Aboard a bus a nearly empty see a moist cheeked young lady. She cannot be much above 18. I consider asking the busy girl, ”what’s wrong, can I help?” as she sniffles and wipes away the mascara running down her supple cheeks. I ponder awhile if it would be ethical to try and give her a sympathy shag? She must be emotionally needy and wanting her self-esteem bolstered. In the end I did not approach her.
Not so long ago I spent some weeks with a vastly wealthy Russian family. I shall not identify them but suffice it to say that this family has more money than several countries and that is no exaggeration.
I had secured this gig through an agency. I boarded a plane at Gatwick on a day of sheer sunshine. I flew to Munich and barely had time to change. I reflected that I had not been to this airport since 2005 when I was there to visit the love of my life. I raced through this ultra-efficient airport and onto an Air Dolomiti flight. I was excited to fly on their airline because I had never even heard of it. I saw a white German couple well into middle age with three little black girls whom I assumed were their adoptive daughters. These lovable children were aged about 4, 5 and 6. They spoke flawless German so far as I could tell.
The plane buzzed off through the unclouded sky. I touched down in Olbia which is an airport in Sardinia. I was pleased to be in Sardinia since I had never been to this island but had long hoped to visit it. I broke the handle off my bag – or rather it has been broken off some weeks before on one of my previous flights. I picked it up and mulled raising the issue there. But I thought I had better not leave people waiting. I had not been told if the family would meet me or a driver. I was also unsure whether the driver would speak Russian, Italian or English. So I went out to the meeting area. There I saw a sign with my name on it – surname and then Christian name. The sign was held by a hefty in his fifties – his short white grey hair surmounted a serene and smiling face. His small moustache suited him. He wore shorts and a white T shirt. He at once exuded genuineness and a pleasing lack of sophistication. I greeted him, ”Buono giorno signor. Mi chiamo _______ . Come stai oggi?” He replied, ”Izvyentiye – ya ne govorit po Italianski.” His beefy mit pumped mine with great muscle power.
”magoo govorit po ruski ochin mala.’
Having established that he was Russian we conversed his native tongue. His name was Alexei. He did not speak English to any extent. He was decidedly strong. I inquired at a desk about seeking recompense for the damaged case – in fact Air Dolimiti had not damaged it another airline had long before but I was not going to out with that information. The chapess behind the desk told me that I ought to have taken it before leaving the baggage collection area but I could re-enter if I went through security. Bugger that for a game of soldiers – thought I.
Out to the car. It was a sturdy jeep and the even sturdier drive insisted on hefting the case up himself and throwing it in the ample boot. On the drive we chatted easily. I spoke all about my family and he smiled deeply. We relaxed in eager others company and my native garrulity and curiosity did the rest. I caught a glimpse of the cranes at the docks and thought that perhaps one day I would get the chance to look around this city.
We headed out of the city and through the dry country side. The odd patch of bare sand separated dark green and sharp waxy bushes. The topography was varied and untidy. The neat little Italian houses were pale and sat under red and pink roofs. The road wound left and right and rose and fell on the undulating land.
After about 30 minutes were turned right off the main road. We swiftly came to a grey palisade type fence about 2 metres tall. An automatic gate slowly withdrew to one side and the bulky car glided in. We got out of the vehicle. There were trees around the car port and a few SUVs were parked there. There was a security guards in a uniform and he had a holstered gun on his hip. He greeted me in Italian.
Alexei led the way down a stone path to the door. I was ushered into a room. There were cushions on concrete slabs. The floor was made of cork. The wall was bare concrete. In half concealed room a few metres away a Russian man spoke Italian to two Italian men. The Russian man was above average height and he had brown hair. His voice was a tight throat one. Alexei left my bags and went to speak to the man. The other man introduced himself as the boss. I shall call him the boss. He wore pale blue clothes- shorts and a T shirt. He shook my hand and addressed me in English. He asked if I would like a drink. He had a uniformed Italian maid bring me coffee. He returned to his discussion. After a couple of minutes the Italian men were told they could leave. They had been discussing a building project.
The boss came to me. I was told to address him by his Christian name. He told me about his two sions Kirill and Nikita. They were from the first marriage. I was to tutor them a couple of hours a day but to come up with games and keep them amused.
I was shown to my room by someone. It was a in a space age concrete villa. I installed myself and then took a shower. After an hour the boss knocked int he cabin door. He was there with his son. The older one was blatantly severely autistic. He could function but had a monotone voice and vacant facial expression. He was intelligent except in the emotional sense. Nikita was the skinny younger one and he was normal. There were two little girls as well.
We had dinner al fresco – we always did. There were half a dozen maids – one was Russian. Apart from Natalya the others were all Italian. Natalya was a lanky Siberian who was in early middle age. Few spoke any English. I tuned into Russian as much as possible but could follow only a quarter of what was said. I spoke Italian to the other staff.
There were three Russian bodyguards besides the Italians. The Russian were also armed but wore no uniform. They carried guns in bags like hand bags. They were all former special forces soldiers. They kept a discrete distance. They were very muscular. They spoke little or in some cases no English. I addressed them in Russian.
