Sardinia.————–

Kazakhstan/UAE ——————

Moscow Daniil.———————–

Papathomas. —————-

Moscow tennis boys. —————-

Singapore

France

Kazan. Turkey.

Geek. Moscow

INSIDE A MANSION

I spent 4 days in the house of a Russian oligarch. I shall not name this gentleman for fear of being found floating face down in the Moscow River. The details will be changed to protect the guilty. A few months ago I was contacted by a British company with regard to being a tutor for a young boy in Moscow. I shall call him Dmitri. His father I shall call Gennady. Gennady is 50 odd and owns a whole host of business concerns.

Well cut to the chase. I had a skype interview with the slender Gennady who speaks good English. Would I like to be governor to his 8 year old son? Gennady was unusually charming and upbeat. Affability is not a characteristic that is common among super affluent Russians. His personality seemed promising. If he was anything to go by then his child could not be too horrid.

After some days I was invited to the Russian capital. Ere long I found myself boarding the kite at Heathrow. I was flying economy class – drat. I wore a suit as advised by the London agency. I spent over £100 on books for the boy Dmitri. My Streszlwinski suit is wearing out 6 years after I purchased from the Paul the Poof’s second hand emporium.

My eyes glided over my Russian phrasebook and ‘first thousand words in Russian’. It was early March when I flew to Russia. March is very must still winter in Russia. As the plane came in to land I saw that the country was still thickly carpeted in snow.

I had been texted that I would be met at the airport by someone named Maria.

Domodedovo is not a bad airport by any means. I had been to Shermetyevo 20 years ago when the place was distinctly tatty and underwhelming. I instantly saw how Russia has changed in the intervening space of time and changed for the better at that.  I was ushered into the diplomatic queue – not that I am important. I proffered my passport to shaven headed young border policeman. He was the unsmiling face of Russian officialdom. The youth narrowed his eyes – he assessed me with some suspicion and glanced back at my passport photo. Was I the same person as in the passport? He must have concluded so. Despite him seeing that I am a British he gabbled some Russian to me and I replied in the same tongue. Two shakes of a lamb’s tail and the rubber stamp thudded down onto the page.

I read Maria’s text about her being there in a scarlet jacket and white framed specs. I noted the use of the word scarlet. This damsel surely had a command of the Anglo-Saxon language.

Out into the meeting area. Scores of men stood around with signs. A few of them were grey-faced taxi drivers reeking of the fuel that Russian runs on – vodka. Past these dandruff flecked morose Muscovites, I saw Maria. Here was a svelte good looking young lady of average height who could make a lot more of herself. Her little round glasses only added to her allure. I was later to discover she was 28. I had been hoping for her to be attired like an on-duty prostitute – apparently such is the norm for Russian secretarial types. Alas her garb was neither short nor tight. Her lank and mousey ponytail could do with a dose of the bottle. She had very youthful skin.

We stepped out of the overheated terminal building and into a blast of Arctic air. The contrast was jarring. Anyway soon we were in the car. It was no the Zil limousine I had been pining for. The car was too warm too but Maria did not even unbutton her beloved scarlet jacket.

She asked me if I was Irish or Scots judging by my name. In fact she knew a great deal about the British Isles despite never having been there. We conversed easily. I considered making a pass at her. I am glad that I did not. She soon revealed that she is married to a Spaniard. We spoke a little in that language. She told me of her loathing for people from Central Asia as the vehicle barreled down the slushy streets. Her racialism is not uncommon in Russia. Some Russians have a herrenvolk attitude. That is more than a touch ironic bearing in mind that the Russian State always burnishes its anti-Nazi credentials.

We were in traffic for 3 hours. I was pleased that I had insisted on emptying my bladder in the airport. The moral of the story is: always take the opportunity whilst it is there!

Anyone who has been to Moscow will be aware that most its buildings are enormous, dark, grey and monstrous. It is only in the city centre that there are fine-looking, characterful and historical edifices. The journey along MKAD (Moscow Automobile Ring Road) was spiriting as afternoon turned to dusk.

Maria warned me that Dmitri would be a very badly behaved child. He was petulant, impetuous and recalcitrant. He had been known to hit his staff.

At length we came to Zhukovka where all the super-rich reside. It takes its name from the Marshall of the Soviet Union who was the man chiefly responsible for the defeat of the Third Reich. It is in the equivalent position of Ascot or Windsor with regard to London. There were many adverts up – some in English. I saw a billboard for a strip bar – so this is my sort of town.

There was a hand over and we got into a big SUV. It was driven by one of Gennady’s goons. This 6’6’’ ox-necked driver was a cheerful brute. He had a winning smile and he moved with the self-assurance that comes from being built like a brick shithouse. I can well imagine him flashing a grin as he broke bones. By his handshake I instantly perceived that he was frighteningly strong.

We winded through snow clogged lanes. There were pine trees around – all covered in ample snow. There were walls of compounds here and there. I made out many little palaces.

