visa on me that I was duty-bound to present at any time to the police. It is worth noting here that Soviet citizens always needed to keep their internal passports on them in case they were stopped randomly, which contained as a rule a stamp inserted on the page on their housing situation, indicating that they had the necessary propiska (akin to a residency permit) to live in a specific place in the country. As I recall, there were two types: a permanent one indicative of the individual’s habitual place of accommodation and a temporary version in cases where the individual was only staying in the specific city for a defined period of time, for example, as a student.

    After showing the documents and explaining who I was, I duly waited for ten minutes at the building entrance while the guard used a red telephone to contact the translation department and prepared a temporary access permit for that day. Then I was met by the head of the translation department Sergey Muzolevsky, who appeared friendly. Well at least he smiled as he shook my hand. 

    And then I was introduced to the translators on the floor who were all amicable, including another English guy Ian who had been working there for a while as an editor and translator. His Russian was awesome. I don’t remember for sure, but believe that he had previously served in the military. He would soon move back to the UK with his Russian wife and family and work at BBC Monitoring Service in Caversham, which incidentally closed down in 2018 owing to cuts instituted by the conservative government. Similarly, Jennifer, another foreigner in her mid-20s and hailing from the US, also spoke outstanding Russian. She would duly become a writer in America.

    As well as Vadim, who was typing furiously with the window wide open, much to the frustration of the Lithuanian translator Vytautas sitting opposite who seemed to wear the same shirt every day. Hence the need for the open window even when it was minus 20. I remember very well Dima Zaitsev, in his mid-30s with thinning black hair and resembling the 19th century writer Lermontov, who was a well-known womaniser, the red-haired Alexander Samonin (Sasha) specialising in banking translations who was sartorial even in future years when the dress code was no longer so strict, and Irina Konstantinova who was a lovely lady with a talented young daughter Liudmila Konstantinova. I also remember another Sasha, moustachioed and a frequent smoker, a third Sasha who spoke impeccable English and wrote literary reviews for The Guardian and was to move to New York, as well as two Ilyas who were close friends and akin to Laurel and Hardy in their different proportions.

    I had only been there for half an hour when Dima came up to me and asked whether I would be interested in moonlighting, initially posing the question in Russian. However, I hadn’t recognised the verb and looked puzzled. I realised there and then that there would be a long learning curve before I could dare claim to speak Russian. 

    This is also when I began to understand how people survived in the system where salaries were so low. They would be topped up by various bonuses introduced in the middle and end of the month. After Dima explained the concept to me in English, I responded that I was more than keen to make extra money on the side. As a result, and only once my Russian had improved slightly, I would subsequently work on various freelance projects while in the office, including the translation of articles for the business daily Kommersant, which is still operational today, albeit a distance removed from the liberal version that existed back then. For the first year the official work consisted primarily of editing translations by the aforementioned group which were primarily extremely good. Unofficially, I would make real money cash in hand when there were too many external translations and I was in the right place. Truth be told, in subsequent years I would only be available for brief periods.

    In fact, in virtually every avenue of life, Soviet people would moonlight to make ends meet and have the wherewithal to buy the additional goods that they required (such as a washing machine). In a number of professions, if they had the right position, they would leverage it to barter for other goods. 

    For example, butchers in local food stores would hold back any good cuts of meat and exchange them for a ticket in high demand to see a theatre or opera,  obtain some item of clothing from East Germany, enjoy a night at a hotel or obtain other goods in short supply that they needed for a celebration, for example, bottles of premium cognac or champagne from a foreign currency store. 

    The absurdities of this endemic corrupt system were described in humorous detail in a number of Soviet films, most notably in Giorgy Danieliya’s tragicomedy Mimino, starring two superb actors from Georgia and Armenia, Vakhtang Kikabidze (also a renowned crooner) and Frunzik Mkrtchyan. 

    It goes without saying that the extent of such barter trade was one of the reasons why the employees at food shops, theatres, operas, hotels and other outlets would attribute the empty shelves to supply-chain problems, explain that they had sold out of tickets or had no rooms available, and so on. If something was rumoured to have appeared at a store, people would disappear from their workplaces and a massive queue would form, which was OK if you had a few hours to spare. 