There was Maria. This diminutive Italian was 36. She had a good body bar a bit of cellulite. I was tempted to try it on with her but she had a boyfriend Gianluca. She called him Jean Luc since he was from Corsica. She could not understand Corsu so she spoke French to him. Maria spoke good English. She was a Sicilian who had grown up in Ventimiliga. This is a northern Italian town and it means 20 000. 20 000 what?
There was an Italian Canadian whose English was almost there. She was 40 or so. They got rid of her on my second day. She was supposedly to harsh to the little girl she worked for. They kept sacking nannies.
Then along came Kaeen. Karen as a 46 year old British. SHE Arrived in a nanny’s uniform. She told us everything about her life straightaway. She told us about her diet in toilsome detail and the death of her father. She told us of her tug of love over a child. She had been in the media a lot and on documentaries. She was really into ”tell it all”. She had no idea how to be a servant and was not at all deferential. She even treated to us an in-depth elucidation of her diet.
On a later occasion I visited Karen in her room. She told me she had had an affair with a 19 year old sailor when she wasin her 30s. The media report back handcuffs was not true because she had lost her virginity through rape. This revelation of hers was too much 0 it gave me a fright.
There was Victoria. She was 50 something Russian grandmother who looked after he infant.
The mother was 39 so I was told but had the body and grace of a 21 year old. 6 months after giving birth fort he third time her body had snapped back into place. She was beautiful blonde with good English but no brains. She had had a double personality bypass.
The family always did everything late.
There was a bodyguard named Vanya. He was not tall but he was muscular. He had something lupine about him. He was soft spoken and his English was good. He had merciless grey eyes. He was always decent to me but I got the impression it would be a very bad idea to cross him.
There was a 60 metre yacht in the harbour. It was swimming distance off shore. This was a mightily impressive vessel – luxurious inside. The carpets were resistant to salt water. There were 13 crew. 9 were sailors and the rest were stewardesses. If I were the billionaire I would only hire stewardesses whom I could fuck – that would be spelt out to them.
I thought how differently I would do it. It would saik ar0und the world of course.
this yacht was registered in the Cayman Islands. It also flew a courtesy flag of Italy and of Sardinia. It was astonishing to see the four black men’s head son a cross of St George. I had seen this in books of flags but it there me to see it fluttering for real on the salt wind.
The captain was a sprightly and lean Australian named Gordon. He was at the half century mark but I had him down as older. He had a small moustache which somehow managed not to be contemptible. He ran a tight ship all right. He would not employ those who smoked.
I got on well with Francois the young Frenchman who captained the tender. The blond young half Serb and I got on very well. He had worked onboard boats all his adult life. He had cruised around the Aegean and mentioned the isle of Mykonos. I said this was a gay island. ”Tu es gay Georges?” / ”No pas du tout – j’ai les enfants.”
There was Kirsty – she was remarkably well-spoken for a Glaswegian. She has light brown hair and a permanent smile. She flattered me a lot? Did she fancy me? She definitely did not – she had an athletic boyfriend who was an engineer on board. She always flashed her nashers at everyone. That was her style. She used to be an estate agent. She was used to buttering people up. She was efficient and good at her job. Kirsty lived in Spain between times but was a monoglot. She especially heaped praise on me for having a smattering of seven languages. She used to call the woman ”madame” instead of ”madam”. I never corrected Kirsty on this. She did not realise that by pronouncing is ”ma DAM” she was insinuating that this woman was the proprietress of a brothel.
Her tall, bald fiancee had been a rugger player. He had much elan vital.
The other stewardesses were a New Zealander, a Pole and an Australian. They were all decent enough. I used my very few words of Polish on the Polish one – well who else? One of the stewardesses was an accountant. Why would she do this job? It involves cleaning rooms. But I looked up the pay and say why. The lowliest deckhand got 2 500 Euros a month, free board, no bills etc…
There was a young Kiwi deck hand. I got on very well with this plumber.
There was an Australian first mate who as axed and replaced by a Britisher. The captain insisted that the first mate be thrown overboard. Not literally! Not sure why the two Aussies had quarreled.
There was a South African named Cobus. This personable young Capetonian. He was the scuba dive man and addressed me as ‘sir’.
The crew treated me as a guest at first and then got used to the idea that I was an employee. I was on a par with them. It was good to have some normality and to chat to them.
Igor was the young bodyguard. I got on well with him. aT FIRST he had been evry standoffish. I felt that this bullnecked youth looked down on me for not being a muscleman. I am not small but this boy was nothing but sinew. His chest came out several inches packed with sheer muscle. He eventually mollified. He relaxed into a goofy gappy smile. I was the only foreigner who spoke Russian. So he came to like me and I saw him for what he was. He warmed to me because I cracked many jokes. I commented on Maria’s pert buttocks. We found we had a common interest. He was an amiable bloke of about 28. He was timid and lacking in self assurance. He was married but had not children yet. He wore a crucifix around his beck. As we slid down the waterslide I would cry ”let’s go” and he would gleefully imitate me.
I had decided not to compete to him – not to stand as tall as I can and puff out my chest. I bore myself modestly – in a relaxed posture. I could not outman him. I was to become very fond of him. I would tell he liked me. Russians are never false about their emotions. We really hit it off when I made a lascivious remark about Maria’s arse.
