Keep the Red Fag Flying High

Now, just in case one of our cousins from across the pond is reading this; no, the title isn't a typo, and no, it's not about homosexuality. It's about cigarettes. I do appreciate the difference in the meaning of the term 'fag', but I can assure readers that this post isn't about bum love. That's not to say I have anything against bum love or homosexuals. Indeed no, they can futter each other as often as they wish. Homo bum love isn't something I go in for. I've never tried it, and alas even if I desired to sample its delights, it's too late for me. A lifetime of consuming too much beer and stilton cheese has left me with an arse like a blood orange. It's in fucking tatters, and I'm afraid that even the most depraved gayer would think twice before entering.

Anyhow, the state of my arse aside, I want to talk about cigarettes. Not smoking, no sir; you're all big enough and ugly enough to decide if you want to smoke or not. However, in certain parts of the world, the cigarette is currency. It can be used to smooth over transactions, as an alternative for a tip, or even to get a pretty girl to go a little further. The cigarette is an accepted form of payment, and never is this more evident than when dealing with small bribes, or sweeteners as we like to call them.

Now, when you end up in a Cambodian jail for smashing up a gogo bar while high on bleach, don't think a packet of gaspers will get you out and back on the road to the Heart of Darkness. However, they might get you a plate of food that's free of rat shit. If you run down a small child in Saigon while driving drunk, don't expect to get off free for a few smokes. However, a $10 minor traffic violation fixed penalty might become a $5 one if you spark up with the police.

The real trick is to know which smokes take you further up the tree, and like a black Amex card gets you the tightest whore, Marlboro open more doors for the man handing out the fags. This is certainly true of Viet Nam, Laos, Cambodia, Burma, China, Egypt, Morocco and all of South America. However, the place where Marlboro speaks loudest has to be Russia.

Many years ago, before the country had embraced Glasnost, I travelled to Russia to write an article on how the people felt about the change in Governmental stance towards Capitalism. I was told I had no chance of getting a visa if I was honest, so posing as a tourist I went through what was then a very painful process to get the paperwork sorted. A friend of a friend recommended a 'Mister Fixit' in Moscow. I was all set.

A letter from my Russian contact (email but was a future dream back then) advised me that there were restrictions on traveling. I could travel to the outer limits of Moscow during the day, but had to stay in the central part of the city after dark. I was also advised to bring chewing gum and cigarettes. There was no mention of brand, but as a Marlboro smoker, I didn't realise how well equipped I was.

My Mister Fixit was called Vlad, a 60 year old Anglophile. I was 22. He was a man mountain, his six foot six inch frame dwarfing my 5 foot 10 inches. He looked as if he had chewed his way out of salt mine, and I looked like I'd never done a day's work in my life. He always wore a black suit that looked as if it was made out of lino, and carried a briefcase. I wore jeans and a jumper. His English was very good; he had learned it from films and records, and subsequently had a fine line in catchphrases. "See you later, alligator" was one of his favourites.

We spent a few days in Moscow, visiting people and drinking vodka. We drank a lot of vodka, morning, noon and night. We drank too much vodka. I like a drink, but after a few days I feared I'd die. I didn't! One night while drunk I found out what was in his briefcase. It was an old English-Russian dictionary. That was it, nothing else.

By the end of the night we had a new catchphrase. When we met anyone I would say "Twins", and he'd roar "Separated at birth!" The next morning I wanted a lie-in, but he said we had an adventure to go on. I hoped he'd read the wrong word in his dictionary.

The Volga we set off in leaked exhaust fumes into the vehicle, so despite the cold we had to drive with the windows partly open. Vlad introduced me to our driver and an ex Red Army colonel called Anatoli who seemingly had come along for the ride. We left Moscow and headed through the suburbs and into the countryside. We passed several unmanned checkpoints, and despite breaching the conditions of my visa, no one seemed bothered.

We drove for hours. We smoked a lot too. I noticed that my cigarettes were in demand, very much in demand. As I finished one pack, I went to crush the box, but Anatoli stopped me. He wanted the pack, and gave me his metal cigarette case in exchange for it. As Vlad was the only English speaker I explained that Anatoli could have the empty box, I didn't care. Vlad inisited I would upset him if I refused the case. The transaction was done, and Anatoli put his Russian fags into the Marlboro box. He thought he was Johnny Big Bollocks!

We went to look at some tanks in a snowy field. They were nice. Then we set off into the woods and arriving at a frozen lake, we met a few friends of theirs who were fishing through holes in the ice. They prepared a fish stew while we kept warm with a bottle of chilli pepper vodka.

The day turned to evening, and eventually we set off back towards Moscow. The driver was well oiled, as were we all, but before we left one of the hosts had an animated conversation with Vlad. Later he told me his friend was worried that I had no papers. Apparently, the check points were likely to be manned after dark.

After an hour we came upon the first checkpoint. The lights were on, but the guards were inside huddled around a fire. We drove through. The vodka stopped me from worrying. The next few checkpoints were empty, and then we came upon a manned one that was stopping cars. The mood inside the Volga changed. We crept up to the barrier. The guard peering into the vehicle, and then waved us through. Although the mood lightened, it was still strained. We were about an hour from Moscow.

We were nearly back when it happened. The checkpoint seemed unmanned and the traffic flowed through freely. When the guard appeared, he seemed disinterested and the cars just filed through. Then he moved; he didn't look up, he just thrust out an arm and our driver pulled over to the side of the road. 

The driver listened intently to the guard, then went through the glove box and handed over a fistful of grubby documents. The guard went off to the blockhouse and disappeared inside. No one in the car spoke. It seemed like hours, but a few minutes later he returned and handed the papers back. Was that it? Then he walked around to he passenger side. Anatoli chatted with him and handed over his papers. It seemed amicable; maybe his Red Army past was worth something. 

When the second guard knocked on the rear window with his rifle barrel, I nearly shat myself. I hadn't seem him approaching. He didn't look friendly. Through the open gap in the window he snapped something in Russian. I replied: "Do you speak English?"

His outburst told me he didn't. I looked at Vlad, who calmly said: "Give him cigarette."

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro. It was unopened, the cellophane glistening in the torch light. As I offered it towards the window gap, a gloved hand snatched it away. I heard Vlad whisper urgently: "No, no!"

What had I done? Were we all about to shipped off to some far-flung Gulag? Had I dragged these fine Russian men down with me, due to my stupidity? I was sure I had heard Vlad right, but I'd obviously done something wrong. Then it dawned on me; the guard was gone, and the car was moving. We were on our way, into the darkness and heading for Moscow.

I looked at Vlad. He was shaking his head as if I was a complete and utter numpty. He was disillusioned; I was supposed to be smarter than a kipper, but I had fucked up. He looked ashamed of me, and then he said: "No, just one cigarette."

The power of Marlboro is such that just one fag can set you free; who cares if they fucking kill you?