This Bogus Poetry

When visiting Georgia my mum's advice was simple: " Don't cause any trouble " " But wait... What if I go to Gori, the town where Stalin was born and is still revered and worshipped like a God and somebody asks me my opinion about him? " " Say Stalin? I've never heard of him. Say you don't know who he is. " " Then how would I explain why I ended up in this smallish out of the way town in Georgia? " " Just say you are passing though. Say it is lovely place. " ----------------------------------------------------------------- Joseph Stalin was born in Gori in the Russian Empire (now Georgia) in 1878. The present day town has a population of around 50,000 people and is somewhat of a shrine and memorial to the genocidal Soviet dictator. Stalin is of course Georgia's most famous son to everybody in the world apart from Manchester City supporters. A marshrutka in action Getting to Gori from Tbilisi was to prove s

There's a certain kind of a moustache which is a problem. You'd know it if you saw it. I'm talking about a shaved top lip on either side with a patch of quite thick hair beneath the nose remaining. Particularly if it's dark hair. There can only be two acceptable moments when a man sports this moustache. Firstly when shaving, when you do all the other bits and you leave that bit there to see what it looks like. Importantly you must make sure everyone is out and NOT take a photo. Secondly, when going to a genocidal dictator fancy dress party and you haven't got the depth or volume of top lip facial hair to pull off 'The Stalin', nor the scraggly beard to go for 'The Genghis Khan'. I was in the kebab shop this evening. This is not unusual. Tonight due to extreme hunger and a diverted train I was in a new establishment. The signs were mixed but taking the queue inside as a good omen, we dived in to shelter and hopefully to enjoy above average foo

There he was in seat three. Bull necked, broad shouldered, shaven headed and clad in an expensive biker jacket. Several scars decorated his face and a glassy, lopsided but frankly quite threatening grin was spread across his face. The empty glasses half filled with melting ice by his side and the fact that he was loudly singing songs in Russian were a sign. This man was drunk. Very drunk indeed. It was after midnight. Approaching the money bubble in a turbo side event at EPT Prague. Surely the graveyard shift for any tournament director. The lady in charge on this particular evening struggled to contain the people on the rail who were of course also heavily drinking, shouting and frequently getting in the way. One man in a tracksuit even tried to break and balance tables and do her job for her. Several drinks had already been spilled, glasses smashed and a weary waiter with a dustpan, brush and mop was on permanent standby. The game was Texas Holdem with deuces wild.