They changed body gaurds every few days. There was a private plane
The dad felw back to Russia for a meeting- hew was away for only a few hours
The last couple of days they went to Geneva for a wedding. I was glad to be shot of themI worked 8 in the morning to 10 at bight
It was not hard work but I had to be three steps behind the boss’ sons. Nikita would even say it was ok to go away.
I would follow Kirill since he was less trouble.
My work consisted of swimming, or jet skiing , using the sea bob etc… I spent so much time in the water I thought I might develop gills. I certainly got wrinkly fingers/
There were board games. I used to like monopoly when I was little but found it enormously tedious this time. I played it a little. I tried to do as badly as possible to get knocked out. there was also a Russian game called anti-Monopoly.
I did animal noises for the boys which they liked. Their father was not so amused. He had no sense of fun. When he was away I did them a lot for the toddlers.
Everyday we awoke at 8. I would go to the main house. There were light exercises led by me. Then retire to our rooms. Breakfast at 9. The parents got up much later – often at noon.
The food was superb. It was all freshly prepared. There was a wide choice. For breakfast there was toast, croissants, scrambled eggs , yoghurt, fresh fruit.
Dinner was mainly Italian food. I was able to avoid fish.
i was not allowed alcohol – no one but the parents was allowed to drink. No one was allowed to smoke.
THE HOTTEST NANNY
Eventually a very desirable young nanny came along. Just to really get me excited – she was a nurse. Fiona was a 24 year old Briton. I had no idea bout her. I saw her at dinner one evening and I greeted her in Russian – Dobra Vyecher. She replied, ”No, no I speak English.” She was a winsome Scottish accent.
Later she was crying on the yacht. The airhead mum had said to her – you have no childcare experience. The head stewardess asked why the young nanny was silently sobbing. I went to speak to her wearing only my trunks. I consoled her but did not touch her. I told her what was what and tried to boost her morale. Seeing me in my swimmers must have been a real treat. I do not know how she could control herself – from vomiting. As I gave Fiona a thrill she decided to repay the compliment. Next day she was by the rectangular pool in her bikini. She has a marvellous body – slender yet bulging. Her boobs were large but not humungous. They were shapely and I could tell they were firm. Her bottom was pert and pinchable. What a sight! Nurse – I feel my temperature rising. I should have told her how she was making me swell up.
I had a chat with her at her room. She told me she had two boys she was kind of seeing. A few days later I inquired if she would be up for getting to first base and she declined.
There was Phaedra. She was a British Italian about aged 30. In fact the British side was half Czech. She had pale skin and a good body – not as ravishing as Fiona. She used to smoke a pack a day and I could just about hear it in her mildly accented voice. But she had to go cold turkey without a ciggie for 10 days. I asked her if she had a boyfriend and she did not. She did not seem to realise this was a come on. Should have pressed my suit.
The mum let the girls eat ice cream at breakfast. The tiny girls spoke excellent English and Italian as well as their native Russian.
The boss was not easy to please. One does not amass a fortune of several billions without being a stern taskmaster. He was choleric. He showed some autistic traits himself. He was a creature of habit but one of his was to be late.
There was not a pinch of flesh on him and he exercised obsessively.
His hair was always sculpted. He was always immaculately turned out BUT HIS clothes were simple. The villa was remarkably spartan. I could even call him miserly. What was the point in piling up shedloads of cash if not to enjoy it? There was no football at the villa. There was no telly but this could be good thing. The boys were not allowed to play computer games much.
He was a man of outstanding intelligence. He was full of questions. He wanted to get to the bottom of things. I was warned not to lie to him because if an answer was not convincing he would ask more and more until he uncovered the truth. I grew to admire him. He was unpretentious.
I remarked that I had met David Cameron and he was the same in private as when on display mode. The boss had met him and concurred.
He had come from nowhere. He was an only child but maybe that was why he had five children of his own. He had made a staggering amount of money without being suspected of being in the FSB. He avoided the limelight and kept aloof from politics.
He played chess against his lawyer. It was a real battle of the titans. I could tell the boss was putting everything into this. It was no mere game. His lawyer used to play semi professionally. I do not think the game finished.
Guests came. Vladimir was an obese lawyer with flawless English. His wife had had so much work doen that she had no facial expression. She spoke perfect English too despite being Russian. They had a chubby 4 year old daughter. The porky little girl and Nastya – the 3 year old daughter of the boss – had a fruit off. They were saying ”A t’ye arbuz” / ”A t’ye applesin” /”A t’ye yabloko” and so on – saying fruits to each other. Nastya was a divinely beautiful baby.
Volodya came with a nanny called Oxana. She was a hefferlump of a woman aged 40 or so. I spoke Russian to her. The first night when Volodya and his crew were there we dined in round tables by the rectangular pool. The boss, his wife, Volodya and his wife were on the other table. The children, the nannies and I sat at another one. Then Volodya said that Oxana was from Moldova. He had heard that I spoke Romanian. Oxana spoke no English so she and I were to converse in the Romanian tongue. I had been listening to Russian and Italian all day as well as speaking some English. I occasionally spoke German to the boys. Now my mind was whirring. I struggled to summon up the Romanian words. What were the Romanian words for good evening? I dredged them up. ”Buna seara”. They came fitfully at first. Little by little the words came. It took me some minutes to get into my stride. Then I was in command of the language and we babbled away in our language uncomprehended by all around us. I asked her if she was not stunned that an Irishman spoke Romanian. She said that she was not. I was deflated.
