No more questions

For our last Open Wall of the year, we thought that we should loyally give the floor to our beloved president.

Russian online slang has a playful expression: “Despite pricking themselves, the mice carried on eating the cactus.” It is usually said about an unpleasant, but recurring, and therefore unavoidable, situation.

One such cactus is President Putin’s age-old annual press conference, which traditionally takes place in December.  It took place last week.

The script could be taken from a middling melodrama or youth ‘comedy.’ A crisis occurs, which is then resolved. It’s formulaic to the point of tears.

Technically, the journalists and questions vary from year to year, and independent and Western media are invited so as to avoid accusations of one-sidedness on the part of Dmitry Peskov and his press service.

Part stage-managed, part impromptu, the format is tried and tested: Mr Putin will suddenly interrupt Mr Peskov, and take over the proceedings; a female reporter from a regional newspaper with a name like Red Siren or Communist Reindeer will pick up a microphone and tell a long story about how her town loves Vladimir Vladimirovich and is desperately looking forward to his next visit (never mind that the last was seven years ago). “What did you want to ask?” the smiling Mr Putin kindly chimes in, like a benevolent godfather. “We need computers and a playground for the local school,” and, hey presto, Putin the magician will put everything right.

Then there are ‘questions’ from the Kremlin’s pool of journalists. They seem relevant and on-topic, but are set up to allow the president to wax numerical – not to say lyrical even – as he loves to do, about how something in the second quarter of this year rose by 3.2 percent against the previous reporting period. When the country is being led by a man with such a command of facts and figures, clearly there is absolutely nothing to worry about.

Milk yields are up, and farming and agriculture are booming exactly as they should be – as he promised they would. These sectors always give Mr Putin something to chew on, quite literally.

Then a foreigner or local liberal type will ask a seemingly pointed question, and Mr Putin will tear him to shreds, making the hall laugh. This year’s whipping boy was Bloomberg’s regional head, who naively probed the important issue of whether there would be an early presidential election. “In which country?” was the ironic response. Cue gales of laughter.

That comic interlude is followed by more district and village newspapers, not to mention the magazines 6 Sotok [Six hundred square metres – traditional plot of land for dachas] and Tyoschin Yazyk [Mother-in-Law Language], which typically publish only crosswords and jokes for sleepy commuters. Then, assuming Messrs Peskov and Putin are still in the mood, everything is repeated.

All told, it lasts around four hours, and most of that time social media, especially Twitter, is awash with the politically active part of society whining about having to sit through it – ungrateful wretches. A separate category are those on sick or holiday leave (or retired), crowing about not having to watch it.

Naturally, Mr Putin says nothing of substance throughout the entire set piece. Nothing. It’s not his style. He doesn’t do predictability. Yet everyone will mechanically switch on the TV and hang on every word.

It really makes no sense, because for a long time now there has only been one question worth asking Mr Putin: when is it all going to end?