At last down one lane a black metal gate opened. It was 4 m high. In to the courtyard. Out of the vehicle at last. I was ushered into a small house beside the mansion. Maria introduce me to the housekeeper. None of the 20 staff spoke English. Fortunately I picked up a smattering of the Soviet language when I lived in Kazakhstan. i was shown to my boudoir. It was a reasonable size with an en suite bathroom – walk in wardrobe and a washing machine.

I was told to shower and dress in other clothes. So I wore that suit for nothing.

I was ushered into the house. The décor was bright and spanking new. The walls were mostly yellow and oil paintings almost covered the walls. There were oak panels on the edge of every room. The rooms very over furnished which made them seem smaller than they really were.

The house has 5 storeys. There is a 10 seater cinema with huge leather seats and beverage holders. There is a 3 D effect. There is an indoor pool. The house is a faux 19th country mansion. The house is large but not as ginormous as one might anticipate. The furniture is rather tasteful. It is sturdy stuff. All copies of 18th and 19th century classic pieces. I suppose Russia has almost nothing from that era. Most of it was destroyed during the revolutionary upheavals and the Second World War. Virtually no building west of Moscow survived that war unscathed.

There were oil paintings of the family all over the shops. It was a jot nouveau methinks.

I was told to wait at the foot of the stairs – just inside from the entrance hall. The stairs had a heavy wooden balustrade and were carpeted.

Then the nanny came along. Lara was a hefty and exceptionally unbeautiful woman in her mid-40s. Her mid brown unstylish hair did not quite touch her shoulders. She wore a white airtex and black trousers – it seemed to be some sort of uniform. Her large tinted glasses did not improve the looks of her flabby jowls. She and I conversed in Russian for the very excellent reason that it was our only common language.

‘’Dmitri will be down in a moment’’ said Lara as she went up to fetch him. She was a dull character.

She walked up the stairs and around the corner – out of sight. I heard her speaking to a little boy. From his tone of voice he was blatantly excited but a little anxious. He giggled a bit.

In time he came down. The slim child had very short dark brown hair – blue eyes set far back in his head, a pallid and faintly freckled complexion and a broad nose. He wore a shining white T shirt and blue tartan pajama bottoms as well as slipper. Russians are fixated with slippers. You cannot take three steps at home without slippers.

I greeted him with a handshake – being sure to speak slowly and quietly as well as in a slightly high pitch so as not to frighten him. He was diffident at first.

We went to play with his Lego. Later we watched a film. I could only make out a little bit of the dialogue of a dubbed version of Ali Baba. They had their own 20 seater cinema in the basement!

Before long it was bedtime. The boy was clearly deeply attached to her and hugged her fervently. I noticed that the child wore a pendant with a likeness of the Blessed Virgin on it. There were images of Orthodox saints on cards that were slipped under his pillow. I was familiar with these lucky charms from Romania which is also an Orthodox Christian country.

I was brought to the kitchen for breakfast. Porridge with honey. In Russia there is always some honey at the matinal repast.

I dined besides several maids attired in white livery. They were all the wrong side of 40. Was this the woman of the house’s policy so to avoid a soubrette turning her family into a bedroom farce?

I went to meet Dmitri. There was more time down on the carpet. Then there was playing outside with snow.

From Lara the nanny the story of the past few years spilled out. Dmitri had been in the President’s School in Moscow. Despite the name it had no particular connection with the President other than it is about 10 km from Novo Ugarovo – one of Putin’s residence just west of Moscow.

There were photos up in Dmitri’s bedroom of him with his class in President’s School. He was togged out in the blue and white uniform. But oddly they all wore slightly different versions of it. That is one of many Russian anomalies. They were a totalitarian society but were strangely lax about uniformity when it came to school uniform. It also struck me as odd that they were the ones who had two revolutions in 1917 but their children tended to be extremely well-behaved in school. The United Kingdom has not had a revolution since well before its foundation – 1688 – yet its children are often guilty of the most obloquial misconduct in school. But I suppose that is because massive scale state terror instilled discipline into the Russians in the 20^th century. The UK is so humane and people have so many rights that it is impossible to uphold good order.

The family had spoken to an educational consultancy. How do we get our boy into Eton? They were told – put him into a top British prep school. The family said – we do not want to do that. All right then – said the agency – put him into a British school in Moscow of which there are several. The family said – no, we are Russians we cannot possibly do that. This rather begs the question why they want him to attend Eton at all. The family put Dmitri into President School.

But school was a pain in the neck. Little Dmitri would rather not get up early and go to boring lessons and he did not like every other child and he disliked some of the teachers and the food was not as tasty as at home. Doing homework is tedious. So the family just let their little beauty stay at home.

I went through some of Dmitri’s books with him. I read aloud to him in English with enormous animation doing different voices for the characters and reading some in different Anglophone accents such as Irish, Scots, Australian and American. But he was having none of it.

I read him a Russian storybook aloud but of course mispronounced some of the words. We went through the Russian alphabet. I know all the letters but often get the order wrong.

