More muscles September 28, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: age, muscles
“You wanna look like this?” the slogan asks, forcefully (and in a loose translation of the Soviet lingo). “Then move your ass!” (even looser). The Russian is back from the former Soviet Union now – there is a cultural readjustment on both sides for about the first 14 years after any trip he makes there – and decided to present me with the attached image – there are plenty more like it to be found at this Russian poster site – as well as a million cigarettes – before proceeding to bollock me for smoking – a million chocolates – in contradiction to the postcard’s message – and Nabokov’s Дар (The Gift), all about Russians in Berlin, if my sources haven’t fooled me, which I’ve wanted for a goodly age. I was not slow to let the irony of the postcard image, seeing as I have done nothing but drink power-milkshakes for the last month and the Russian has lived on a diet of lard with fried fat, trickle down to my beloved. I’ll scan the internet looking for equally subtle liposuction postcards forthwith.
But, darlings, although the Soviet man does have a good, sturdy neck, quite nice shoulders and admirable biceps, between you and me, I think he looks like a bit of a cunt. His hair is inexcusable, regardless of era, and his big, perfect face is much too sweet. I like his fat nose, but he needs to go and have a few of his teeth smashed in.
The minuscule child, perhaps the sweet collosus’s own, has a copy of Будь готов к труду и обороне (Be ready to work and defend!) in the hand that isn’t having a feel of the strong gent’s muscles. The man would probably have his name and address published in the press if this was the UK. But it isn’t. It’s the Soviet Union, of sorts, though I have no idea what the flags fluttering in the background represent. But perhaps this is a rite of passage in the Russian world. When I worked in a sort of youth club thingy for naughty children a hundred years ago, a pair of boys at an annoyingly hormonal age once asked me to flex my muscles for them. Having shot a glance over each shoulder to make sure this wasn’t being photographed by an English news-reporter with too much time on his hands, I reluctantly dragged my fists towards my shoulders, preparing to be laughed out of town by two thirteen-year-olds. To my amazement, they were impressed. Yet another wicked side effect of growing up without fathers.
I am about to hit a catastrophically huge age, and so all thoughts of sport and muscles have gone out the window anyway. The Russian took me out to buy some ludicrously expensive present to mark the occasion and as I caught myself drooping in the mirror of a shop with clothes for 14-year-olds, I reminded myself once more that I need to look into the hessian sack range of garments. We were bullied into a purchase Madonna might have thought twice about by a four-year-old shop assistant and neither of us could pluck up the courage to run out of the shop as his back was turned.
Another year, another bout of dystrophy.