Tommy Goes to Russia

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Moscow? Sure, why not? It was part of some Irish-Russian Festival a few years ago. A lovely man by the name of Johnny Reilly had invited me over to do a show. Flights and hotel would be covered, and a few quid thrown in to boot, so I said yes.

I like Russian movies. Nothing seems to be happening and everyone is serious. It’s perfect for comedians. You spend all day being an eejit, so in order to relax, you need the opposite of entertainment. I have tons of the stuff at home, including an eighthour film about Soviet cattle moving from one shit-stained shed to another.

I like the idea of Dostoevsky, the great Russian novelist. I’ve never actually read him, but his longbearded spiritual miserabilism is very attractive to me. I like lads who look life in the eye and aren’t afraid to weep.

I was met at the airport by Dina, a beautiful young woman from a province called Khabarovsk, which is closer to Japan than it is to Paris. She was to be my guide for the day. She insisted that I have vodka for lunch, where she told me that her dream was to become a big promoter and to bring U2 to Moscow. Then we went down to the bridge where the politician Boris Nemtsov was shot. I asked her did she think, as most Europeans did, that Putin was to blame.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said “There is no reason for him to do it. I love him. Worst thing that ever happened to Russia was break-up of Soviet Union. Gorbachev ruined our country. Russia need a strong man. Putin is best for us.”

I was surprised that this young woman, whose eyes seemed so fixed on the West, had such an unwestern view of the world. I was glad of the culture shock of it.

I asked to see some religious paintings. We went into a small crypt, and I stared at the beautiful icons of Christ and Mary on the wall. The key to looking at these marvellous meditations on humanity is to let them look at you. I could have stayed for days, but I sensed Dina was getting a bit impatient with me.

So back to the hotel to get ready for the show. What material would I do? I remember years ago talking to an actress who had done a production of Conversations on a

Homecoming in New York. It’s quite colloquial in places — pure Tuam, like. The phrasing can be difficult to follow in Dun Laoghaire, never mind downtown Manhattan.

“Did ye make any concessions to the Yanks with the speed of speech?” I asked her.

“Not at all”, she said, ‘It is what it is — fire it out, to phuck.”

From that moment on, it’s always been my approach when I’m away. What the audience miss in understanding, perhaps they enjoy in tone and rhythm and difference. I do the same thing in Brisbane as I do in Ballyhaunis. Fire it out, to phuck.

So how did my particular type of agricultural whimsy go down in Moscow? Not too bad, as it turned out. They didn’t understand everything for sure, and the room went KGB-quiet when I started slagging Putin, but all in all, they found it good. I get the feeling sometimes when I’m performing abroad that the things we take for granted over here — like foulmouthed effusiveness and revelling in the peasant mess of our lives — that other people can find that wild. Sober or not, we come across as the only drunk in church. It can be a very entertaining shock to those reared in stricter places when the drunk gets up on the altar and proceeds to say Mass.

Dina came backstage. Her faith in me restored. “My Godt, like rrckstrr!!! Let’s go niteclub for dancing.” “I’m not much of a dancer,” says I. “No problem, I will dance for you.”

I doubt very much if she meant it the way I read it, but either way, I said goodbye to her there and then, and wished her well.

The following morning, Johnny came round and took me strolling. We went to the church where Pussy Riot, the all-girl punk protesters, had their first, em, pussy riot. And then on to see the Kremlin and Red Square. We walked and talked for hours. He told me of his love of the place and the feeling of relief he has arriving back after being away. He told me of his love of the people. The friendship of the men and the romantic, sentimental women.

Nobody we saw on the streets was smiling.

“They see it as a sign of weakness,” he said, “Or mental illness. It’s like a declaration of stupidity.”

And it is nice to walk around and feel as if you’re allowed to be miserable. That nobody expects anything else from you. It’s a relief. Thousands and thousands of dour-looking, heavy-laden souls trudging from one bleak scenario to the next. I’ve never been back, but I would, you know yourself, for a break.