‘Mya kiznak’ and ‘tvyor kiznak’ were very difficult for me to pronounce. He also taught me ‘eeyu krotkoyeh’ which I found tricky yo say. Making myself vulnerable and showing that I was willing to learn was supposed to set a good example for him.

Lara was with us the whole time.

The child played the part of the teacher which in a sense he was. He plainly savoured the role reversal. He was in charge. He told me if my work was not better next time I would get a grade 4 which is a fail. In Russia Grade 1 is the best and 4 is the worst.

Then Lara did the only real school work with him. She had him do some Mathematics. This was the first time I learnt that division is now symbolized by a mere dot these days.

The boy had opened up and was much livelier he was confident – too confident. He told me ‘you are fat and stupid.’ That is only half true!

Dmitri made disobliging remarks about Putin saying he was stupid. I said watch out the FSB might hear you? I had been told by Maria that the father was not enamoured of Putin. This proved the man to be perspicacious and decent. This was years before the Ukraine War.

I had to go to the computer room while Dmitri played minecraft. He played it half the day.

Later that I met the father again. Gennady Nikitich was as cheery and amicable in person as he had been remotely. He was thin for his age considering he was about the half century mark. He had short and tidy silvering hair. I sat with him in his surprising small office – just off the entrance hall. He remarked that if I ever felt unwell to let them know. They were fixated with health. The father was such an agreeable man yet had sired such a disagreeable offspring. It happens more often than one might expect. Contrariwise, ghastly parents can produce delightful children. There is little rhyme or reason to this – yea there is not much justice in the world. When you sire a child you really have no idea what you are going to get. The way you raise a child will have only a limited impact on that child. Francis Galton mused about nature or nurture. Methinks the former is more formative.

The child is a brat. He had almost never been to school. How would you imagine this would affect him? Dmitri is extremely conceited. He is socially retarded. He has adults as his playmates. He commands them. Come here – go there – build lego – build jengae – get down on your knees and pay with the cars with me – lift me up – throw snowballs. He is constantly acquiesced to. His character is never exercised. He never learns guile or to win people over. He gets more or less whatever he wants. Dmitry has no respect for age or rank. He never has to achieve anything. He needed to be curbed. If he were to be thwarted it might exercise his character. Boundaries there were none.

When he is fed all he has to do is chew and swallow. He does not even have to bring the food to his face. His big nanny Lara spoon feeds him or in the case of a hot dog hold it to his cakehole with a napkin under it while the child watches cartoons.

The child is forever deferred to. He rises when he pleased but happily this is not too late.

The one area of life where is not given a choice is with regard to his health. He must always wash his paws or more accurately his heavyset nanny does it for him. The boy has been induced into a state of learned helplessness. It would not surprise me in the least if she wipe’s his rear end.

I hope for this kid’s sake that he is not dispatched to a British public school. There he would have 7 different colours of shite kicked out of him. It would do him a world of good I admit.

One morning I was invited into the kitchen by the father. The mother was there. She was a svelte woman of about 40 who sported an expensive pink silk dressing gown and an equally expensive scowl. She wore her dark hair tied back and she seemed intensely pissed off. I got the distinct impression that she is perpetually pissed off. She had flawless skin, even features and a high pitched voice.

The mother puts the B before itch. She is also spoiled. She married a multimillionaire but isn’t life unbearable? Because she has skinny legs she feels entitled to be a harridan.

The poor woman – or should I say the rich woman – had a most unbearable existence. The baby’s nanny is useless. The 8 year old’s nanny is useless. The stepchildren are insufferable. Jewelry is so pricey these days. The servants are most inattentive. She had to go to a party that night. And she had to get her hair done for it. Oh the poor dear! The billionaire’s wife was a type I was to come to know well.

I never saw the boy in his mother’s company in the time that I was there: not for one moment. He spent a little time with his father. Nadya patently filled the maternal role in his life.

On a mantle-piece I saw a gold copy of a 100 Rouble note. A certificate said that this was 99.999% pure 24 carat gold. To clep it? It would be more than my extended family’s lives are worth. All about were CCTV cameras. Outside these stood out boldly. Indoors in each room a little black glass globe on the ceiling him the cameras. ‘Twould surprise me not if they had sound recording too.

The family have 3 children ranging from 21 to 2. The boy is in the middle – flanked by his sisters if you will.

Andrei was some sort of flunky for the family. He was a trim, ruddy complexioned blond man a little below average height and he was cursed with a birdlike face. Andrei’s narrow eyes suggested a touch of Tatar ancestry. He was with us when we played outside. The child had adults as playmates and choreographed us in what we did. We had a snowball fight and the father joined in with gusto.

There were several gardeners working in the garden. As the lawns and flowerbeds were thickly covered in snow they spent most of their time brushing snow off the paths. They all wore dark overalls. I exchanged pleasantries with them. One of them was a very brown skinned man named Abdurrahman. As I thought he was Azerbaijani. He was taken aback that an Irishman would say a few phrases in the Azerbaijani language. But then again if I met an Azerbaijani who could speak some Irish I would be astounded.

