Well readers, I’m now getting to the point where I can almost smell that British Airways gin and tonic. Two more days in the office followed by a 3 hour taxi drive to the “nearby” town of Surgut to catch an early morning flight back to Moscow and then onto good old LHR.

It’s probably as well I’m heading home soon as I’ve all but run out of socks. A slight oversight on my part when I packed (sock gremlins probably made off with a few pairs) and the whole situation is compounded by the lack of laundry service in the hotel. Despite this the hotel has in fact been a real blessing. I wasn’t expecting a great deal but the room is clean and well furnished, I have internet access and a mini-bar and the meals have all be fine. On my last trip here I was staying in a western run camp which, although it was a little more like home, was certainly lacking in Russian spirit.

Of course I’m not home yet, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last week and a bit it’s that Russia, and Siberia in particular, is frighteningly and predictably unpredictable. Anything could, and probably will, happen between now and my allotted departure time. To be honest, the very thought of a 3 hour taxi ride in these conditions has got me shifting uncomfortably in my seat. We’ve been taking taxis ever since we arrived in Kogalym and they’ve all been pretty entertaining. Without exception all the drivers have been multi-tasking to some degree throughout the journey, and with a surprisingly varied selection of tasks. We’ve had the standard phone conversations obviously; some text messaging and yesterday one enterprising young chap was actually playing poker. He had his PDA screen up in front of him and managed to get through three or four hands between the office and the hotel. It’s probably worth mentioning that most taxi drivers have also perfected the art of the handbrake turn. Good fun in Sainsbury’s car-park, but a little less enjoyable on an ice-covered road facing oncoming traffic.

So then, just another couple of days left in the office. We’re all at that comfortable tidying up, report writing, ‘i’ dotting and ‘t’ crossing stage that follows every project like this. Today, that involved taking out our flash drivers and swapping MP3 files between the various members of the team. Forty five gigabytes of music changed hands in absolutely no time at all and for a very brief moment, all language barriers simply vanished as the sound of Bob Marley and the Wailers reverberated around the office. Tomorrow it may well be family pictures and over lunch I'm sure I caught just a whiff of a rumour that vodka drinking will be compulsory on the last day. Like I said, anything could happen yet so stay tuned.

Well I’ve reached the half way point of my epic Siberian visit. In recognition of this significant milestone I was awarded the mother of all hangovers this morning, which I was allowed to take to the office as a gentle reminder of my evening. Now I’m not suggesting for a moment that the cause was anything other than stupidity on my part. Matching two seasoned Russians, vodka shot for vodka shot all evening was only ever going to end in tears and this morning they were mine. It was, however, well worth it.

By any standards it was an entertaining evening. Bored of the menu in the hotel the three warriors ventured out into the frosty Kogalym night, in search of food. After a short walk, we settled on a rather happening spot in town and headed upstairs into a bustling, nicely furnished restaurant. The place appeared to be playing host to two large groups of people. The first were celebrating a recent marriage and the second was made up of couples celebrating their tenth anniversary.

Funny isn’t it? The world over, wedding parties are one and the same. There’s something very comforting about wandering into a reception in the middle of absolutely nowhere and seeing the same enormous PA system, the same club singer and the usual collection of friends and relatives doing the usual side-to-side type of dance we all do when we haven’t had enough to drink. I suppose it’s a bit like biting into a Big Mac in some terrible backwater a wondering how on earth they managed to make it taste the same.

Our dinner was a feast of the finest local delicacies including the now compulsory frozen raw fish, cabbage, pickles, steak, potatoes and of course vodka; litres of the stuff. It was at this point I realised I would be paying a heavy price for my evening’s entertainment, and it wouldn’t be one you could measure in roubles. During the meal, the assembled guests really began to kick-up their heels. After a few numbers from the resident club singer the party was in full swing and all side-to-side dancing was cast aside in favour of flamboyant, individual styles. Like all weddings of course there were one or two dancers whose enthusiasm was in a very different league to their actual ability, and that made for an entertainment all of its own.

It wasn’t very long before both parties realised there were three diners that evening who were unattached to either group. Apparently this is not allowed in Russia and so we were “invited” (kicking and screaming in my case) onto the dance floor to help them with their evenings celebrations. It’s at this point in the proceedings that my usually photographic memory becomes a little cloudy, in fact I think I must have accidently popped the lens cap back on after the second half litre bottle of vodka had disappeared. All I can say is that the restaurant and everyone in it, made three strangers feel like members of their own family. I couldn’t help but think how the same situation would have played out in any big city in the UK.