    The alternative, that is, if you were making sufficient money on the side, was to make a trip to one of the many local open-air food markets where the prices were far higher, but where you could get anything you needed, check the quality and do all your shopping. I would frequently avail myself of this option at the weekends and actually enjoy the process, although the sellers were often disappointed that I wouldn’t haggle for a lower price. I would naturally watch other customers first and make sure that I was not charged too excessively.  Furthermore, there was another benefit: unlike Soviet shops, you could pay the seller directly and did not have to go through the rigmarole of queuing three times. 

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  • Cold as ice for a foreigner night and day, but friends at hand

    Funny how the mind work sometimes. Now I recall that my new pal Paul had told a story or two about his sorties with Vadim in London and Moscow and had recommended that I buy a small bottle of whiskey for him, preferably Johnnie Walker.  And that was the first thing I handed over to him after the cursory bear hug on our meeting at Sheremetyevo. His eyes had lit up immediately, and as a consequence I felt that I was no longer such burden on that freezing Saturday night.

    Once Vadim had departed, I inspected the manifold delights of my new dwelling: a teapot, one cup, one saucepan, a broken plate and two forks, some threadbare cupboards and a rickety bed with torn sheets. Other than that the place was empty. I wasn’t looking to washing clothes by hand, but I wouldn’t be able to find a laundromat in Moscow and didn’t have the funds to blow on a machine at that moment, even a cheap Russian imitation.

    Just as the building itself was nondescript and indistinguishable from countless other multi-unit blocks in the area, so too the flat was utilitarian at most, and hardly a place you would be keen to rent. However, I wasn’t paying for the place and nothing else was on offer. It consisted of a large kitchen, a tiny toilet and bath, and adjacent to the two a combined bedroom and living room.

    I was soon to learn that whenever an editor-translator moved on, all their pots and pans, knives and other belongings that they had left behind would be “confiscated” due to health or other alleged risks by some fortunate individual. So there I was, all alone. Actually, I was never fully solitary in that dive. Former friends I had first encountered in Voronezh were back, with their unforgettable jet-black beady eyes on their firm bodies supported by six legs, scuttling around all day and night. Yep, I was in cockroach city again. 

    Luckily I was expecting Pavel and Suzanne to turn up the next day, as well as Tim Williams whom I had met in Voronezh in 1984 and who had moved to Moscow with his lovely wife Moira Dalgetty. They had got in touch with me before my relocation and offered to come over on my arrival. They were working as copy editors at TASS. I had bought some whiskey for them as well. Moira had a successful career at CBS News for 18 years, but then decided to return to Scotland. Today she is happily married to Spiros and lives mostly in Greece. Moira remained a good friend to me throughout the coming years and was an unbelievable help to my late mother in subsequent years. I don’t think I can ever thank Moira enough for the care and concern she displayed to her and the love and understanding she showed to me and other people.  

    Anyway now I had a couple of plates, a knife and some food that they had brought along. Ditto Pavel and Suzanne. This was what the first time I had met Suzanne. I could see why Pavel had fallen for her. Erudite and a blonde bombshell from Florida, she was also enthusiastic and ironic. I was pleased for them both. So Sunday was replete with drink and chat, with some reserves for the first few days. There was no way I was ready to leave the flat that day and face the cold. 

    Looking back, it probably would have been more advisable in all senses to have relocated in the late spring, summer or autumn, as the short days, dark and bitter cold inevitably had an impact. It would definitely have been better for me personally and psychologically if I had been able to delay the trip for a month for reasons that will come to light soon. However, I had promised to deliver the art materials for the February exhibition and the ad for the job specified the need to move as soon as possible. I had always wanted to know how Muscovites lived and now I would. 

    I still remember that first day, Monday, 7 January 1991, shivering as I walked down the street and asked people in my rudimentary degree-level Russian and strong accent back then on how to get to the nearest metro station Alexeyevskaya on the orange Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line, originally built as separate radial lines, only to be combined in 1971. 

    It was a good 15-minute trek to the station in new boots, unprepared for the sleet and snow and wearing a ridiculous-looking and English-made Ushanka that I had acquired in London, with flaps to protect the ears, and a scarf wrapped round the neck. I stood out a mile and attracted many a curious gaze. 

