Petrograd, 24th October 1917.
Russia is in chaos as the Provisional Government, formed after the February Revolution and the abdication of the Tsar*, tries to stop the German military machine with a rapidly disintegrating army and the Women’s Battalion of Total Death**.
The central committee of the Russian Social Democratic Party (Bolshevik) are meeting in a clandestine location, planning for the final push against the Kerensky Government when there’s a screeching of car tyres, followed by a squealing of adolescent girls.
Nikolai Bukharin stirs. “Trotsky’s arrived.”
Josif Vissarionovich Stalin is less than impressed
“Oh, fuckin’ great. Trotsky’s here. Whoop-de-fuckin-do, Trotsky’s here. I mean, why are we hiding here in this God-forsaken shithole when all the police have to do is look for the swarm of girls who follow Trotsky around? Jesus!”
Lenin tries to smooth things over.
“You shouldn’t let these things bother you, Josif Vissarionovich. It’s the beard. Chicks dig beards.”
Stalin takes a closer look at Lenin’s beard and grunts – unconvinced.
“It’s not just that Vladimir Ilyich. He keeps calling me ‘sweetie’. I mean, what sort of Marxist calls people ‘sweetie’?”
The door to the room bangs open and Lev Davidovich Trotsky himself bursts in, looking astonishingly like Johnny Depp, and starts glad-handing the assembled revolutionaries.
“Comrades, comrades, what a splendid day to overthrow a corrupt bourgeois republic. Grigorii Ovseyevish Zinoviev, how’s it going? Have you finished that letter yet? Josif Vissarionovich! Sweetie! How’s the new pseudonym going – it’s ‘Stallin’, isn’t it?”
Stalin grunts again.
“It’s Stalin, Lev Davidovich. You know it’s Stalin. And don’t fuckin’ call me ‘sweetie’.”
“Whatever, whatever. Anyway, I can’t hang around here, I’ve got governments to overthrow” and with that he’s gone.
In the silence that follows, Stalin mutters “if he calls me sweetie again, he’s fuckin’ dead”.
* And possibly the Czar as well.
** I’m not making this up.
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18 comments:
I'm going to check the spelling of all those names. I am prepared however to accept the veracity of the exchange itself, it just rings true.
Colonel Gadaffi has kept up the tradition, in that his bodyguards are a crack team of fatigue-wearin', machine-gun carryin' chicks in lipstick. If they;re not already called "Women’s Battalion of Total Death" they should be.
If you're not making them up, why isn't there a film about them? Or at least a porn re-enactment? Never mind the lesbian vampires... Trotskyites!
**
PS - apologies for my recent absence. My dad broke his ankle, and when I say broke it, I mean, the foot was no longer connected to the leg. It was dangling. The hospital bussed in med students to gawk at it. He now has a metal ankle, which, with his titanium hip, I think classifies him as part-Terminator. And how did he do it? Golf. Yes, golf. Old men and golf...
Observe Pers.
Sorry to hear about your Dad, but the metal ankle sounds sort of cool.
And how on earth do you inflict that level of damage playing golf!?
Sounds very similar to what the boy did to his ankle recently, Pers. He has a titanium ankle now, too. But at least he did his playing football. Well, touch football, but that's still better than golf!
I hope your dad's ok. The boy was on crutches for 4 months, and it sucked having to be his nurse maid for that long.
Are you calling the new cat "Trotsky", Puss?
No, he wouldn't agree to it. He says he will compromise on Nikolai. I still want Fyodor. He wants Dmitri, but I keep telling him that shortening it to "Dimi" would make it sound like I have a hankering for Chinese food.
Pfft!
Your boy has no sense of style.
Nice one, Ramon
Today, I saw a dog,
Yes, a dog.
Talking to a pig,
Yes, a pig.
They were on the pavement,
Discussing Trotsky.
Not brotsky or crotsky or drotsky or frotsky.
But Trotsky.
Persey, golf has a lot to answer for
Poor poor Sweetie, he certainly held that grudge for a long time.
I'd like to see Johnny Depp play the Big T in a movie.....yep, that would be very nice.
Hope your pops is ok Pers, did he forget his glasses and mistake his ankle for a ball?
he certainly held that grudge for a long time
Indeed. It was 23 years before he had his sweet revenge and had poor old Mr T hit. In Mexico of all places.
By a man called Ramón
When I was in Mexico, I visited Trotsky's joint where the OGPU finally got him.
It still had the bullet holes in the walls from an earlier assassination attempt.
You're not Spanish by chance are you Ramon?
Pepsi - no.
As I think I've said elsewhere, the O'Insertnamehere family sailed to Ireland from Spain in the 17th century to escape an unpaid bar tab.
So not a descendant of that Ramón then.
Did the grandchildren of the miscreant who left Spain, curse his name for taking them to that cold, wet and poverty striken place?
Well we all finished up in Australia anyway, so that sort of evens out.
the Women’s Battalion of Total Death
I think that would make a stonking great name for a band.
Perseus: Hope your Dad's recovering quickly. You really are going to have to fill us in on how it all happened while he was playing golf. Runaway motorised golf cart? Irate caddy? Some kind of Happy Gilmore impersonation attempt gone horribly wrong?
Sorry to hear about your Dad, Perseus. Hope he is on the way to healing soon.
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