I remember this when I was a little boy in the village. It is a celebration, right? Or probably elections. The elections in the village were also a celebration. All dressed in the club buffet, and of course the concert. The artists came from the city, that you!

And that means there is a concert, some self-activity on the stage, babies there in cockroaches, a man with a bagel, a curly rabbin, all the things. The people are knocking, the hall is fighting. Suddenly, some movement begins in the room. At first unnoticed, one by two, the people begin to stretch to the exit. Those who see it whisper, and also look at the door with interest. What happened there?

Nothing happened there. Just on the club wing sits a guard, Uncle Losha, well drunk, with a harmochka, and next to him two old ladies, sitting. And they turn out to scratch the maternal parts. Okay, they are self-exhausting. with the soul. And the people are moving.

Five minutes later, the hall was half empty, and after ten minutes, only those who slept remained. Then and the artists on the stage, falling into some confusion, decided to see where the people stood, not the fire. The whole public is on the street. With an uncle and two old ladies in the middle.

And the artists what? The job of an artist is to be with the people. Well, these people, don't be fools, first timidly, with a barrel, the basist touched, to Uncle Leche adjusting, and then the babies in the chickens, bowing, pulled into a circle. How a Dalai Lama! It was something that was never heard in the village. The tears even turned from some of our stallions, and the dogs in horror closed their ears to their young children.

This was a show like that. Artists are not allowed! It was almost on hand, the success was stunning! The artists were so happy!
The celebration was shorter.
Only Parthorgu then got a sort of pretext, and Uncle Losha fell asleep, drunk, on the doorstep, with a harmony.