    Apparently there was some bus I could have taken, but I never bothered to learn the route and ended up walking every day. I was also wearing a suit with tie underneath a warm coat. However,  I was still freezing to death outside. Then I finally made it into the metro, paid for a ticket, went through the barrier and headed underground down on the elevator. It was warm be comparison inside the metro and now I was boiling hot. So I took off my coat and scarf. This engendered even more attention and some barely concealed muttering and criticism at this weirdo stripping off. And this was even before I tried to get on the train.

    In the past I had taken the Soviet metro in Moscow in the afternoon or evening. I had marvelled at the efficiency of the service, with an electronic board indicating that the next train would arrive punctually in two minutes which it duly did. And the trains still came like clockwork every two minutes. However, rush hour was a totally different experience. I couldn’t fight my way onto the first two trains, as they appeared packed to brimming. I waited for the third one where there was a little more space and stood on that one instead. Then I had to make a switch at Chistye Prudy (English translation – clean ponds), which was in the centre of Moscow. After walking up some stairs and then down another elevator, I took the red line (Sokolnicheskaya) to Park Kultury (Culture Park). Every morning seemed like an ordeal, although eventually I got used to it. The trains were less crowded in the evening, especially if you were ready to wait for a couple to pass. 

    As I say, I looked totally out of place with my longer hair, face profuse with sweat and look of wonder on my face. And with my Western suit. I recall back then in 1991 how the general bleak and dark colours worn by the masses on the metro and their harsh and unsmiling faces reminded me of a Rembrandt painting. I wouldn’t stay I stood out in a good way either. 

    And then it was time to prepare for the outside once more, restoring the protective clothing and headgear as I headed for the unknown. I didn’t need to ask the way to Novosti Press Agency (APN) as it was a massive building located virtually opposite Park Kultury metro station on Gogolevsky Boulevard, named after the illustrious Ukrainian writer Nikolai Gogol . Now I had to try and get inside the brick fortress….

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  • From West to East: a reverse revolution

    While I was keen to make a change in my life, I must confess that back in 1990 I had no real idea about what I actually wanted to do. So I credit the artist and subsequent good friend Pavel Ouporov and his future wife and co-creator Suzanne Scherer for triggering my move to the Soviet Union. 

    At the time I felt that I was treading water: I had been working for a year and a half on the main publication at Europa Publications and felt that I was not progressing professionally. Don’t get me wrong. The working environment was ideal and all the employees were fascinating. I sometimes regret not trying to return there at a later stage, although that would have implied other paths closing down.

    Something was missing. Maybe there was also a personal aspect although at the time I hadn’t seen any signs. Robin and I were still going to jazz venues, films, plays art and art museums and travelling, including a week in the French overseas territory of Réunion situated in the Indian Ocean and a week in neighbouring Mauritius where my dad had in the past done research for one of his books. The contrast between the two was striking. The former boasted the wealth and cuisine of France, albeit the food was spicier, while the latter was far poorer back then, albeit only an hour away by plane, but straddled by beautiful beaches.

    And then an opening appeared.  I had been corresponding with Pavel intermittently since late 1989 when Pavel wrote in mid-1990, requesting my assistance. He and Suzanne were planning for their debut exhibition at an exhibition centre in central Moscow in mid-February 1991 and he was wondering if I could order and make a trip to bring over plaster and other bulky goods for the show where he would display works created jointly with Suzanne. 

    However, in the end it was Paul Colston who persuaded me to go. At the time Paul was editor in London for the Soviet press agency RIA-Novosti (known at the time as APN (translated as Novosti Press Agency) and had put out an ad for a translator-editor to work for the agency in Moscow. It had been founded back in 1941 primarily to draft reports on the situation on the frontline in the Great Patriotic War. Subsequently its functions included the propagation of information to the Soviet public about life in the west and the provision of similar information on the USSR to the West, with APN bureaus set up in more than 120 countries. APN published its own newspaper Moscow News which was carved out as an independent publication in 1990 and had its own publishing division.

    I felt personally that this was a once-in-a-life opportunity to view up close what appeared to me clearly to be the dying days of the Soviet empire that was on the verge of bankruptcy. Well, at least that is how I perceived developments from the countless press reports I had read both in English and Russian. I had no clue as to what might replace the regime, however.  Paul and I were to become good friends. He moved on from there to achieve significant renown in the events media industry and is currently Managing Editor of Mash Media. He told me that I might have heard his dad’s voice: he read out the football results on ITV’s World of Sport for 23 years.  Naturally, I had in the past. 