Later there was another guest with long hair. This Russian lived in Cyprus with his wife – also Russian. They had a 7 year old daughter who was full of beans. The man had a 21 year old daughter from a previous marriage.
The toddler girls liked to listen to an album called ‘Baby Dance’. It included numbers such as tac a ta. It also included Felicita. There was ”bambino, destino, canolino.”
I would address the Italians servants as ”Gentile donne d’Italia”. I established a good relationship with them. There was Rita the reasonable looking 30 something. There was Selene the obese 40 year old divorcee. I gallantly said I thought she was 26. What a kind lie. There was Franca who was 5- something and pouted behind her pink painted lips. There was the boss one.
I later vouchsafed to these women that I had a child and showed them the photo. They called me professore. The Russian one was the only one who could sustain a conversation in English. She called me professor in English. I had to tell her that this is only for someone who teaches in a university. She spoke reasonable English on account of her having had an American paramour. She now had a Senegalese boyfriend. Down by the beach I sometimes saw Senegalese chaps selling counterfeit Louis Vuitton bags. These men were probably illegals. I ungenerously reflected that the two sets of rejects had gone for each other – the Russian and the Senegalese were shunned by Sardinian society.
We went swimming in the sea daily. We would do 200 m in all. It was frightfully good for my health and athleticism. The sea was as clear as can be despite the engine oil. There were many beige rocks littering the sand seabed. Occasionally we spotted jelly fish and I discovered that the Russian word for one of these is medusa like the hag of Ancient Greek myth.
We sailed to the north of the island for luncheon one day 0 La Maddalena. Igor had to stand guard outside for two hours. How incredibly dull. But in his line of work one must get used to it. I suppose it appeals to the empty headed. I wonder if the house had a gym for the guards to build up their biceps.
We sailed to Corsica. We went to Bastia. Then we sailed around to the east of Corsica to PORTO Vechio.
On another occasion we sailed around Sardinia. We went to Porto Torres and Alghero.
In Porto Torres. We spoke Rooski on the street as we climbed the winding narrow streets up to the tiny cathedral. The promontory commanded the most breathtaking panorama over a a gorgeous expanse of azure sea. The Mediterranean stretched as far as the eye could see. A light breeze rolled in off the brine. The sky had barely a spot of cloud. It was an idyllic scene. Here was natural beauty worth the breath under my ribs. How fortunate I was to behold such splendour and be paid for it. An old woman asked me in Italian where I was from. I replied that I was from Ireland. She asked which language we were speaking – so I told her Irish.
In Alghero we walked around the sea walls. The city was scintillating and packed with history. It is very well preserved. I enjoyed it a lot but we had to stand up a lot. I spoke to the boys as much as possible to fill their minds with information.
I was astonished to see so many signs in Catalan. I had known that Catalan was spoken in Sardinia but here was the proof. I had once thought that it was spoken throughout the isle but no only on the west coast.
Sardinia Piedmont was the fiefdom of the house of Savoy. This became the royal family of Italy. It was odd to think that this rocky island had in a sense united Italy and dominated it for almost a century.
In Porto Vechio we had a walk around. Igor accompanied us. He was no longer a gorrilla towards me. He had me keep my eyes out for Kirill. Igor told me to behave as a bodyguard.
We saw a pick up truck go by. Some me in pink shirts and capes were in it. I was explaining that they were priests in ecclesiastical purple marking the Feast of the Assumption. Volodya cut me off and said they were gays celebrating the passing of same sex marriage in France. He smiled benignly. Few Russians have such an indulgent attitude to towards this orientation.
On the water slide I would have to go down first. Igor said no one must get into the water without him – he meant the children. He would ask me how to say things in English.
What did I glean from the plutocrat? I learned lessons in life that every fable tells – that we already know. Money does not guarantee happiness. He was fairly happy but he was not 1 000 000 000 than me as his wealth would warrant. He can afford anything he wants. He could pay to have me killed. He has more money than many small countries. What did he get his glee from? He derived his gratification from family life, from good food and from exercise. perhaps the only costly thing that gave him satisfaction was his yacht. Time is the only factor limiting his enjoyment because like all men the grave stalks him. So why waste time being pissed off? He went out of his way to find problems. He got hacked off over fluff on the carpet. He had no patience. Why should he be forgiving? He could afford not to be. As mortality was his only problem why dream up more?
I was very glad to be driven to the airport. I left a few hours earlier than necessary. It was great to fly out of there. As I said farewell to the beautiful Fiona I said, ”I would be your boyfriend any time you want.” She invited me for a hug.
This was a trial in a sense. They did not ask me to go permanent. If they had offered it this would have entailed living with the boss’ ex wife because she had the boys most of the time. They were planning to bring the yacht up the river Moscow for the eldest boy’s birthday in the autumn. They would sail to the Caribbean at Christmas. Russian Christmas is after ours. Gordon had often had to work over Christmas. The family told him very little. I had to feed him scraps of information. There was a lot of last minute chopping and changing.
I was glad when the parents were away. I could work unsupervised. I was not kept on for several reasons. My Maths was not up to it. I committed a faux pas at table. They did not think I was energetic enough. Playing games – but there were no balls or anything.
The eldest boy liked to watch that film with those blue creatures.