The house was like a yellow wedding cake from the outside – there were white stuccoes on it. It was not in fact that huge.

If I got the job I would not be allowed off the grounds Monday to Friday. But this incarceration would mean I could do a lot of study and writing. Moreover, I would save so much money.

I could not get the internet to work in my room. The password was dreamchaser – how strange that I should recall it over a decade later. I read up books on Russian and law. I looked out the window and saw the snow falling heavily. I reflected it was the anniversary of Stalin’s death. His obsequies had been held in subzero temperatures. In fact we were not so far from one of his dachas.

I was taken for meals in the kitchen. Nadya would ask if I had had enough. I had always been amply nourished.

Towards the end of my time she looked at me superciliously and asked, ‘’do you want this job?’’

I zestily replied, ‘’Yes, I do.’’ I had done far more stressful and humiliating jobs for a fraction of the money.

The family would be off to Mauritius in April. If I landed the job I would be coming with them. I have never been to those islands in the Indian Ocean.

It was decided that I should spend a little time alone with the boy. Nadya put me and the child to play in his bedroom and she made herself scarce for an hour. While I was there I got something out of my wallet. A passport photo of a two year old fell out. Dmitri inquired who this child was. I told him that the boy is my son.

Later that day Nadya asked me about it. I confirmed that I had a child. She had children two. One aged 20 and one aged 10.

It came to Sunday morning and time for me to fly home. I was outside the house under the portico when the four wheeled drive pulled up. The black bearded driver was a soft spoken and courteous type. We spoke about football in my faltering Russian. He was nice enough to tell me a flagrant lie, ‘’Your Russian is good.’’

I had misplaced optimism about landing the job. They took several days to give me the thumbs down. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise.

What I learnt from my sojourn with that family is that too much money can ruin your life. They were a ten thousand times richer than the average Russian. I mean a ten thousand times richer. But they might have been less happy. That child reminded me of Pu Yi in the Last Emperor. His British governor describes the boy emperor as ‘’the loneliest boy in all China.’’ So too Dmitri was dwelling in a gilded cage. He had no friends and no interaction with other children. This privation of a fundamental human need was turning him toxic. He would grow up psychologically misshapen and emotionally stunted. It was like a luxurious solitary confinement. There was no give and take with him – no sense of sharing or socialization. He would be ill-equipped for adult life.

A few years later I was living in Moscow again. About 500 metres from where I lived I saw a house that looked remarkably like Dmitri’s house. But was it too small? The garden at the rear was too small. Moreover, his house had opened onto a street with houses on both sides. This had houses on one side only. Or did memory play me false? I later taught some lessons at President School. It is for the children of the ultra-elite.

Russia is a grossly unequal society – one of the most unequal in the world. That is bizarre given that for 74 years it boasted being the most egalitarian country on earth. The multimillionaires who could afford Eton and governors were about 10 000 families or about 70 000 people out of 140 000 000. That would be around 0.05% of the population.

While I was there Bruce Reynolds died. I did not know that at the time. I later developed a fascination with the supposed mastermind of the Great Train Robbery.

SARDINIA

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 combined and that is no exaggeration. The man I worked for was briefly the richest man in Russia. How can it be right that one man has more money than tens of millions of people? No one can possibly work that had to even deserve a fraction of that amount of obscene wealth.

I had secured this gig through an agency. They asked which London Airport I preferred to depart from. I plumped for Heathrow since it is more proximate to my domicile. However, they bought be a ticket from Gatwick. I boarded a plane at Gatwick on a day of the sheerest sunshine. The departure gate was the same one from which I had flown to Rhodes a year earlier. 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 on the Italian island of 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 in that sequence. The sign was held by a heavy set and massive shouldered red faced man 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. His massive hand almost crushed mine though he exerted no particular effort. If this is how strong

”Ladna. Nezachto. Ya magoo govorit po ruski ochin mala.’

”Ochin kharasho”’

My halting Russian made his grim features brighten instantly.

Having established that he was Russian we conversed his native tongue. His name was Alexei. He did not speak English to any extent. His handshake proved that despite his advanced years 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. I explained that my suitcase had taken a knock and I would see if I could get compensation. I complained to airline ground staff in melodramatic Italian. I said I should not have to do that my arm waving did not cut it. The shrugged me off. Such is life! Go through security again? Bugger that for a game of soldiers – methought.

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. Russians are notoriously of funereal aspect. But when they crack a smile it is sincere. I had this chap eating out of my hand. 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. They looked like heather, box, broom and bracken. The land was fairly barren. Many large boulders littered the uneven landscape. 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.

I could see the Tyrrhenian Sea to our right. We were driving along La Costa Smeralda (the Emerald Coast). It is one of the most exclusive stretches of shoreline in Europe. Putin was known to have taken a discrete holiday here the year before. I know because a friend of a friend worked at the airport. Berlusconi was Italian PM at the time and had kept it from the media.