    I went to the interview in South Kensington and was virtually awarded the job on the spot. As I had taken the afternoon off, we went for a few games of pool at a local pub. In passing, Paul told me a story of the impact that a move the other way to the west could have. One Soviet woman attached to the Embassy had totally lost it after her first visit to a British supermarket, overcome by the variety and availability of food products compared to Moscow. She had ended up in hospital, traumatised.

    Under the contract with APN Novosti (translated as Novosti Press Agency), I was entitled to a baggage allowance of 100 kg on the Aeroflot flight as part of my relocation expenses. Accordingly, I was able to bring over the plaster and other items acquired in central London at the cost of the Soviet agency. However, I was soon to discover that there was a personal cost. 


    So I departed the UK on Saturday, 5 January 1991, unsure as to whether this was the right decision. I had been given a single-entry visa. Unfortunately, I wasn’t aware of the ramifications of that status. This time, the airplane was packed and there were definitely more passengers and longer queues at passport control in Sheremetyevo Airport than there had been in 1989. Customs control seemed to take an age as the officers peered at the art supplies and other goods, bemused and shocked in equal measure. After a good 20 minutes, they let me through.

    I was met at the airport by a dour Novosti translator who seemed a tad inebriated, to say the least. Still it was minus 10, so the vodka no doubt provided a degree of warmth. His name was Vadim Mazitov. I assumed that he had drawn the short straw and had been unfortunate enough to be the one forced to pick up a foreigner on a Saturday night. However, I was to discover subsequently that he was Paul’s close friend at the agency. He hailed several cars before reaching agreement with a driver offering what he thought to be a fair deal. We would get to know each other well and hang out occasionally in that first year until the coup when the working environment altered radically for everyone. Sadly he  passed away a couple of years later in his late 40s, undone by the vast quantities of alcohol he had consumed on a daily basis. 

    And so I was driven to a flat that seemed far from the centre of the Russian capital on 2-aya Novoostanskinskaya  (which could be translated as the second New Ostankino Street). Only one notable building was visible at a distance – the Ostankino TV and radio tower some distance from my dwellings, a top floor flat (12th floor), which was fine when the lift was working or empty. It will crop up again in a later episode in 1993 in another life and death situation. Vadim helped me carry up the 100 kg of goods, showed me the sparse belongings in the flat, left me a rouble advance and parted. 

    However, I was not alone…

  • Gorbachev, times of change and arts for art’s sake

    Mea culpa again, as I have to turn the page back to some point in summer 1989. The details are blurry as time passes by inexorably. I wanted to show Robin the Soviet Union while it still existed at a time when the country was already opening up to the West thanks to the efforts of the best leader the USSR ever had – General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union Mikhail Gorbachev, from 1985 until its break-up. A firm believer in communism, he realised that change was paramount if the country was to survive and pushed through reforms as fast as he could, without risking the wrath of the mostly elderly members of the Politburo, consisting of a collective leadership aged 70 on average at the time of his appointment, but that was to fall significantly during his reign. 

    As well as withdrawing troops from the abortive incursion into Afghanistan and seeking to mend relations with the west, Gorbachev implemented domestic reforms, such as glasnost (openness) which fostered a climate of free speech, and perestroika (restructuring) that sought to open up the economy and at make it somewhat more efficient. Above all he liberated Eastern Europe, aware that self-determination would come at some point soon and leveraging the opportunity to facilitate change that would be almost bloodless. As a result, he was able to borrow significant amounts from the West to fund the USSR which was almost bankrupt in part due to low oil prices of USD 25 per barrel.

    Gorbachev also implemented an anti-vodka campaign, which was extremely unpopular at home with the public in view of their desire to drink and forget, and all the more so with the Politburo, as it had a negative impact on revenues, given that vodka was the second-biggest revenue generator (vodka production and bottling cost the equivalent of 10 cents, while the product would sell for the equivalent of USD 2.40 and higher when the state was short of funds). Many thanks to the economist and Professor Igor Liptsits for the insight. Apparently, vodka only became a staple of the Russian diet after the revolution in 1917, deliberately introduced by Vladimir Lenin to generate funds and also keep the people docile. At the same time, the measure reduced infant mortality, led to a decline in violent deaths (down 12%), alcohol poisoning, workplace accidents, acute cardiac arrests and suicides, while improving the general health of the population, in particular, the young, and increasing life expectancy. Unfortunately, the impact on revenues would prove fatal.