The kindly old guard had laughed to hear me speak Romanian with Oxana. He was mightily impressed. He never got to swim poor chap.
It was bewildering for him and Igor to be in with the crew. They had no common language.
The first mate had told me it was very well paid but hard work. They did not get a day off for weeks sometimes. He could only walk into his cabin side ways. But when the family were away they were tied up in port. They were paid and had very little to do. It seemed horrendous for some crew members not to get to swim. The stewardesses had a hard job. Cleaning lavatories. But you could be 18 and stupid and still land the job. Very well paid it was too.
The word chav has been around since at least 2003. So what is a chav? It is a term that defies a simple definition. Perhaps it is not so much a social class as a lifestyle choice. There are certain litmus tests to determine who is a chav. So how can one be sure that one qualifies for this illustrious status? Here are some indicators devised by the Social Exclusion Unit to assist you in figuring out if you have been elevated to the chavdom.
1. If you have ever got a payday loan to get a tattoo – then you might be a chav.
2. If you have the names and dates of birth of your children tattooed on your arms – then you might be a chav.
3. If you have more body piercings than years of employment – then you might be a chav.
4. If you are white, native British but still consider English to be a foreign language – then you might be a chav.
5. If when you enter the job centre the staff start sniggering – then you might be a chav.
6. If every summer you go on holiday to a country called the Med but still cannot spell the word ‘Med’ – then you might be a chav.
7. If you always wear sports gear but never play sports – then you might be a chav.
8. If you are a teenager but walk slower than your grandmother – then you might be a chav.
9. If you are a man and wear more gold than your girlfriend – then you might be a chav.
10. If you consider the DHSS to be the family business – then you might be a chav.
11. If you think anyone who has a job must be a Tory – then you might be a chav.
12. If you put gel in hour hair three times a day – then you might be a chav.
13. If you can only walk with your hands stuck into your boxers – then you might be a chav.
14. If you think a good Saturday afternoon consists of hanging around in front of the shopping centre and urinating into beer cans – and you are a girl: you might be a chav.
15. If you think the letters ‘th’ are pronounced ‘f’ or ‘v’ – then you might be a chav.
16. If you think Churchill was a dog who sold insurance then you might be a chav.
17. If you were a bride who wore white trainers on your wedding day – then you might be a chav.
18. If someone asks you for ID and your point to the logo on your football shirt – you might be a chav.
19. If you think a nutritious breakfast consists of a pack of Benson and Hedges – then you might be a chav.
20. If you think the only way too cook is deep fat frying – then you might be a chav.
21. If you are a man who had a skinhead at 20 and shoulder length hair at 50 – then you might be a chav.
22. If you think that Rome is in Romania – then you might be a chav.
23. If you only ever read literature that features topless women – then you might be a chav.
24. If the only vote you ever cast is on Pop Idol – then you might be a chav.
25. If your drawing room wall features a framed ASBO – then you might be a chav.
26. If your car costs more than your house.
27. If your girlfriend weights more than your car.
28. If you believe that the height of elegance is anal cleavage – and you are a man…
29. If crimewatch limits you to one phone call a day …
30. If you love the queen but hate the middle class…
31. If your job involves having your name on your shirt…
32. If you have beer in your cereal….
33. If the only pineapple you have ever seen is a hairstyle…
34. If your daughter is called chardonnay but you drink a wine called grape musk…
35. If your son’s official name is three letters long or fewer…
36. If your dog frightens the SAS…
37. If you think grammar is a type of school…
38. If you believe you should show cleavage at a funeral….
39. If most of your clothes are nylon…
40. If your life’s ambition is to be on Jeremy Kyle…
41. If your are a member of the BNP…
42. If your patron saint is Jade Goody…
43.If you wear an ankle bracelet…
44. If you have football themed bedsheets…
45. If you express familial love by swearing at your relatives…
46. If you got your girlfriend pregnant when she was 15 but you consider all teachers to be paedos…
47. If you are a man who goes to a tanning studio…
48. If you are a man over 30 and still have an earring then …
49. If when you walk into the off licence the staff get your order ready before you have times to speak …/
For our American friends, a chav is like an urban redneck.
Mark Steyn is a Canadian commentator and broadcaster. Steyn lives in the United States where he sometimes fills in for shock jock Rush Limbaugh.
In this book Steyn writes about how the Occident is literally dying – with too few children being born. Not to put too fine a point on it he says that worse than this – it is whites who are having too few children and Muslims are having too many. Of course whites can be Muslim but this seems lost on him. He does not actually say white but that is surely what he is driving at.
That Steyn is against Islam is certain. Is he against Muslims? We might give him the benefif of the doubt here. He has nothing good to say about Muslims and says many bad things about them. In fairness some of his observations are valid. He points out that most terrorists are Muslims but at least he acknowledges that most Muslims are not involved in this crime. He notes that Muslim countries are mostly unfree as defined by Freedom House.
He makes some claims that are harder to swallow – that Muslim countries lack curiosity, that they do not invent things. It is true that Muslim lands are not at the forefront of technological innovation now but Steyn suffers from a short historical memory. Look back a few centuries and the Muslim world was ahead in technology, in science and human rights.
Steyn was an ardent supporter of the War in Iraq and ISAF in Afghanistan. He says this was liberation and I agree. But the case for liberation is made harder by Steyn and his acolytes openly despising Islam and maybe despising Muslims.