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 by his Christian name. I shall call him the Mr. Cash. He wore pale blue clothes- shorts and a T shirt.  He shook my hand and addressed me in grammatical but very accented English. He was in his late 40s, 5’9’’ lean and fit. He was a driven man. His mid brown hair was brushed with an autistic level of pedantry. His nose was a little turned up and his pale blue eyes expressed an uncompromising attention to detail. His skin was a little rubicund. His bow lips and general demeanour indicated his relentless curiosity and drive to succeed.

Mr. Cash 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 Mr. Cash came to me. I was told to address him by his Christian name. He told me about his two sons Kirill and Nikita. They were from the first marriage and he was now onto his second 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 on the 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.

Every bedroom away from the main villa was its own little building. My room was generously sized and en suite. The maids even came in and ironed my clothes. There was an outdoor infinity pool. The estate was fenced off and right by a tiny private beach. There was a little wooden jetty with a sign bearing the Italian legend ‘ormeggio vietato’ – meaning ‘moorage forbidden.’

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. Natalya had dark blonde hair and large epicanthic folds. I estimated her to be a quarter Asiatic. 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 all extraordinarily muscular. They spoke little or in some cases no English. I addressed them in Russian.

Mr. Cash had hired Italian nannies for his little daughters because he wanted them to acquire the language. The 6 year old also spoke English as well as passable Italian for her age. She was called Kristina was a brownish skinned child with little glasses who seemed to be serious-minded and very brainy. The 4 year old, Polina, spoke only Russian and Italian. She was cherubic looking and sanguine.

There was a nanny named Maria. This diminutive dark skinned Italian was 36, she was shortish and had a good body bar a bit of cellulite. But I am being bitchy there – she looked much younger than her actual age. She looked typical for one of those southern Europeans who could be taken for an Ishmaelite. 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 Ventimiglia. This is a northern Italian town and it means 20 000. 20 000 what?

Maria had been working for the family for a few months. She would do two weeks in Moscow and then have two weeks off. In her fortnight in Moscow she would work every day without a break. The young lady was paid a full time salary for this.

There was a tallish and slim Italian Canadian whose English was almost there – as in she had moved to Canada as an adult and become a citizen. I shall call her Giovanna. She was 40 or so and sported fashionable little glasses. They got rid of her on my second day. She was supposedly too harsh to the little girl she worked for. They kept sacking nannies.

The nannies entirely took over the mothering role. As they were in loco parentis a nanny would share a room with the child who was her ward. It was the nanny’s duty to wash and dress the little girl. She would sit beside her at mealtimes and cut up the child’s food for her. Unsurprisingly these little girls developed a deep attachment to the one who was her primary caregiver.

In the morning there were exercise sessions for the children and nannies and myself before breakfast. Giovanna led them at first.

These were in one of the drawing rooms in the main villa on a rubbery floor. These were simple affairs such as stretching the arms forward. I was asked to lead them. I am no gymnast! It was droll that they asked someone as tubby as me to lead them. I had us stretch our arms in front of us and then right back – the left hand to the left and the right arm to the right. Then slowly bring them together for 10 claps. And then the same thing with claps above the head. Then to swing the arms forward 10 times and then backwards 10 times and so forth.

We also did an exercise I learnt in rugger many years before. Grab a hold of your left ear with your right hand. Stand on your left leg. Lean as far forward as you can without falling over. Hold it for ten seconds and then stand on both legs and let go of your ear. Then repeat but holding the other ear and standing on the other leg.

We did some Swedish drill under my capable direction. Americans call it jumping jacks.

I lead them in another rugger exercise. Press your right hand against the left side of your head for ten seconds. Then on the right side of your head than on your forehead and then both hands on the back of your head. You see the neck muscles build up fast.

The nannies studied this avidly and joined in with gusto. It was hilarious to be taken seriously as a fitness instructor bearing in mind I am unfit and hopelessly malco-ordinated. As a child I had a cross to bear – I am a sporting disaster zone. That was very difficult being at a sport mad public school where sporting ability is kudos. I was the last to be picked for every footer scratch team.

A little while later we would breakfast together – nannies and children. The Italian maids served us yoghurt with honey, toast and suchlike.

Much of the day was spent up swimming to the yacht. Using the slide on the yacht. We swam in the pool by the house sometimes.

There were a few sit down lessons with the boys. I would have them read and write. The father came and verified that I was doing a decent job. He believed that he knew far more about teaching English as a foreign language than I did. That was because he had no qualifications in the field and no experience in it either. If he was so much better than I was he ought to have done it himself. That is the case with most parents.

Mr. Cash observed that I had let some errata in the written work slip through. I said I had not picked them up on it because it is too demoralizing. I recall how bad it felt aged 10 to get a page of French back covered in red.

Then I did Mathematics with them. This was from Russian Maths books. These textbooks were a few years ahead of what they would have been doing in the Republic of Ireland or the UK. There were lots of algebraic equations but little trigonometry. These algebra problems were ones I could not solve. I said to the boys to take as much time as they wanted but be sure to get them right.