My last recollection of the evening was making snow angels on the way home. The temperature was a rather bracing-35 centigrade and believe me, a snow angel in that weather gives a whole new meaning to the word refreshing.

The Brits have football, the Indians have their beloved cricket and the New Zealanders simply adore Rugby. For Russians however, the National Sport is quite obviously smoking, and they are masters of it. Now I fully realise that I’ve become accustomed to a world of smoke free pubs and restaurants, living as I do in the UK. As such, perhaps I’m a little over sensitive to a smokey atmosphere, however in Russia it is simply impossible to find a bubble of clean air to call one’s own. I’m typing away in my hotel room here in Siberia and I can actually see the cigarette smoke coming under my door. Why? Well there are three blokes smoking in the corridor outside. In fact they’re actively encouraged to do so by the placement of fancy ornamental ashtray that draws residents from all over to stand and puff away next to room 303. I suppose in a country where temperatures hit -30 and beyond for a good chunk the year, you can’t exactly kick the offenders outside (although goodness knows I’d love to watch) but all the same, surely a little clean air isn’t too much to ask.

Another day, another rouble. About fifty to the pound as it happens so not it’s exactly the strongest of currencies. Lunch is around 120 roubles and dinner, with a few beers in our POSH restaurant, was about 800 roubles. Tonight I discovered Stella on draft which was an absolute delight, so polished off a couple of large ones with the starters.


I’m feeling pretty dog tired to be honest writing this. The five hour time difference, coupled with the fact I’ve not been sleeping too well, means I’m practically falling asleep in my Borscht. And going to bed early doesn’t always help either as last night I was up taking my pulse at 1am. I could hear the damn thing thumping away in my head and was convinced that something was up. I spent ages trying to figure out what it was I’d eaten that day and what ingredients might have caused me to be so wide awake. Most likely it was just the workload and the jet lag.

Of course the other big issue out here is the fact that everywhere is so bloody dry. The temperature outside today was around -23. There’s not a great deal of moisture kicking about at that temperature and add to that the continual air conditioning in the office and hotel and you’ve got a pretty unpleasant atmosphere in general. I’m half expecting to wake up mummified. Tomorrow is meant to be a little warmer before things then plummet headlong into the minus thirties this weekend.


So what’s the work like I hear you cry? Well it’s interesting. Of course besides being able to count to ten and saying ‘beer please’, my Russian is nonexistent. The clients English is equally sparse and so everything is being conducted through a translator. As long as you remember to take things nice and slow that works most of the time. When you enter into heated discussion, however, as we did around seven o’clock this evening, things can very quickly head south. Everyone forgets they can’t be understood and blasts off at a million words a minute. That was my cue to head to the bar and I think the translator had much the same idea. Tomorrow will be more of the same I’ve no doubt. We’re making progress but it can be extremely frustrating for both sides.


Food on the whole has been pretty good. Local delicacies include frozen raw fish dipped in salt and black pepper, mushrooms in…... well we never really did get to the bottom of what they were in, besides some form of pickling solution, and pigs tongue with a mustard sauce so strong I now have a sense of smell rivalling any canine on the planet. Lunch was awful…. sorry offal. I’d actually forgotten just how much Russians like their offal, so a menu consisting of liver, heart, tongue and tail is not uncommon. As with all things, trial and error is pretty much the only answer – that and a good supply of settlers.


Right dear reader (singular), I better head off to bed I guess. No doubt I’ll be up again in an hour or so for a rest. Till then – Das Vidania.

I was awake reasonably early yesterday. I felt pretty groggy after a couple of beers last night and was still making up those pesky three hours I lost. After a shower, a shave and a large plate of herb fried potatoes however, I was good to go. The flight from Moscow was 11:45, which is an extremely civilized time I’m sure you’ll agree. I met my two travelling companions at the Kogalym check-in desk and in no time at all we were clutching boarding cards, wandering the shops and looking at all manner of furs, carvings and animal skins in the various boutique windows.

I have to say I was genuinely taken aback by the new Domodedovo Airport building. I didn’t get much of a feel for it when I arrived on Friday, but walking through yesterday I can tell you that it really is very nice indeed, and would rival anything in Western Europe. As we approached the last security check I got my second surprise of the morning. There has been talk recently of trialling full body scanners in UK airports. Not surprisingly there was instant uproar from all manner of groups claiming an infringement of human rights, perversion, child abuse and goodness knows what else. Clearly such protests have no place in post communist Russia as into the full body scanner we went without so much as a murmur. Once on the other side I was slightly surprised to see the viewing area was partly open to passengers walking through. I could clearly see my slim, butt naked frame, rotating happily on the security guards screen as I fixed my belt and jacket. I’m sure many would have an issue with that slightly alarming lack of privacy but I must be honest it didn’t really bother me. Of course having said that, I don’t have breast implants, plastic appendages or a glass eye to worry about, so perhaps I’m not really the best judge. Once the scrutiny was over however, we had a pleasant wait with an expertly prepared latte in the comfortable departure lounge.

