In August 2010, the famous English-Irish folk-punk band, the Pogues, played their very first gig in eastern Europe. The chance to see my favourite band play live and visit Moscow at the same time seemed irresistible.




Just when I was planning my trip, a disastrous heat wave hit Russia; the country battled with countless fires, and people were escaping from Moscow shrouded in thick, unbreathable smog. Keeping my eyes on the unchanging weather forecast, I wondered if the gig would be cancelled and the whole adventure would turn into a fiasco. But then, just a few days before my departure, the tropical heat gave way to cold and wet. So I set out to enjoy a bit of late autumn in the middle of summer.

I arrived to Moscow railway station in a zombie-like state from a flight the previous day and a night on train spent by falling asleep and repeatedly being woken up by the officers studying my passport, visa and immigration cards. (Luckily, replying to their: "Do you speak Russian?" with "No, only English." effectively discouraged them from any further attempts at cross-examination.) Moscow greeted me with bitter cold and pouring rain. Therefore sightseeing was reduced to a quick walk down the historical Arbat Street, which was almost peopleless bar the promoters of tattoo saloons tirelessly trying to gladden passers-by huddling under umbrellas with colourful leaflets. The street, lined with low old houses with balconies, somehow reminded me of New Orleans – of course, except for the weather.

To escape the rain, I sought shelter in the Moscow metro as I had been told that some of the stations with their dizzying stalinist decorations looked more like palaces than public transport. Indeed they do, with elaborate ornaments, paintings and chandeliers. And maybe even more unbelievable are the statues – a hardy proletarian with a hammer, a fearless border guard with his dog and gun (the dog’s snout being worn down shiny by passers-by touching it for good luck), an emancipated lady with a pneumatic drill, an old man with a beard and straw shoes, looking like a misplaced Socrates, wielding a powerful rifle. A museum of communism in practice.




As the downpour was only getting stronger and stronger, turning streets into rivers and pools,
my next destination was Molly Malone’s Irish pub. It welcomed me and my companions with a framed poster advertising the Pogues gig nailed to its entrance. The long night over cider, Guinness and tea was at first made pleasant by the combination of Irish trad and Irish folk-punk drifting from the loudspeakers, later made hardly bearable by the same great music turned hellishly up in volume. Obviously even Irish pubs are great places to go deaf.




Sunday, the D-Day, came with a drizzle instead of pouring rain, so wrapped in a waterproof jacket I set out to explore at least the must-sees of the Red Square and Kremlin. Instead of the vast expense of the far-famed square, I was treated to a space totally messed up with bleachers and fences, which made it impossible to see from one end to the other. The reason? An upcoming international festival of military bands. The only thing sweetening it up was a photo of a Scottish piper on one of the promo posters – a tartan-clad lad piping Scotland the Brave on the background of Lenin’s mausoleum is not a sight you see every day. Almost as weird as seeing the medieval Kremlin towers topped by red stars.




Even more unreal is the 1990s monument to Peter the Great, rising almost 100 metres from the waters of the Moskva River. It is something like a monstrous tower patched together from parts of ships, with Peter standing triumphantly on the top. Rumour has it that the sculptor first designed a monument to Christopher Columbus and tried to sell it to the US. After several cities refused his project, he simply changed the statue’s head to look like the Russian tsar and had it built in Moscow. A truly effective recycling.




Tired by sightseeing, I popped in to a fast food restaurant for dinner. To my pleasant surprise, the menu included English translations. Well, translations... ‘Soft drinks’ announced one page and went on to list an impressive selection of vodka. Everything is possible in Russia – or some restaurants badly need better translators.




The big club, curiously named Milk, where the Pogues were supposed to play was situated in an industrial corner of the city, in a former factory or a warehouse. Marked with grey and black signs and inside equipped with a mess of metallic constructions under the ceiling, glistening in an eerie blue light, it did not feel exactly welcoming. The only touch of humanity were the merry pictures of milk bottles sprayed on the pavement, showing the way to the club.




The Pogues used to have a reputation as wild punks, and even now, almost 30 years into their career, you cannot call their concerts tame. When photographers were milling about under the stage, the band’s frontman Shane MacGowan enjoyed himself by splashing a drink from his glass in the direction of the nearest cameras. (Mine managed to escape the showers.) The accordionist was running around the stage with his heavy accordion, jumping and landing on his knees as if trying to break his bones. The whistle player amused the audience with his trademark percussion instrument – banging his head with a metal tray. An hour and a half of great music and fun.






When the show was over, I returned to my hostel.  Before retreating to bed, my travelling companion went to pop in the hostel’s shared bathroom. Within a few seconds he was back. "Will you believe me if I tell you there is a guy sleeping with his head in the sink?" he asked me. "Just go and take a look!" So I went. On a table next to the sink, a young guy was lying lifelessly, naked except for black briefs, his head inside the sink. But he didn’t seem like a victim of a violent crime – he seemed to be quite peacefully resting. Some people obviously get overwhelmed by the joys Moscow.





The lion and the unicorn / Were fighting for the crown / The lion beat the unicorn / All around the town. --- Says an old English nursery rhyme. Well, in Moscow they forged an alliance instead of fighting and strived together for the glory of the hammer and sickle and the five-pointed red star...




He’s not dead, he’s resting! --- OK. They’re not drowning, they’re swimming. Positive thinking rules.




The earthly and the spiritual living in perfect harmony...




Moscow - always friendly.




Reduce, reuse, recycle. Even boxing champions.