Mr. Cash showed up for an unannounced inspection. He did that with all departments of his staff. These snap inspections were a great way to keep people on their toes. He went through the work with a fine toothcomb. He spotted an erroneous solution. He asked me to talk him through it. I stumbled and could not.

‘I was the first at Maths in my year group’ I confessed shamefacedly. Was that foolhardy? Margaret Thatcher said ‘never admit more than is absolutely necessary.’

‘You should have said something’ he remarked gravely.

Then along came Karen. Karen as a 46 year old British. The woman was Karen by name and Karen by nature. She arrived in a nanny’s uniform and it even bore her name on the front. Her nanny’s tunic had no buttons so a child could not tear them off. 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”. Karen 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. This woman had no decorum of filter. She did not display the obeisance towards Mr. Cash that was meet in the situation. This female seemed to forget who was employing whom.

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 was in 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 – it gave me a fright.

The idea was that Karen would share care of the infant Danya with the Russian nanny who was Victoria. She was 50 something Russian grandmother who looked after the infant. The slim, pale woman with short black curling hair was a phlegmatic sort and spoke a little English.

Karen and Victoria were not in sympathy. Victoria drove the Briton up the wall by repeatedly showing her how to how to wash baby bottles. No one likes to be condescended to. Karen looked daggers at Victoria from behind and confided in me that she thought her Russian colleague was a bitch.

The mother was 39 so I was told but had the body and poise of a 21 year old. 6 months after giving birth for the third time her body had snapped back into place. She was beautiful blonde with a honey coloured tan, good English but no brains. She had had a total personality bypass.

Mrs. Cash – as I shall call the mother – was as negligent as can be. She did not wash, dress, feed, put to bed or play with her children. She did not speak to them and scarcely looked at them. She just popped them out. After parturition her duty was done. I once saw her take her baby boy into the pool for 5 minutes because that is rewarding. Then she handed her little one back to the nanny. Mrs. Cash was an unfit mother. Under other circumstances a court would have removed the child from her custody.

Mrs. Cash had a very quiet voice and vacant expression. She was a woman of few words. She was undemonstrative. She did not wear much makeup or jewelry but we were in a very relaxed and private setting.

The family always did everything late. It hacked me off. We were told once to be ready to board the superyacht at 10 o’clock for a 2 day voyage. I was ready. There was much dawdling. Mrs. Cash was dilly dallying. Why did she tarry? She was not engaged in housewifery. I can tell you that for sure.

There was a bodyguard named Vanya. He was not tall but he was all sinew. He had something lupine about him. He was menacingly soft spoken and his English was good. Vanya 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.

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THE YACHT

There was a 68 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. I would sail around the world of course and have cocaine fueled orgies every night – sharing my harlots with a few of my dearest chums.

This yacht was registered in the Cayman Islands. It also flew courtesy flags of both 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 flag with the heads of black me is not frightfully PC. I suspect that it may soon run afoul of the BLMers.

The yacht was named in honour of Mrs. Cash. I shall call it the Lady Cash.

The furniture was all waterproof. In the main room there was a dining table to seat 12 at one end. At the other they could sit soft on sofas. There was also a small table with a chessboard built in.

There was a small gym upstairs. On the poop deck there was a tiny swimming pool and a Jacuzzi. On the poop deck I once saw Mrs. Cash sunbathing facedown with her bikini top off. I thought it wise not to glance at her perfect form for more than a split second.

I decided to befriend the crew. This I managed with eclat.

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 un enfant.”

Francois was captain of the tender. This was a small boat that could seat 10. It was tethered to the superyacht. The tender was used to take people to and from shore when the superyacht’s draught was too deep to allow it to moor at the anchorage or jetty. The tender drew perhaps a metre of water. Francois slept on the tender because it had a tiny cabin. He was the only member of the crew who was permitted to smoke which he did but sparingly.

There was Kirsty – she was remarkably well-spoken for a Glaswegian. She was tall, slender (everyone on board was slender) has light brown hair and a permanent smile. She flattered me a lot? Did she fancy me? She definitely did not – she had a 6’4’’athletic boyfriend who was an engineer on board. He used to be a professional rugger player. Kirsty always flashed her nashers at everyone. That was her style. But the incessant smiling also made her come across as mindless which she was. After all she used to be an estate agent: good looks and no brains. 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 for being an ignoramus on this. She did not realise that by pronouncing is ”ma DAM” she was insinuating that this woman was the proprietress of a brothel. Of course Madame could be because one is addressing a Frenchwoman. But Frenchwoman or proprietress of a house of prostitution – is there a difference? But I enjoyed this joke as reflecting badly on both Kirsty and Mrs. Cash.

Kirsty’s tall, bald fiancee Yorkshireman who had been a rugger player not long before. He had much elan vitale. However, his manner was brusque – ‘nobody in the water’ he said to me once waving his hands across his chest in an X shape indicative of a negative answer. I thought he ought to have prefaced this with some linguistic pragmatics because he came across as overly imperative.

