Russian fags December 18, 2005Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
But, anyway, Liukchik has been forced into a bit of comfort-smoking by the mere presence/whiff of an eastern bloc fag and, as coincidence would have it, those pretty packets entered my internal world – only psychically. I’m not letting those bastards loose on my internal organs – only yesterday when I went to see yet another Russian film, Okraina, at my Stammkino. Quite an extraordinarily odd film. I’m not sure I’ve seen a Russian piss-take before, and it was very well done, and all shot in the style of old Soviet classics such as Chapaev. (God this linking’s a pain.) It recounts the tale of a few simple folk from somewhere in the Urals defending their land against the wicked oil barons in Moscow. They set off to get to the bottom of who sold them out and wreak revenge on ever bigger fish and with ever greater cruelty along the way, and they get right to the top. There’s a delicious scene at the end of our three heroes spluttering off on their motorbike with sidecar from a Moscow in flames AND with a trophy woman – the oil magnate’s secretary – to take back to the provinces. Hilarious. Well worth a watch.
In a smooth and totally unorchestrated pun, speaking of Russian fags – boom boom – I’m going to my first ever gay Russian disco in Berlin this evening. Today is Sunday, so it could well be empty, but the fact that it’s in one of Berlin’s best-known gay clubs and the party has been going on for some years makes me think it must be something of a success. So I hope to be strutting my stuff to many an AlPu classic this very evening. (I tend to fall asleep in clubs these days, be it said.) Of course gayness is no biggy in Berlin, but when I was in Russia, gayness really had to be tracked down and sniffed out. Obviously I couldn’t ask my colleagues where the local poofters’ joint was and the bit of info I had from a fellow English poof before leaving for St. Petersburg was only half-useful because it turned out that there were 150 Red Army Streets in St. Petersburg. But when I did eventually find the subtly and originally named Club 69 – now sadly no more – it was a surprisingly happy moment. I’d studied in Russia before but had never done anything gay there. There wasn’t anything, to my knowledge. And trips to Moscow and St. Petersburg then had only been short and touristy and didn’t have a gay window. (Plus in Moscow we were always too plastered.) So when I went into Club 69, after, admittedly, only a few weeks back in the closet, it was such a relief to be able to, as it were, let it all hang out again. And Russian gays were so much less uniform than western queens. The club was full of all sorts, including real sailors, going absolutely apeshit to crappy old pop. It was bliss, and I smiled out loud. I beamed from ear to ear. They were recognisably queens, yes; this is when I understood that the language of queendom is truly international. Camp just must be genetic. None of these queens would have been to London or San Francisco or Berlin for queenery lessons, yet there were as expert as any self-respecting Doris on Old Compton St. (Thai queens were just the same.)