The Further Adventures of An Idiot Abroad - Karl Pilkington

Скачать книгу

so hot.

      I picked a row of seating where nobody else was sat and pointed at some food from the menu, which I thought was sausage. A plate turned up with thin strips of dark meat. It could’ve been bits of burnt arse skin scraped off these leather sofas, but it turned out to be horse meat, and going on the amount of meat on the plate I’d say it was the whole horse. It was dried, quite spicy and tasted all right, but I didn’t get to eat much as a man threw me a towel and asked me to get undressed. This place wasn’t just a restaurant, it was a banya, which is a traditional Russian steam bath. Blokes were wandering about in the huge tiled area wearing the little white felt hats but nowt to cover the bollocks. If you’re hot, surely the hat comes off before the pants! It’s not a good look. It’s like being naked with socks on – it looks bloody stupid. It always seems to be the people you don’t want to see naked that are happy to be naked. The man said that the hat was worn to protect the head from the intense heat in the sauna. It was roasting in there. I was asked to lie on a bench where another man then took it upon himself to batter me with a shrub. It was twigs from a birch tree that they use to help blood circulation. As I was being whacked, other men in the sauna sat and cheered and laughed. There was not one bit that was nice about the whole experience. It felt like walking through an automatic car wash.

      I’ve had quite a few different styles of massages around the world, and they’re getting madder. In China I had some woman rub my legs wearing gloves that were set on fire. In Thailand I had a woman prisoner bending me about. I saw something on the internet recently where they pile a load of snakes on your back to wriggle about! There’s even some procedure that involves smearing bird poo all over your face to take off dead skin. I experienced this once when my pet magpie poo’d on my ear and I didn’t have anything to wipe it off with. I thought I’d leave it until I got home, but I ended up forgetting it was there. A few hours later, it was pointed out to me, so I cleaned it off to find it had burnt away my ear. But what’s the world come to when a relaxing day is having snakes all over your back and your face smeared in birdshit? I remember when a posh face wash was using Imperial Leather, an expensive bar of soap that we only got out when we had visitors.

      After I’d been battered by the bush I was told to pull a chain on a bucket that then tilted and poured a gallon of freezing water over me to finish off the relaxing process: hot to cold, back to hot and then freezing, a bit like Pascha’s personality.

      Later, we made our way via Red Square to where I would be boarding the Trans-Siberian Railway. It was the first time I’d seen tourists while being in the country. They were all busy getting photos of themselves stood by St Basil’s Cathedral. When I think of Russia this is the building I picture. It’s not your normal design for a cathedral. It looks like something a Lottery winner or a footballer might build. The amount of different colours on it, you’d think the whole thing had been done using Dulux sample pots. The story goes that Ivan the Terrible was so impressed with the building, once completed, he gouged out the eyes of the architects so they wouldn’t build another one like it. Seems a bit harsh, but then his name says it all.

      The biggest queue in Red Square seemed to be of people who wanted to see the dead body of political leader Lenin. He died in 1924 and was embalmed and then put in a glass box. I think I quite like the idea of this. People will never forget him while he’s there to be seen. Statues kind of do this job, but you can’t beat having the actual person, can you? I wonder if we’ll get to a point where we do it with loved ones. I can imagine having Suzanne waxed and stuffed in the front room. I’d just have her sat reading a book. That seems like the most normal thing to have her doing. If someone came round to read the meter or decorate they wouldn’t say anything to her ’cos people don’t interrupt people who are reading. They wouldn’t know she was stuffed. I’d just change the book now and again, so they didn’t think she was a slow reader. I think it would be nicer having her there like that than not at all.

      We got to the station early, which was just as well, as it wasn’t easy working out which train I needed to be on. No one spoke English, and the signs didn’t help in the slightest. Russia has the angriest-looking font in the world. When email first came about I used to get told to stop writing everything in capitals as this comes across as though YOU’RE SHOUTING. That’s what all the signs in Russia look like. A love note would look like a warning on a bottle of bleach.

      After a lot of wandering around trying to make sense of the departure boards, we eventually found our train. A stern-looking woman who had a face like there was a bad smell in the air checked my ticket and gave me a nod. My little cabin wasn’t as fancy as I thought it was going to be. I was picturing the Orient Express, where the carriages have bright white table cloths and silver cutlery. This had worn red velvet seating like the type you see in an Aberdeen Angus Steakhouse in London, and an off-white net curtain. Still, I had my own space, and that was more important than the decor. When on a train at home it’s nice to get a table, but it’s a gamble, as you never know who you’ll be sharing it with. It’s like going on Come Dine with Me.

      I sat and played Patience, and made my way through another packet of Revels. Things were going well until about two hours in when guards came to my door and asked to see my ticket. It only gave me the first-class coach for so many stops, and I should have moved a while back. I said I would move but I needed some time to get my stuff together. They waited to make sure. I followed them as we made our way down through the carriages that got smaller, smellier, smokier and busier. We stopped. The same space I’d had to myself in first class was now shared with five others. It was like one of those mad charity events where they try to squeeze as many people as possible into a phonebox. The guard pointed to a bed. I say bed, but it was more like a shelf. This was third class. I don’t even send letters third class.

      The people below gestured that I sit with them. The way they were crammed together I presumed they were a family, but they weren’t. The man of the group looked tough. He had a black eye and some cuts and bruises on his face. He offered me a beer, which I took. Richard the director told me I should give him something in return, as this is what travellers do when using this train. I offered the bloke some Revels, which he declined. Just as well, as they’re not to everybody’s taste. I like all the flavours, but some people don’t like the chocolate-covered coffee or the chocolate-covered orange ones. In a way, it’s the equivalent to Russian roulette in the chocolate world. I got my cards out and tried to teach them the higher or lower game.

      I didn’t have to sleep in third class in the end, as the guards moved me into second class after it started to kick off between some drunk Polish people and some Russians. I guess they didn’t want us to film it. Second class was like first class without the velvet.

      I slept like a baby. When I say slept like a baby, I mean I was up all night. The toilets didn’t work. They were locked half an hour before getting into a station, but then some stations were half an hour apart, which meant they were never open. They also have a rule that you can’t use the loo while at a station, as the toilet had a pedal that empties the loo straight onto the track. I think they should allow you to use the loos while in the station because if human waste was all over the tracks it would stop kids messing about on them. Putting up signs saying ‘Danger’ doesn’t stop them, but if there was a chance of getting shit on their trainers I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be as keen to mess about on the lines.

      This sounds like the nicest train journey of all train journeys – passing impressive views whilst travelling in proper comfort – but I don’t think it would be as memorable as the Trans-Siberian because that was pretty grim, and bad memories seem to hang around in my head for longer and are a lot clearer than the happy ones. Maybe it’s because when I’m comfortable in a situation my mind thinks about other things, whereas if I’m not enjoying something I can’t think about anything else.

Скачать книгу