He uses the word Palestine in inverted commas – as though it does not exist. He seems not to recognise that a non-Muslim has ever mistreated a Muslim.
Al Qa’eda, the Taleban and Al Shabab are all vile organisations. Their worldview is repulsive and they must be defeated. In order to do so we need to face up tp the fact that these organisations derive some of their support because of grave injustices. Many Muslims of moderate opinion are irate because of the Palestine situation, because of what Putin did in Chechnya and because of Jammu and Kashmir being part of India and the conduct of some Indian soldiers being less than exemplary to put it mildly. If these issues were satisfactorily resolved then Al Qa’eda and its imitators would not disappear but their support would be reduced substantially. Like most problems the scourge of terrorism cannot be solved totally but it can be lessened in scale. We can make this a more manageable problem by addressing some of the underlying causes. The hardcore supporters of such repulsive organisations will still be there but the less committed ones can be made ambivalent. Those who have mixed feelings about Al Qa’eda can be made to be against it and those who are already anti Al Qa’eda can be made to be more passionately do if we tackle some of these global problems.
Much of Steyn’s thesis is self contradictory. He seems to think that a high fertility rate is good news and sure evidence that economic growth will result. But the countries he cites with very low fertility rates have the best economic growth most of the time – whether they are developed economies or not. Look at Switzerland, Canada, Australia, Hong Kong, Germany. The countries with the highest fertility rates have very poor economic growth such as Niger, Mali and Chad. His claims make no sense at all.
He seems to argue for a fortress America. Does he want a war against most of the world?
Some people think that the US should become more like Canada. He thinks that Canada ought to emulate the USA.
He criticises the Scandinavian model. He says the social democratic state is too expensive and unsustainable. Here he is on firmer ground. He notes that a very generous welfare state is only possible because European countries spend so little on defence. They expect Uncle Sam to come to their rescue as oft times before – and then insult Uncle Sam for being mighty. He is right of course that European countries ought to beef up their defences and that the United States comes in for a lot of unfair flak from people who ought to be grateful to her.
Steyn castigates Europe as Eurabia. He is too negative and it is difficult not to suspect him of Islamophobia. He thinks that Islam is pure evil and it must befall that he believes that anyone who subscribes to their faith must also be wicked. He predicts a Eurabian civil war and this is not on the cards.
There is a group of European Muslims who are fundamentalists but many are more moderate. As the Iraq conflict is over and the Afghanistan conflict simmers down we will see that radicalism among Europe’s Muslims will calm down. Steyn is a forthright advocate of sweeping security measures – more or less abolishing civil liberties. Yet he slams European countries for having public healthcare etc…. because this takes away freedom. There is a case to be made here but he ignores the consequences of America’s privatised system. Sure, there are flaws with taxpayer funded healthcare and there will always be horror stories but it is a lot better than no care at all for 40 000 000 poor Americans. These people only get care in emergency rooms by which time their conditions are life threatening and more expensive to treat – if treatment is even possible. For the richest nation on earth this is a disgrace. IN Sri Lanka even in the midst of a brutal civil war that poor country could afford to provide free healthcare to everyone.
I think in some ways the US should become more European. I am not saying that a country should copy the majority for the sake of it but just to look around and see what works. Other lands learn from the United States and so too the United States should be willing to learn from other countries. Some Americans suffer from the conceit of being top nation – becoming unwilling to acknowledge that they can benefit from the positive example of others. When the US was young she was willing to learn from other countries. She should rediscover this trait.
Good evening. I am from Ireland. Stop laughing. I can’t help it if I am posh.
I am new in Romania.
Few words of Romania. Normal hello – buna ziua.
Police – spaga.
No bad experience with police. They all speak some English. 50 Euros.
Law is very different here. Smoking is compulsory. Seatbelts are only for gays.
How to greet people here. Hand shake. But with Basescu get out your wallet.
You have a word for nice guy. Tigan.
Your word for nice place is Rahova.
Did not know it was Orthodox.
Did not realize it was a monarchy. People love the king. Picture everywhere. Very humble – a man of the people. Speaks in normal language. Do I say his name properly? Gigi Becali.
Leader of gay rights movement. Vadim Tudor.
One problem here. Wild animals. Dangerous, unhygienic, hang around in packs. Makes me afraid to go into the park. Basescu when mayor tried to solve it humanely. Enough about the gypsies.
They all have horses and carts. Now we know how the horses got that smell.
I am not against Gypsies. I fucked a few of them. Nice to see so many of you here tonight. The real reason foreign boys are in Romania. Hands up foreign boys? Yes – prostitutes.
I prefer Gypsies girls to normal Romanian girls. Cheaper.
A lot more Romanians are Gypsies than admit it. You bought them from Tartars as slaves. Do you want your money back. Can we go back to Mongolia? How do you know if you are a Gypsy?
- Does your mother weigh more than your car?
- Ladies, do you put your make up while smoking?
- Men do you think that a traffic jam is a good excuse to pick your nose?
- Do you think a good night out is going to Gara de Nord to sniff petrol?
- Do you think you are generous for allowing Romanians into Romania?
- If you married before you could shave.
- Do you collect old iron for a living?
- Do you only go on the metro to get out of the rain?
