The British Museum is shrouded in controversy, and for a long time, it was my arch-nemesis. Wherever I went in Mexico, Greece or Cambodia, it seemed the British Museum had already beaten me to the bounty. I would rant long and loud about colonial piracy and academic pillage to anyone who would be unfortunate enough to be within earshot, and I decided from an early age that we were mortal enemies.

That was, until I actually stepped across the threshold of the Great Court and plunged myself into a world of wonders. An instant convert. I’ve since spent hours, days, months in those hallowed halls, studying the Rosetta Stone, ogling at the Elgin Marbles and amazed by the Assyrian sculpture.

Needless to say, on my recent visit to London, I rushed back there to see ‘The First Emperor: China’s Terracotta Army’ exhibition. It was actually one of the main reasons influencing my decision to trip back across the Channel.

I gratefully scooped up an available late-night ticket, braced myself for the crush of the crowd, killed time drinking coffee – and then finally, my time with the Terracotta Warriors had come (no, I hadn’t gone to Xi’an when I was in China, if that’s your next question).

It was fantastic, what more could I say? The details of the sculpture, the grandeur of the First Emperor’s eternal empire, the immense process of construction and creation… and also the madness/genius/vision that would compel one to launch on such a project (Hey, but if the young King of Qin could untie the ‘Warring States’ to become Emperor over a united China, defying death is a comparatively slight task!)

Of course the first thing I was greeted with on my return was Qin Shihuangdi’s men staring back at me. Seems they’re traipsing around the world on a museum tour of duty. Next stop: Pinacothèque de Paris… That’d be about right, wouldn’t it!?!

I trotted back over the Channel to London last weekend for the Russian Winter Festival. Held annually in Trafalgar Square to celebrate the Russian Old New Year (see my previous post for all that bizzo), it’s basically an extravaganza of folksong, regional dance and kitsch pop. So… it’s pretty obvious I was there at the drop of a Cossack fleece hat!

I was one of the committed few (thousand) who decided to brave the grey skies and wind (which wasn’t really very brave as the rain held off) and stand there for the whole seven hours of the show (unlike the 99,000 latecomers). From children’s choirs to the Russian National Dance Show, made-for-TV pop to rock bands several times in the remaking… it was a great spectacle for those content to stand and watch, but hell on earth for anyone who wanted to move around in the crush of people.

The majority-Russian crowd went nuts for one of the winners of the ‘Star Factory’ TV pop idol contest, Mark Tishman. Everyone laughed heartily at his lame jokes, and seemed to buy all his awful schmaltzy stage moves (and not realise that he’s spent far too long at the solarium, perhaps to hide the fact that he only remembered to bring along his darkest, thickest foundation) – all bar me, so I had so swallow my cynicism and cheer along. A few eyebrows were raised when the expected R’n’B starlet failed to show and was replaced instead by the latex-clad electro-erotic outfit Aqaerobika. It was little surprise that they were announced as ‘fresh from nightclub success in Amsterdam, Berlin and Vienna.’

Another shock (for me at least) – bands such as Sankt Peterburg and Zemlyane, formed in 1967 and 1978 respectively, being fronted by lead singers and musicians that weren’t even conceived (or conceived of!) in the 60s or 70s (and maybe not even in the 80s, for that matter). An interesting advertising take on breathing life into a known brand… why not apply it to known bands? (Why encourage new music when you can just have pretty new faces singing the same old stuff?)

Unfortunately, after the “snowflake” bubbles were released into the crowd, my attention span wavered. I didn’t get to see as much of the ‘Russian Justin Timberlake’, Dima Bilan, as I had hoped, because I was being pestered with questions about my life history from a guy standing next to me (soon dubbed ‘Slava the serial pest’). By the time the craggy rockers, Alisa, mounted the stage, my friends and I decided it was time for drink, but that it was better advised to have an off-site hot chocolate rather than freeze our hands to an icy baltika beer.

Gosh, am I getting soft in my old age?

Bit of an average New Year’s Eve? Don’t worry – you don’t have to wait till Chinese New Year to make it up – Russia offers the disillusioned party person the ultimate solution… Old New Year!

As the Russian Orthodox Church uses the Julian calendar for fixed festivities and Easter instead of the extensively-used Gregorian calendar (it strains my brain whenever I get into this cross-calendar quagmire. For my other attempt to make some sense of it, check out my revolting October post), it pretty much translates as double the fun!

It’s all due to the complexities of religion and twentieth century politics, but I’ll try and sort through it all.

Basically – January 1st is when Ded Moroz (Father Frost) visits from Veliky Ustyug (Moscow mayor Yury Luzhkov determined this relocation from Lapland in 1998; hopefully he was on-hand to help pack boxes for the move) with his granddaughter Snegorochka (Snow Maiden) and presents for the kiddies gathered around the New Year’s yolka (fir tree). With no other determinable family tree, it’s a little confusing how Ded Moroz has a granddaughter, but it’s obvious that mythological pagan characters move with the times. This year, apparently, not only could you send letters to Ded Moroz at his Veliky Ustyug address, but also text messages!

Russia celebrates Orthodox Christmas on January 7th. Banned for 75 years, and only reinstated in 1992, the Christmas celebrations involve feasting, an all-night mass, clouds of incense and a parade of icons.

Old New Year is then the celebration of the New Year, just as the headache has cleared from the last hurrah. In a further stretch of logic, I’m going West rather than East to celebrate it… yep, a day like today deserves a weekend in London for the Russian Winter Festival in Trafalgar Square! Along with Slavic, Chechen and Buryat folk song and dance, there will be an artificially-enhanced smattering of ‘Star Factory’ wannabes soaking in the fourteenth minute of their fifteen minutes in the limelight, headlining popstar Dima Bilan, and scabby old rockers who deserve some credit for being at the cutting edge of underground Soviet rock many moons ago…

Speaking of many moons ago, undoubtedly this was Miss Russia 1938, risking the soles of her feet on the Gulf of Finland’s banks of razor-sharp debris at the peak of St. Petersburg summertime. At this time of year, the shallow water will be frozen and used simultaneously for ice-fishing, reckless high-speed stunt driving and pulling rope-holding skiers from the back of cars (water-ski-style).