Russian Indians
I ordered a takeaway curry last night.
Well, actually it was a delivery as I couldn’t be arsed to do a ten mile round trip.
The phone was answered by the usual bloke who talks faster than a racehorse with a rocket up its arse. He reminds me of those people who spout gibberish at the and of radio advertisements that promise some amazing offer – “Terms and conditions apply. This offer is only available to residents of Tralee over the age of a hundred“. You know the kind of thing?
I am used to this bloke. Every call is exactly the same so I have worked out what to say and when to say it. I get a rapid blast of a question which translates to “May I have your telephone number please?” though he says it in the space of about a quarter of a second. So after each blast of highly compressed noise I give the appropriate answer. It works well every time.
A while later the doorbell rang. Several times. In the space of about a minute [people don’t realise I have to weave my way through several rooms to get to the front door]. Normally it’s a cheerful local lad of about my own age who is obviously doing nixers to supplement his pension. Last night’s chap was new. He was big. I mean really fucking big. He spoke with a sort of Russian undertone, sounding like the evil world-dominating villain in a James Bond film. He looked vaguely familiar but he didn’t stay for a chat.
It was after he left that I remembered where I had possibly seen his face before.
I think I know where the leader of the Wagner Group is in hiding.
My delivery man?
I was living in Catford when the news broke that our local chippy was infact some UN-indicted African Warlord on the run…so yeah I have no problem believing your Pizza Excess Employee of The Month is him.
Welcome back!
My friend last night was remarkably laconic. He thrust the bag of goodies at me and muttered something about it being paid for already [I knew that as I had paid on the phone]. Then he legged it. No sign of any weapons or anything. I must check my CCTV sometime…
I worked with a couple of Russian chaps. They were big lads as well – the humiliation I felt when struggling to carry a steel plate, only to have one of them lift it from me with one hand and carry it for me. Real genuine lads that I’d do anything for but they would laugh (not in a nasty way) about my size/build (for example they said I bought my overalls from Mothercare) and mothered me all the time. I learned a few Russian phrases for them so that I could barely communicate in their language. Basically it consisted of ‘dobryy utro’ (good morning), ‘dobryy vecher’ (good evening), ‘paka’ (see you later) ‘zdrasvetye’ and ‘privyet’ (both mean hello) and ‘dos fidania’ (goodbye). The rest was a mixture of made up sign language and broken English. I can say through experience, that Poles, Slovaks and especially Romanians are typically nowhere near as loyal to their friends. Most of my own (English) friends class me as a Putin apologist but I wear it as a badge of honour.
Personally I have nothing against Russians whatsoever, not that I know many [i.e. none]. The only experience I have is of the Ukrainians who now seem to outnumber us locals. They seem friendly enough but keep somewhat to themselves. I suppose I would hang around with any Irish if I found myself suddenly dumped in Ukraine?
Ah, the mutineer uncovered. Well you got a genuine LOL I was expecting Elvis.