Sadly once on board the Kogalym flight, things were nowhere near as plush. The grim reality of where I was actually heading, finally hit home for the first time that morning. Not quite the travel nightmare I used to endure eleven years ago, but certainly not BA either. The only thing I can say in its defence, is the rather cavalier attitude towards safety is fairly liberating. People happily wander about the isle during taxiing, bags fall from overhead racks during takeoff and everyone enjoys a nice smoke in the toilets during the flight. I read my book and kept my head down. Not exactly a brace position, but it wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch.

And so finally we landed in Kogalym. Another two hours time difference takes my tally to a nice round five. We checked the weather forecast before leaving Moscow and were surprised to see that it had only just made it into minus double figures. Consequently it was still a sultry minus fourteen when we landed. Nothing by Kogalym standards, but frosty enough for me after four years in Bahrain. The temperature is set to plummet this week however. By Friday we’ll be hitting minus thirty and falling. My job here depends on land based drilling rigs in the field being able to drill and log a well. As the mercury (or alcohol) slides ever closer to minus forty, things have a tendency to stop working altogether. If that happens, it will make for a jolly quiet ten days. Rest assured however, I’ll keep you posted on the status. There’s even a big clock/thermometer in the town centre, ill see if I can post a picture of the temperature along with the blog updates for you.

Anyway chaps and chapesses. Please keep warm and please keep reading, after all, we’re in it for the long hall now.

Did you ever watch that wonderful series ‘I’m Alan Partridge’? For those who didn't, let me fill you in. After the demise of his BBC chat show, Alan is a DJ on Radio Norwich doing the graveyard shift, ‘Up With a Partridge’. He lives in a nearby hotel – the Travel Tavern - and basically wanders about the place, chatting to the staff, making trips to the nearby petrol station and drinking the mini-bar dry. Today, I feel like Alan Partridge….. but without the mini-bar.

Thankfully I now have my onward plane ticket to Kogalym. It was delivered by a super guy who, despite his complete lack of English and my limited, eleven-word, Russian vocabulary, managed to impart all the necessary information with a huge smile. I just wish he didn’t have to leave so quickly or I’d have bought him a beer. I now also have internet access too – doh! you’re writing a blog Gav. Anyway it turned out to be a little less painful to setup than I thought it would be, which is great.

Breakfast on the other hand was painful. In need of shaking off the three hour time difference this morning I opted for the berry juice, coffee, Russian bread and honey. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fussy eater, my mum would never allow fussiness at the dinner table, and on the face of it I like most of the elements in the aforementioned meal. Unfortunately however they were all truly awful. Teeth numbingly, brain rottingly awful. I was just about to give up entirely until lunch, when I spied some fried potatoes. Thankfully these were really quite delicious and so breakfast today was a rather fat and carb loaded plate of butter soaked spuds.

Talking as a died in the wall xenophobe, I think it’s mostly a lack of home comforts and familiarity that makes such experiences seem worse than they actually are. I have a relatively comfy room, a restaurant, a bar and laptop so I’m pretty well off. I guess I’m always just a little surprised at my reaction to these things after so many years travelling and living in hotels. Surely by now I should be able to laugh-off even the most extreme situations. Clearly not! And besides, taking things in your stride is nowhere near as interesting to read.

Right now I feel like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now. I’m down to my boxer shorts and dog tags, going quietly mad in a hotel room and waiting for the inevitable mission. Let’s hope I don’t lose it completely and smash the place up, or bump into Marlon Brando in the lift. I do have one treat to look forward to mind you - a duty-free copy of Moon with Sam Rockwell. That, dear reader, will be tonight’s entertainment.

I cant believe it  After eleven years away I suddenly find myself on a Boeing 767 flying back to Russia, and more specifically to Koglaym, a small, swampy oil town in Western Siberia where I spent a good chunk of time working as a naïve twenty something year old. That was back before marriage, kids or a mortgage turned me into what I am today and when people honestly thought the world would grind to a halt when the calendars ticked over from 1999 to 2000.