    We had booked a tour of Moscow, Leningrad (now St Petersburg) and Kyiv. The atmosphere was a total contrast to the foreboding and sense of doom I had experienced as a student only five years previously. Our bags were not checked on our arrival at Sheremetyevo Airport. The tour guides smiled and answered openly any questions that we had. The food was also much improved. Presumably tourists were far more important than students! The overnight journey from Moscow to Leningrad was impeccable, with warm tea infused with sugar delivered to your cabin. 

    One highlight was an invitation via a couple on the tour to come with them to see friends living in a remote part of Leningrad, which brought to mind a previous experience of mine in Russia’s northern capital. We were fed copious pancakes. The hosts offered us any books or anything else that caught our eye in the property. Materialism appeared non-existent. 

    And then you had Moscow. I recall how we were doing a tour of the city on our own when some young Russians came up to us and offered us roubles in exchange for jeans, other clothes, Western cigarettes and chewing gum. They were very positive about the future and naturally keen to travel. However, even though the country was becoming freer, it was still hard to leave. Quite apart from the need to obtain a foreign visa, Soviet citizens who required domestic passports for travel within the country, needed to obtain both a foreign passport and an exit visa to leave the USSR even for a short trip. 

    Another highlight was the time we spent at the Kyiv Pechersk Lavra, a major monastery of Christianity, consisting of a labyrinth of caves. We were also struck by the titanium Mother Ukraine statue overlooking the city, which is 62 metres tall, with the figure in question holding in one hand a sword and in the other a shield. The bravery of the people was already there for anyone to see. The food was also excellent.

    Shortly before our planned departure back to the UK, Robin and I walked down the famous pedestrian street in Moscow The Arbat, where various goods were offered for sale. I was drawn to a blond, skinny and bespectacled young artist selling graphic works, in particular, one showing an old man with the Pravda newspaper under a light bulb. The irony also derived from the name of the Communist daily as Pravda means truth, another case of double think as the rag was known for the lies it spouted. I bought the work for 20 dollars and cherish it to this day and the start of my collection. The artist Pavel Ouporov was keen to get to know us and invited us back to his place. 

    However, we needed to buy some alcohol. We sought out a nearby Beryozka (meaning “little birch”) store. These were small retail outlets, which existed from 1964 to 1990 where the service stood out for being good and there was no need to queue three times as all the products there were sold for foreign currency, which was in short supply back then. We acquired a bottle of French champagne and headed back to Pavel’s flat – his mum’s place, but she was not around at the time. 

    While disorganised and messy, the premises were still cosy. We then realised that we should have bought some glasses and more importantly, some food to go with the beverage. We drank the champagne in tea glasses with metal holders, accompanied by Soviet grechka, known in the West as buckwheat. It transpired that he had an American artist girlfriend and that they planned to put on an exhibition soon. We left our details, so that we could correspond. And we did.

    We also went to a modern café in Russia’s capital where the food was excellent and the service impeccable, with paintings by budding artists on the wall that you could buy, with the outlet taking a commission. I have always thought that this could be a good business model in the West – promoting local talent, while potentially attract arts enthusiasts driving revenue. And then it was back to London for a short time.

    I feel here that I should say a few final words about Robin who has cropped up in this tale. There is so much more that I could add, but maybe another time. I prefer to slip this in now rather than in the timeline on the USSR. 

    She was a lovely girl from Minnesota with astounding parents Lee and Ione, a fascinating brother Raleigh and cousin Anne, and played a pivotal role in my life from the age of 21 to 27. She was always more mature than I was. She informed me in a phone call in April 1991 when I was already working in the USSR that I was surplus to requirements. Not in so many words, but that is my interpretation looking back. In a way, even though the timing was not good against the backdrop of the tragic developments that happened in late January of that year, and notwithstanding my flawed attempts to patch things up when I was allowed out of the Soviet Union in the summer, the context was beneficial to me in the long term. Most importantly, she found happiness elsewhere, moving on to forge a successful career in the US. 

    However, the major upheavals in my life already commenced towards the end of the year 1990. I suppose this really was a new start.

    The graphic work by Pavel Ouporov, 1989.

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