I must admit I felt somewhat disappointed by the failure of The Tablet editor, Brendan Walsh, to confirm whether or not he would use my text on the plight of Polish organizations and schools in Belarus under Lukashenka's dictatorship. After all, he had asked me to shorten the text amd add some further details about the Catholic Church in Belarus, and this I did, After which, silence. For 2 weeks. So eventually I sent the text to Louis Houghton at Yorkshire Bylines and she published the text within 2 days. I was quite grateful and circulated it to friends as well as to the Editor of "znadniemna.pl" the illegal internet platform for the Polish organizations in Belarus. I hope it brings them some comfort. It is just possible that The Tablet did not want to upset the Catholic hierarchy. After all the Vatican is trying to stay neutral betweena vicious dictator and a persecuted opposition and does not want to see more Catholics persecuted. However, it is not a good look when the Vatican is the only European government (other than Russia and Serbia) which still recognizes Lukashenka as President of Belarus after his fraudulent election victory of 2020, as a result of which there are 1400 political prisoners in Belarus jails, while the indigenous Polish minority is being deprived of its organizations, schools and cultural centres and is threatened with russification.
At the same time I completed my text in Polish on the assassination of President Gabriel Narutowicz by a right wing fanatic in the Zacheta Gallery in Warsaw. It took place exactly 100 years ago on December 16th 1922. It was a day of shame for the new independent and democratic Poland. I have sent it to my usual outlets, namely Tydzien Polski (the London based Polish Weekly), the Sami Swoi-Goniec monthly magazine, and the Londynek and Cooltura websites. It remains relevant as the same mutual hatred and head-banging nationalistic nonsense still poisons the atmosphere in Polish politics today. Already there have been at least two Polish victims of political assassination in Poland in the last 10 years, including the mayor of Gdansk. Perhaps, I could do an English version as well, but would my fellow Poles relish seeing an article about this shameful crime plastered all over the British media? Think not.
In the meantime, it is party time at the London Chamber of Commerce. I had just finished sending the text of my Narutowicz article to the Polish press, so I turned up rather late. By this time the staff who had already enjoyed some free drinks in the office lounge was moving to a pub near St Pauls Cathedral to have their Christmas dinner and to party. I joined just in time to join the great trek to the pub. Once we were there we sat at long tables in a private basement party room and were faced with bottles of wine that needed emptying. Out table happened to contain all members of the export documentation staff and was also all male. I announced to the surrounding table, mostly filled with female staff, that we were the "gay table", which amused them considerably. Certainly, the reputation of the majority of us was quite the opposite. Offered further drinks, I opted for a series of neat double vodkas (I think 3 or four glasses, but who was counting?) all served free of charge. The problem with neat vodkas in a British pub is that they never keep vodkas in a freezer. They assume that watering down and besmirching this sacred drink with ice cubes is sufficient. They don't understand that as you take your shots you are going to choke on the ice, so you need to chuck them out. The vodka has to be kept in a freezer before it is served to enhance this smootheness. If it freezes solid in the freezer it is not proper vodka. However, if you drink it neat, with no flavouring, you will never get a hangover, not even if you alternate it with a beer, or a glass of wine. I said "or", of course. If you drink vodka and wine and beer, you've had it. Not only will you have a hangover. You will probably be sick as well.
However, having also enjoyes a pulled pork meal with scratchings and potatoes, I was in the mood to carve myself a place on the dancefloor, where a couple of young ladies had already started their antics. As the ends of the table was blocked with girls joining our "gay table" I had to make my escape by sinking to the floor and emerging at the other side, where a couple of young ladies, including our very attractive section manager, helped me to get upright. I improvised some original grand-daddy dance moves adapting each to the song being played and everyone seemed to be amused at this 76 year old performing like a party pro. Some laughed with me and perhaps some laughed at me, but who cares? It's a party. I don't party much, but if I do, then I make a proper job of it, aware perhaps that in a few years, I will not be able to do so. By 10.30, although the party was still in full swing, with the drinks flowing, the conversations getting louder, and the selfies and secret snogs enhancing the atmosphere, I had had enough . Unfortunately, as I gathered up my coat at the end of the table where I had left it, I was unable to locate by hat (felt with bordeaux colour) . I looked for it in vain and finally left without it into the cold night air, leaving emails to our HR staff to check next day with the pub to see if they had found it. I staggered merrily to the tube station at Blackfriars and happily got onto a Richmond train to get to Gunnersbury and then catch a bus. I dozed off, so in the end I woke up not at Gunnersbury, but at Kew Gardens. I got back following the subway and reached Gunnersbury at last, and then caught the bus, happy and half asleep, in the direction of Brentford. Luckily not at work tomorrow so I could sleep it off.
Except that at 7.45am I was rudely woken by my phone ringing. It was my Ashford office colleague. Apparently, he was too ill to come in. Could I just possibly help out and come into work that day? These kids. They just can't take their drinks. He had had wine and beer and also shots with flavoured spirits. When will these young people learn that grape and grain do not mix. So I dressed, put on my black Mafia gangster hat (very posh) to replace the missing red hat, and drove to enjoy an unexpected extra day at the office, despite the vodkas still not fully having worn off yet. Along with Christine, who normally fills in on the three days in the week when I am not scheduled to work, we piled through more than 150 documents, hard copy and online. I also made enquiries about the hat, and sure enough, yes, the pub had found it. I asked a London colleague to retrieve it.
No comments:
Post a Comment