Today was the first leg of the journey from London to Moscow. I’m staying at the somewhat grandly titled “Airhotel – Domodedovo”. Eleven years ago this airport didn’t exist. Domodedovo was a ramshackle terminal building that used to instil the very fear of God into me upon arrival. I used to barge my way through a mass of grubby, pawing taxi drivers, bribe some officials to get my bags on board an aircraft and then endure the three hour flight west, often accompanied by livestock or a slobbering dog with halitosis in the adjacent seat.

It’s all very different now I’m glad to say. British Airways will bring you straight here from London Heathrow with a G&T and a smile and the terminal building is bang up to date - can’t be more than five or six years old. Of course five is a magic number in Russia. I think it’s about as long as most things last before they start to fall apart. I don’t think anything, anywhere has ever been serviced properly, which means that once it passes that magic number, it instantly has an impending sense of doom and failure about it. Not particularly comforting when the lift doors shut and the lights go off.

Still, even with a new airport building and a hotel nearby, it’s good to know that something’s never change. The queue for check-in at the hotel took around half an hour. There were only seven of us and five of those were a party enquiring about internet access. The other lady however seemed to be a friend of the receptionist so it was nice that they had a chance to catch up. I smiled quietly to myself as I listened to the mumbles and complaints from those in the queue. I refuse to let such minor inconveniences bother me on this trip. If I do, what state will I be in a week from now?

After the receptionist had said her last goodbyes, I finally got my room card and headed upstairs via the previously mentioned lift. Unfortunately, although my card opened the door to room 616, the lady and two children that already occupied it weren’t all that keen on sharing. I don’t blame them. I hadn’t shaved, the rooms aren’t big and I did have a large case. I headed back to reception where I was promptly given the key to room 716 instead. The temptation to try this new key in every door on the seventh floor was almost overwhelming but I resisted. After all, I have all day tomorrow to kill and I’ve only brought two films along with me.

Russia is indeed a funny old place. Eleven years seems like only yesterday. The familiar sights, sounds and unfortunately smells, bring back so many memories. The strange mix of people: some rude, some utterly charming. It will be an interesting return I’ve no doubt. I only hope you stay with me – I’m going to need all the support I can get. I’m heading off to the bar now I think, where I’ve no doubt there will be beer. Wish me luck…..

 

So it’s now official. I am living the dream. After 39 years on this planet, mostly umming and arring over what to do when I grow up, I’m finally working towards a career I believe in and love in equal measure. I’m acting. Well, I say “I’m acting”, the reality of course is more complicated and far less glamorous than it first appears. Like 99% of actors around the globe I’m also relying on a day job to pays the bills. The focus however, is preparing oneself for the next audition… and the next, and the next one after that. It’s a seemingly never-ending round of train journeys and auditions. And along with the auditions of course, goes the almost obligatory emotional rollercoaster. In fact it’s not unlike the Grand National Rollercoaster in Blackpool, that I took my two boys on last weekend. You’re competing with a whole bunch of other people in an event that’s been going on since time began – and often in the rain.

Ok so maybe it’s not that alike but there are some similarities. There are the pre-ride nerves, the anticipation and the jostling for position followed by two minutes of heart thumping, stomach churning, thrills, before finding yourself unceremoniously dumped on the other side of the turnstiles wondering what on earth just happened. I’m being flippant of course but there is some element of truth in it all. Like most white knuckle rides, auditions are generally very, very short (I’ve travelled all day for a five minute audition and not got it) and it’s extremely hard, when faced with that possibility, not to become somewhat disillusioned over time. The ability to stick at it of course is what separates the winners from the ‘also ran’s’ and, determined to end up the former, I shall keep on going for as long as I can draw breath. A very wise man almost certainly once said: “Don’t let the length of the queue, put you off taking the ride”… or something similar.

I had two very interesting auditions in London quite recently and they couldn’t have been more different. The first one was for an advert. We were all ushered in, in pairs, asked to perform for the camera, and then shown the door. There was no dialog, the actors being expected to convey everything through facial expressions alone – “Not too over the top now luvies, keep it natural but just exaggerate it enough to notice”. It was horrible; truly awful and I was glad to leave. The second audition was for a television presenter, and it couldn’t have been more different. It felt like a great audition, rattling off a few paragraphs of memorized dialog followed by a short mock interview. I felt confident and in charge of the proceedings and I received some very positive feedback from the casting director. I left on a cushion of air.

So then, two, very contrasting, auditions. Both were pretty short, both were huge emotional rollercoaster’s and ultimately both had the same outcome; “don’t call us, we’ll call you”. Disappointing certainly, but I did learn something from them - once you find yourself dumped on the other side of the turnstiles, it’s a good idea to forget that ride and head off in search of the next one. It might just be better.