The other day my UK visa expired. No big deal, I thought. I’ll just go to UK Border Agency with my dear spouse who happens to be a privileged European citizen (“A Jewish wife is not a luxury but rather a means of transportation”, as goes the joke dating back to the Iron Curtain and Israeli emigration) and they will put another stamp in my passport.

By Vasya Lozkhin

Oh, sure. Apparently, there are ‘new visa rules’ implemented to at least try and avert the situation where just five Tube stops from Her Majesty’s fairy castle you can barely see a white face or hear a single word of English. And I am to blame for that.

Anyway, there is this new requirement about sacrificing a black goat under a full moon while offering your soul to the Dark Lord. But, of course, you have to used a UKBA approved ritual dagger that costs 666 quid or something. Then you have to wait an eternity in darkness until a demonic voice declares your fate. To their credit, the ladies at the embassy were quite understanding and agreed to make a personal exception for me, so I just had to bite the head off a live pigeon in front of a huge, raving audience.

But, having spent another eternity in various queues in Russia, I can say that this was indeed a bureaucratic nuisance but still a joke. Now, most of my compatriots will agree that if you want to find the worst place in any country, go to your nearest Russian embassy. Not that anyone would really want to do anything like that in the first place, but we just goddamn have to. For example, obtaining a new travel passport – a procedure that takes a couple of forms and a few days of waiting in most countries – is an elephant-sized sore in the arse of every Russian.

By Nikolay Kopeykin

After collecting piles of incredibly detailed stamped and signed papers and enduring hundreds of hours in queues to fat, angry women, one has to wait for another sixteen hours in a tiny, dark, unventilated room with no chairs to finally file their application. And then wait for six months and pray that they don’t lose all your documents or misprint your name. And the worst part is meeting people whose jobs exist simply to make life even more desperate and frustrating for those who don’t have enough useful connections and can’t offer any favours in exchange.

No nation hates Russians (and we aren’t exactly the most popular guy in class) as much as Russians themselves. When we go or live abroad and hear Russian speech, many of us will cross the street or switch to English. When we do have to meet compatriots, this is arguably the most unpleasant experience of being in a foreign country. A visit to the embassy to pick up the most minute paper promises so much stress and humiliation that you have to start psyching yourself up a week in advance. I have a theory that explains the universal mutual resentment, at least as far as Russian embassies are concerned:

Anything that has to do with Russian diplomacy is shrouded in incredible corruption and nepotism. This dates back to Soviet times when only the most privileged had the right to travel abroad, so students of Moscow State Institute for International Relations (MGIMO) considered themselves the crème de la crème of Soviet society. They still do, arrogant pricks. Anyway, you have to bear in mind that these people – or more exactly, their parents – had spent millions of rubles, years of scheming, bartering and arse-licking to get them first through a prestigious college and then into an embassy that was not in some God-forsaken Camelshitistan, but in Paris or London. And then, gleaming with self-importance, they are quite reasonably annoyed at hordes of those begging petitioners who dare to distract them from enjoying their glorious top-of-the-world positions.

This also explains why Russia’s international policy is such a fucking embarrassment, like a drunk uncle who you barely know bragging at a family reunion how he used to wipe your arse when you were four. It’s almost ironic how they at some point have to face the fact that actually there is a goddamn job to do. Please keep in mind that we never elected these ugly mugs, their bad suits or their comically broken English to represent us. They are usurping, lying, incompetent fucktards and the finest move they’d ever come up with is threatening to turn off the gas; or fuck up some ridiculous little republic because they friggin’ can.

(That, by the way, is not said to reinforce the traditional British sense of superiority: eat your greens and don’t choke on Uncle Sam’s lollipop.)

We will gladly credit this photo as soon as we find the photographer

In many aspects we are still living under the Mongol yoke and that pretty much defines all vertical relationships in Russian society. In 99.99% of all cases,  people with just a microscopic bit of power abuse it at every little opportunity. Power is used for little else than gaining some advantage over thy neighbour.

In most Russian offices, official institutions and Metro stations, there is a man in an ill-fitting uniform (okhrannik) or an elderly woman (babka) whose sole function is to reduce unemployment numbers. While in pragmatic societies, the entrance is controlled by magnetic cards and turnstiles, this Soviet artefact will in the most uncompromising tone demand your passport – woe is upon he who does not have the habit of carrying it everywhere! – and then copy your personal data into a greasy notebook. By hand, naturally, and with utmost deliberation. They have all the time in the world and it’s not their problem that you don’t. If you so much as squeak to protest against this invasion into your privacy, prepare to be petrified with the sarcastic “Cho, samiy umniy?” (”You’re the biggest smartarse, aren’t you?”).

It’s still a puzzle to me why anyone in their sane mind would ever want to go to Russia; or why anyone would want to live there in the first place; or why we love our bullying, alcoholic, saggy-titted motherland so devoutly, especially from a safe distance. But that is probably the thing they call the great mystery of the Russian soul. Dabro pazhalovat v Rassiyu, druzia!

More from our Angry Russian:
Angry Russian on Maslenitsa
Angry Russian on the ‘Big Freeze’
Angry Russian on vodka literacy
Rants by an Angry Russian

Related Posts:

• November 18, 2009 -- Pissed off in London: Rants by an angry Russian
• July 19, 2010 -- The Angry Russian on his artistic Angry compatriots
• July 23, 2010 -- The Angry Russian on chavs and the Chap Olympiad
• May 17, 2010 -- European identity: Views from Europeans abroad