At the USSR exit, in the 1980s, I had to work for some time in the Soviet household. The council was large, prosperous, the mechanic’s salary roughly corresponded to the master of the shop in the city. So, the men drank almost everything, and starting at a very delicate age. Two of the dozens of tractors left the field sober: a newly arrived Southern guy (a Muslim?) A 50 year old widow. Having obtained a new tractor, the tractors rushed to wash it, as a result of which they drowned the naphyg (although in a lake, not in vodka, but nevertheless drowned). In the youth, a special chic was considered not even a politury, but an imported perfume. And you say, a letter from a shiver at the workplace...