On one of my visits to Berlin at the end of the 1990s I was invited by my Russian acquaintances to attend a cockroach race at their apartment in the centre of the city. A small group of Russian-speaking immigrants were gathered around a two-metre-long wooden desk, and cockroaches were placed in four grooves, one end of which was illuminated (the start) and the other of which was kept dark (the finish). As explained by the participants, cockroaches usually try to escape from the light. Each cockroach had a name and number: (1) Elena, (2) Olga, (3) Piotr, and (4) Nikita. Spectators placed bets (30 marks per session), receiving a note with the name and number of ‘his/her’ cockroach. Music was turned on and cheerful shouts filled the space: ‘Davai, druzhok’ (‘Come on, little friend’), ‘Dvigai’ (‘Move!’) etc. Whilst Nikita was the quickest, Piotr suddenly stopped in the middle and did not wish to continue the race, despite the cheerful cries of people around the table. One of the spectators even demanded to check the route as he suspected that something distracted Piotr during the race. He loudly accused the organizers of spreading jam on the desk to manipulate the results. The dispute almost ended in violence, had one of the organizers not swabbed the desk with a rag and showed it to the audience to prove the race was fair. The winner got 500 marks and opened a bottle of champagne to celebrate the victory with the other spectators.