- Joined
- Nov 16, 2020
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Matthew Syed, for whom I have huge respect, wrote yesterday in the Sunday Times about the creeping, malignant way we have let Russian (mafia) money infiltrate London and the City. I have my own story from a decade ago...
I’m contacted by Poppy, an oligarch’s PA in London. Can I take Sergei, let’s call him, and his son pike fishing? Shamefully, I see now, I accept the rouble!
I pick them up at Norwich airport where they land in a private helicopter. Their bodyguard drives up from London, armed to the hilt.
We catch pike and, showing huge bravery, I stop Sergei and son chopping their heads off. It’s a stand-off. The bodyguard fingers his pistol. I manage to come up with a solution to save my life, as well as that of the fishes’. We use the dead baits to catch signal crayfish.
The weekend is a great success. Sergei, son and bodyguard run around screaming, high-fiving, and generally having a ball. Despite my protests, muted I have to say, they take 100s of crays away to grill with a vodka fest and friends. I have a drunken call from Sergei at midnight, thanking me for the best weekend since his childhood, and booking a repeat in a month’s time.
Time passes. Nothing. Then Poppy phones again. Sergei has offended Putin. He has lost his houses around the world, along with his helicopters and his freedom. He is languishing somewhere in Siberia, and Poppy is looking for a new position.
Neither I, nor she, have ever heard from Sergei again. Putin? What a guy?
I’m contacted by Poppy, an oligarch’s PA in London. Can I take Sergei, let’s call him, and his son pike fishing? Shamefully, I see now, I accept the rouble!
I pick them up at Norwich airport where they land in a private helicopter. Their bodyguard drives up from London, armed to the hilt.
We catch pike and, showing huge bravery, I stop Sergei and son chopping their heads off. It’s a stand-off. The bodyguard fingers his pistol. I manage to come up with a solution to save my life, as well as that of the fishes’. We use the dead baits to catch signal crayfish.
The weekend is a great success. Sergei, son and bodyguard run around screaming, high-fiving, and generally having a ball. Despite my protests, muted I have to say, they take 100s of crays away to grill with a vodka fest and friends. I have a drunken call from Sergei at midnight, thanking me for the best weekend since his childhood, and booking a repeat in a month’s time.
Time passes. Nothing. Then Poppy phones again. Sergei has offended Putin. He has lost his houses around the world, along with his helicopters and his freedom. He is languishing somewhere in Siberia, and Poppy is looking for a new position.
Neither I, nor she, have ever heard from Sergei again. Putin? What a guy?