Russians Reading My Blog

There's a lot of Russians reading my blog, folks.
 

To paraphrase Fred Dryer : "You tell your Russian friends, don't get us mad."

What in Sam Hill are these red communists and greenback siloviki trying to glean from these Sunday night expat ramblings? God only knows what goes on in the Godless mind of a Russian cut-out. I just know this: I do not trust Russians perusing this blog. Niet sir. Not one itty bitty bit. No one honey traps me in Mockba or poisons my sushi in London town. Trust me, I'm like a smart person.

 

Russians, said a learned friend way back in 1994, will always be the enemy. He didn't even have to tell me twice. I've always been jumpy about them Russians. This goes back to the Cold War days and my experiences of growing up in England -- not far as the nuke flies from the former Soviet Union (USSR).     

 

And I've been to Red Russia. First contact with the evil empire was on a Holland Park School trip in March 1985. I still remember the Iron Curtain reading list. Motel Chronicles and Hawk Moon by the late Sam Shepard, and two of the Survivalist novels by gun-nut thriller writer Jerry Ahern. I was mighty surprised that these three subversive examples of western literature weren't confiscated by the grim faced customs officers at Pulkovo Airport in Leningrad (St. Petersburg) when we arrived. They were far more interested in our Levis jeans and Sony Walkmans. It gave them a human dimension.

 

Benois illustration to Pushkin's Bronze Horseman(1834)

I've written about Russians before but noticed that a lot of traffic on the blog of late concerned the material about diplomatic life last decade in Bangkok. What are they gonna learn from that shit? How we get drunk at post? Good luck, Ivan. Have another vodka and here's the Order of Putin. Russians reading my blog... What the Hell problem have I got with them Russians? Not much. I like the poetry of Alexander Pushkin. The novels of Alexander Solzhenitsyn. And those long-assed Andrei Tarkovsky movies. I not read much Tolstoy. Or Lermentov. What do you expect? I'm a nak muay hack writer; not a full-time bookworm. 

 

Me with dodgy Russian chicks in Bangkok

What about those Russian dames?  Ah, those Russian girls. Lots of dumb assed Western guys have got the rock hard hots for those sexy-yet-trashy Russian dames. And why shouldn't they? The FSB, SVR and GRU have got oily brunettes, strawberry blondes, platinum Aryans, fuming reds. The list of lovelies and nubiles from behind the Iron Veil goes on and on. And, let's face it fellas, no one can resist the charms of a hot Russian gal like Anna Chapman, right? 

1970s Russian models in Leningrad (posing behind the 'Bronze Horseman').

Gimme a break. The Male Trailing Spouse ain't no sucker for a foxy Russian dame. I've had them in my face, hand on crotch, whispering sweet nothings in the ear. Nada. Nothing. Nowhere, bitch. Your Russian honey trap shit will always backfire on me. Niet: gimme a sturdy old English gal with bad teeth and a big bum any day. You lot might be good at deception and betrayal, but I'm English, and public school educated, and no one does that better than us. Kompromat. Maskirovka. What is this, Leningrad in March 1985? Better get some Kyptonite instead.

 

"Underwater mission" - more like golden shower with a dodgy Russian chick

I'll leave the last word on them cyber-snooping Russian finks to the Mother in Law. Mother in laws know everything and mine is no exception. "Russians are like rats," she said. "They get everywhere." At least she knows about this sort of thing. Her father was a Russian. His name was Vlad and he once worked as an engraver. "Vlad the engraver." Fancy that.

 

Until next time...

 

The Male Trailing Spouse.