“Мой бело-синий флаг гордо реет над тобою….”
Who’s in the Champions League group stage? Having gone up against rival Spartak, no less? Oh, that would be us, that’s right. Uh huh. Right here.
Why am I never home to watch these things? That little bit of victory for me to savour, why must I always savour it alone, in the company of a toy rabbit strangely similar to Peters’ toy rabbit in a soul-rending short story by Tatyana Tolstaya? Why is it that I am home only to share in the defeats of this club, the club that wasn’t afraid to beat the Nazis on Nazi-occupied territory in one of those moments that Hollywood just couldn’t pass up (in the movie they’re a team of Western allies, because who wants to see a bunch of brave. as opposed to snarling, Soviets? Soviets, most of whom… you know… will later be murdered for their defiance? Hey, I don’t blame anyone for this creative decision, I know how this business works. You take someone else’s sad story, and turn it into an inspirational fairy tale that allows you to rake in the big bucks and inspires countless numbers of people to have sex with you.)? I guess some weird fate-thing is involved in all of this. Somehow. Someone up there is trying to teach me a lesson. About something.
There was a bit of humour in the stands as Dynamo played Spartak last night. The sign that the Dynamo fans are holding up reads, in Ukrainian: “The capital of the Kievan Rus’ [a historic region with Kiev at its heart, the foundation of Russian Orthodox Christianity, that existed before Moscow became the regional powerhouse] greets the guests from the countryside [meaning Moscow, heh heh].” You might be surprised, but Russians find this stuff as hilarious as the Ukrainians. No one gets offended. Well, at least, I’ve never met anyone who does.
In light of this, to think that we, as people and as nations, are even remotely capable of war against one another seems absurd.
Less guns, more football.