- Do you use your underwear for swimming?
- Did you turn your wedding ring into a tooth?
Romania is blowjob capital of Europe. We have to thank Ceausescu for one thing. The Balkan elmo fudd voice. Communism was not all bad. No abortion = good blowjobs.
One whore said she charged 500 ron. Does she have 10 tits or 2 twats? I am booking her for me not for a whole football team.
I had a 40 quid wank. Perfect massage – good for your health. They had a licence from ministry of justice. Better than DIY. No blowjob. Oh so the licence is for hand job not blow job. As soon as cock meets mouth some line has been crossed. Why no blowjob? Are you vegetarian?
Sex is the funniest topic. The truth is always the funniest thing.
Wasn’t there something funny about everyone you had sex with?
Sheila – lost my virginity to her. A nurse 15 years older than me. God bless the NHS. Her belly slapped against mine.
Angharad – stubby toes, outsized head, anal beard.
Kehinde – black girl. Pink on the inside. Thing was her twat was tighter than her anus. She was Muslim. Said Muslims girls prefer to take it up the wrong one. Oh I am a technical virgin. That is low tech contraception.
Patience from Zambia. No morbus africanis. Pendulous tits.
Girl named Sarah – could not fuck her when she told me she had attempted suicide. She tried that before I fucked her not afterwards – or during.
Dumbest girl I fucked was Lana. She was a virgin. I asked for a blowjob and when it came to the crucial moment? She blew. Everyone around school walked by her going pffff.
The most annoying girl was Emma. Only reasons I wanted her to suck me off was to get her to stop talking.
Why do people complain about premarital sex? There is no sex after marriage? Marriage is not a prison. You get regular sex in prison. I understand how people have children. We all make mistakes. How do you have a second child wit the same person?
A great way to avoid fucking a girl ever again. Have a child with her. I saw my girlfriend give birth. I had not expected to see so much blood. Now I know why all gynaecologists are gay – except the female ones. After seeing that so many times you want to go home to something different.
No newborn is ever beautiful. My son looked like a wet St Bernard trying to come in through the cat flap. I should have widened my girlfriend out more.
Did we film it? No we did not. Filmed the conception. You can see that on the internet. I had to pay the hpsotal bill somehow. If you film your wife’s childbirth she should film your haemerrhoid surgery.
She used to be tight as a Jew’s fist. Or as we say in Ireland, tight as a goat’s arsehole. How do we know?
Now I play the guitar with her labia. Giving her cunnilingus now is like sucking goose flesh.
I walked in on a girl named Katie on the can when she was 13. She was nude. Must have had an effct as she is now a lezzer.
I do not get much sex. Mostly I have to masturbate.
85% of British men wank. How do they know. Hands up who does? Right – remember not to shake that hand.
Who else does an ass wank? Come on the prostate gland exists? I am doing my bit for men’s health – raising awareness. Close you eyes and raise your hand if you go? Does anybody else find wiping their arse is an erotic experience?
Seriously I am not gay. I grew out of that a long time ago.
How can you stand the smell of men and the sight of them – big and hairy? Reminds me of my mother.
No I am not gay. I am too worried about AIDS. Know what is stand for ? – – – –
I stick you wanking. I remember aged 8 we went on a school trip. STAYED IN a youth hostel.
Why do we say wank? I tell you why. Army beds – wanked our brains out. Springs on those old army beds make a noise
Wank wank wank wank. No bed in the world says masturbate unless it is a Hungarian bed.
Just to show I am not racist- some against my own people.
We are the most Christian people in Europe. We have to be to forgive the English. We pray a lot. You would too with our economy.
We are a very artistic people – imaginative. Our finance minister thought 100 billion euros would pay a bill of 200 billion.
Jesus was Irish. He live with his parents till 33. His last night he went drinking with friends. His mother thought he was the son of god. He thought she was a virgin.
Irish girl Dolores left Dublin and took boat to England. Promised she would call her sister Bridget every day. Gets to road and sticks her leg out. She heard that is a way to get a ride. Picked up by old man in sports car. I am a DJ. District Judge? No disc jockey on radio Dublin. Oh we listen to to daily. Can you make an announcmenet to my sister. No way. Please I will do anything – anything, anything –ANYTHING. You really mean? YES. Pull over at layby. Into woods. Kneel down. Never done it before. No need to be nervous. Gte it out. Holdi it gently between forefinger and them. Open your mouth. Ok – ‘’can you hear me Bridget?’’
Jesus wanted to rest for the afternoon. Goes to an inn in Bethlehem. Don’t I recognize you from 33 years ago? No stable is gone. I give you 3 nails – put me up fro a few hours?
I was brought up RC. Poor old Michael Jackson accused of behaving like an RC priest. How did priests seduce children? Trail of sweets into the confession box? Prayer gestures and blowing kisses?
How do they separate the men from the boys in RC church? Using crowbars.
What is the difference between a priest and acne? At least acne has the decency to wait till you are 12 before it come all over your face.
I am not against Muslims. I told you their girls love anal. I like the Koran. 4 wives and you get to treat them like shit. Way to go!
I want to convert to Islam all except for the circumcision. Female circumcision ios good. Fewer requests for cunnilingus.
