One of these day I am going to write a frivolous article about personal transport tastes and driving habits in east Ukraine’s two fantasy ‘People’s republics’.
Declaring that everything is ‘for the people’ conveniently allows everyone with a gun to expropriate and pimp their ultimate ride. And to chop off the fingers of the poor honest guy who tried to prevent it. And to drive however the hell they want, deliberately running over stray dogs (“There are more of them than people these days”) or accidentally knocking down old grandfathers during shoot-outs (“He was in the wrong place”).
I’ve been ‘given lifts’ in a commandeered police car with shot out windows; a Toyota limousine with leather seats and customised Slavic neo-pagan numberplate (“I earned it”, said the former taxi driver turned battalion commander when I asked where he got such a very nice car from – he has since been seen riding a horse and offering rides on a tank to pretty Aryan-looking female journalists); in the Batman battalion’s spanking new white batmobile (yes, really) and, my favourite: this proletariat revolutionary pimped minivan.