The other stewardesses were a New Zealander, a Pole and an Australian. All of these females were desirable and well under 30. I noticed that everyone on ship board came from a country with a littoral but then again few nations are landlocked. Everyone except the Polish lady was from a nation with an excellent seafaring tradition.

The stewardesses 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…That is better than a running kick in the gonads.

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 tousled haired blond South African named Cobus. This personable young Capetonian. He was the scuba dive man and addressed me as ‘sir’. I suppose the Springbok in his early 20s did not know my status on board. Was I a family friend? He was sagacious to be deferential. I would far rather that someone erred on the side of courtesy than overfamiliarity.

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.

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Igor was the young bodyguard. I got on well with him. At first he had been very standoffish. I felt that this thick necked youth looked down on me for not being a muscleman. I am 6’1’’ and broad shouldered but this boy made me feel puny. He was nothing but sinew. His chest came out several inches packed with sheer muscle. With all that muscle – was there room a heart in there? He had imperfect dentistry but I found it prudent not to comment on this. I was all too aware that he could kill me with a flick of his fingers. He eventually mollified. He relaxed into his 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. Is that why he had bulked himself out? Did those mounds of muscles hide a deep seated self-doubt?  He was married but had not children yet. He wore a crucifix around his immensely thick neck. 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. I said this partly out of sheer red bloodedness but as most Russians are viciously anti-gay I knew it would redound to my credit to affirm my heterosexuality. As I was spending a lot of time with boys aged 12 and 13 this could be a matter of life and death. I exaggerate only slightly. Igor mentioned he had been in Spesnatz (the Russian SAS) and served in Chechnya. You would not annoy him. You would not!

They changed body guards every few days. There was a private plane to take them home and bring out others at the changing of the guard.

There were some bodyguards in their 50s. They were still very strong even if they were not fast. One of them let slip that he had been in Afghanistan 30 years earlier.

There were a couple of bodyguards whom I did not get to know. They were not all big gorillas. Some were short and wiry but no doubt hard as nails.

The dad flew back to Sochi, Russia for a meeting- he 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 them I worked 8 in the morning to 10 at night

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. Being severely autistic he was predictable. He was also ductile and rigid.

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.

It was so much fun sometimes. I could not believe that I was paid to jetski. It was the best paid job in my life.

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.

Every day 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 fruits.

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. They indulged liberally in champagne. No one was allowed to smoke.

Around the pool there were large towels of every colour. One was on each sun lounger.

The buildings were all single story. The roofs were rounded and tapered down to the ground. This almost disguised the buildings. It was therefore quite possible to walk up the sloping side of the house onto the roof.

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THE HOTTEST NANNY

Eventually a very desirable young nanny came along. Just to get me really excited – she was a nurse. Fiona was a 24 year old Briton. I had no idea about her nationality when I first clapped eyes on her desirable form and masterfully sculpted face. I saw her at dinner one evening and I greeted her in Russian – Dobra Vyecher. She replied, ”No, no I speak English.” She spoke in a winsome Scottish accent. Fiona turned out to be a neonatal specialist from Inverness. I stated that I had been to her hometown and had spent 6 years close by. Despite that we did not develop a lien.

Fiona lamented that when she arrived she was met by a man who did not speak a syllable of English. Like 9/10ths of Britons, Fiona had no aptitude for foreign tongues. Having not a phoneme in common with the driver made her nervous. She texted a friend the car registration of the vehicle she was getting into. Was she being abducted?

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 marvelous 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 the calpygian one in her room. She told me she had two boyfriends whom she was kind of seeing. I would not have minded being the third. A few days later I inquired if she would be up for getting to first base and she decorously declined. I did not hold it against her. She had not led me up the garden path. I was unsurprised that she parried my verbal advance. She will have had many far more alluring offers.

When I walked back to my room that night a torch flashed at me. I stopped and turned towards the light. I said in Russian, ‘Good evening, it is George.’

They answered, ‘Ok’ in Russian and I passed on my way.

The guards were vigilant 24/7.

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There was Phaedra – I had never heard of that name. It made me call to mind a Latin poem I studied when I was 14 about a lamb named Phaedrus. Phaedra came out to replace Giovanna when Giovanna was given the boot. Phaedra was a British Italian about aged 30. In fact the British side was half Czech. She had pale skin, good body, shortish, mid brown hair but she was not as ravishing as Fiona. Phaedra’s hazel eyes were a little small and set back in her head. 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.

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THE BOSS

The other staff told me Mr. Cash’s surname and I looked him up. I began to piece together his psychology.

The surname was Mordashov – pronounced more da SHOV. I called him more CASH ov.

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. I had to accord him some respect for that. He was a man of action.

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. He must have correctly regarded it as a footling waste of time. The boys were not allowed to play computer games much. They were to spend their time in constructive pursuits. The children were all slim but not underweight.

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.

Mr. Cash had come from nowhere. He was the only child of two factory workers in a small town called Black Pepper. It is not so far from St. Petersburg. He was an only child but maybe that was why he had five children of his own.