My cousin Ed works in Afghanistan. He wants to open the first Irish pub in Kabul. I said they are all Muslims they are not going to go to the pub. He said they will. How. Heis gonna call it the Prophet Mohammed.
Poor Osama. Not a typical Muslim. Jihadi it coming.
They asked the soldier who shot him – why did you shoot him 23 times in the head? I ran out of bullets.
Osama liked a drink. He makes cocktails. 2 shots and a splash of water.
President Osama. I mean Obama was nice enight to hold off the killing till the royal wedding was over.
Kate and Wills going on honeymoon. They looked for somewhere out of the eye of the media; They found a nice hideaway with a spare room now and the wall has just been redecorated.
Osama has joined a band – the drifters.
My day job? Yeah you guessed it. Teaching.
Hardest things is remembering names.
3 boys called Alex. I called them the brain, 4 eyes and speaks no English.
I have names for all of them.
Breezy, Cheesy, Greasy, Measley, Queasy, Sneezy, Wheazy, Japanesey and Zeezee.
CHippy,Dippy, Flippy, Gipsy, Hippy, Lippy, Nippy, Quippy, Tipsy, Whippy, Yippee and Zippy.
Botty, Dotty, Grotty, Lotti, Knotty, Potty, Rotty, Spotty, Sotty, Snotty, Wotty, Yachtie.
I take my job seriously. It is a serious business avoiding doing a ny work. Teaching – it is better than working. We are all in it for the holidays. Teaching is not working – it is getting other people to work. If you are a good enough teacher the pupils do not need you.
I am glad that the United States seems to have reached an agreement with Russia about Syria. As the old cliche goes the devil is in the detail. If the situation can be resolved peacefully then all well and good. My worry about this is that Assad shall wriggle out of its terms and not fully dismantle is chemical arsenal.
Assad is very unlikely to negotiate with the rebels. He has reneged on countless promises to reform and to parley. Why would he implement real reform now or talk to the insurgents now when he is winning? The threat of US military action has been all but lifted and Russia is fully behind him as never before. Moscow is even more stalwart for the Ba’ath regime than before because now it sees that this strategy is paying off. A year ago there was talk that Putin might drop his stooge in Damascus. But now as Assad seems to be regaining his grip on the country there is no reason for Russia to give up what it has tried so hard to maintain: a client government in Syria.
France would never conduct unilateral military action against Syria. France’s military is too weak and too vulnerable to reprisal never mind the diplomatic isolation and backlash that will result.
I want everyone to enjoy the show – so that is why I tell the ladies to put their phones on vibrate and put them in their thongs.
What is it about my comedy act that gives everyone a weak bladder? As soon as I start half the audience need to go to the loo. Odd how they do not come back afterwards?
Most of my gags leave the audience as silent as a Kenyan shopping centre. The strange thing is that shopping centre did a booming trade not long ago.
I am into alternative comedy. I believe in confronting racism. Isn’t is shocking how white people are not allowed to work in Burger King? It is also racist that to be a call centre worker you have to come from Southall. But it is not all bad news. It used to be that whites were not allowed to be suicide terrorists. But then that leathwaite women in Kenya became one. The glass ceiling has been broken!
I read this memoir by Clive James. He is an acclaimed Australian writer and broadcaster who spent most of his adult life in the United Kingdom. As the title indicates this book is about the foibles and the humour of being at Cambridge. He takes us straight into the action – arriving on a misty October day aged 24. He has a degree from thE University of Sydney already under his belt. He is highly eloquent without ever being verbose. He only used a handful of words that sent me thumbing through the dictionary. In was the manner in which he strung his words together than was innovative. He never tarried with tedious details. He jumped from one arresting scene to the next. It was an engaging and droll book.
I dreamt that I was on the tube. Across the aisle sat Helena. She is a barrister I used to know. I had been thinking about her and her blonde Quebecoise friend whom I met once years ago. I ought to have tried it on with both of them. This is probably where my dream came from.
Helena was attired in office garb. Beside her sat a petite girl of a few years younger. Helena is about 30. Then the little one sat on Helena’s lap. I am not sure who the smaller one was – maybe Naomi whom I also knew at university. They started snogging. No one else was there all of a sudden. The chicks were aloof to me. I do not think they lesbed each other up for my benefit.
In fact these two are hetero.
I had been thinking how I always tried to persuade my girlfriend to try lesbianism. A few of them had dipped their toe in the water before they met me so to speak but none of them were willing to try again for my sake. A few of them were repulsed by the very suggestion.
Then I was in Ireland – in the South. I was in a prison but not a prisoner. Three men were due to be executed by hanging. I was curious about it but then a sense of foreboding arose. I saw a cell where they were held – there were bars at the window built into the door. It looked like the inside of Kilmainham. I did not see the men. The warder wore a blue uniform with a cap like in Porridge – I watched it not long ago.
Later I saw three shrouded figures – the dead men. I did not see them being killed though. I felt guilty about my macabre inquisitiveness. It made for a disturbing contrast to the benign episode of lesbianism earlier on.
The Pakistani Ministry of Justice is going to deter crime by introducing stiffer sentences for rape victims.
I hope that one is not too close to the bone because in the supremely fucked up world of Sharia law this is what happens. A woman who reports rape will go to gaol if her alleged attacker is acquitted. He almost always is acquitted. Unwed intercourse is a crime under that code.