After attaining a BA in metallurgy, he had become a sub manager in a factory in the 1990s. He had a bit of spare money. In the 1990s he began to play the stock market. Mr. Cash had applied his trademark military level of discipline and hyper-focus to that. He must have developed a formula to buying shares. In those days Russians could not simply move to Moscow. They needed to have a Moscow residency permit. These were hard to come by unless of course you had oodles of money. Mr. Cash was able to buy one.

Mr. Cash 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 also showed liberality in his benefactions to the Orthodox Church and certain sports.

Later on he had gone to a provincial university in the United Kingdom. He had become a fan of a local football team.

At school Mr. Cash had learnt German and spoke the language to a near native standard. His Italian was not bad either. He was a multitalented man and a go-getter. I grudgingly respected him despite him being in many ways dislikable.

Mr. Cash was very petty. But it was precisely this exacting attitude that had netted him unimaginable riches.

____________________________________________________

GUESTS

Guests came. Volodya was an obese lawyer with flawless English. His wife had had so much work done that she had no facial expression. Let me call her Olga. 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.

I later found out that Volodya was only 34 though he looked much older. Weight is very ageing. His wife was probably a few years younger. But her ill-conceived and totally unnecessary face lift had made her look inhuman.

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.

Olga and Volodya were totally indifferent to their child. The toddler was the sole responsibility of the nanny. It begs the question why they chose to have a child at all.

Mr. Cash 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.

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 have long tried to find that album with those toddlers’ songs in Italian. I have been unable to find it.

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 that was. Despite her ugliness I fornicated with her later. Sorry to my at the time girlfriend – the mermaid of Baku. Lust conquers all! Selene came to my room at night or first thing in the morning. She said she confided only in one other maid – her friend – what we had done.

One time Selene was washing dishes in the kitchen. I snuck up behind her and cupped her boobs with my hands. She yelped and went the colour of beetroot – then she realized it was me and rather liked it. She had not been touched by a man for a few years before I had come along.

There was Franca who was 5- something and pouted behind her pink painted lips. There was the major domo. The major domo was born the same year as Princess Diana as I brought to her attention. The boss had light brown hair cut in a mature woman’s chin length bob. She was slender and her face was prettyish. Her husband was the head gardener.

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 to 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.

In Porto Vechio we dined at a harbourside restaurant. I was on a table with the boys. The cheapest dish cost 100 Euros.

The waiter served me a glass of wine which I drank. I apologise to Mr. Cash. He said, ‘’It is ok.’

The waiter spoke English and told the diners about a dish containing ananas. Later I told the man that in English it is pineapple. But the Russians understood because pineapple in Russian is ananas. For some reason that word is the same in 40 European languages.

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 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 gorilla 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 were 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.

This gig was a trial. If I succeeded I would be offered a job with them in Moscow. I would be with the boys who lived with their mother most of the time. However, I had messed up and doubted that I would be given the job. Moreover, Mr. Cash was too demanding a taskmaster. I thought I would probably turn it down if offered. Even though I would be chiefly under the superintendence of his ex-wife I did not want anything to do with Mr. Cash.

My time with the Cash’s came to an end. I was driven to Olbia Airport.

On the flight I sat beside a French cougar. This tall and lissome lady in late middle aged had a deep tan that had hardly aged her skin. She was unafraid to show plenty of flesh. Her ash blonde hair , gracile legs and knowing smile got my pulse racing. I chatted amiably with her on the short flight to Geneva. There was a magnificent visa over the Mediterranean before we came in over the Alps. In Geneva I then boarded a flight to London.

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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 times happier than me as his wealth would warrant. He can afford anything he wants. He could pay to have me killed. The man 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 sideways. 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

LIFE WITH THE GOLDEN HORDE

This is a fictive tale. The characters sketched here in are figments of my creativity. This is about working for the undeserving rich.

=================

I worked for a couple of years as a tutor to family from Centrasia. Very volatile, vapid, vain, choleric, captious, revengeful, petty, conceited, brash, brusque, boastful, meretricious, listless, mendacious, materialistic, servile, spiteful, self-indulgent, self-devoted, wasteful, ignorant, illogical, unmannerly, egocentric, egomaniacal, unlearned, recalcitrant, niggardly, Falstaffian, gluttonous, witless, talentless, avaricious, malingering, credulous, contemptible, flighty, ostentatious, injudicious, risible, uncultured, bigoted, homophobic, sanctimonious, pharisaical, forktongued, sacrilegious, whingeing, thoughtless and criminous poseurs they were too. This is a droll and rollicking tale of excess and unpardonable folly. But it is also a story of unforgivable cruelty and parasitism. To read this you will need a strong stomach. It is a nauseating tale of the undeserving rich.

‘Twas at the time of the crash I found myself chatting to a Russian agent on the phone. I was in Araby and at a loose end. I was taking my parents and Turkish girlfriend out to dinner. That was when the phone rang or more accurately buzzed. I spoke to Sergey and thought little more about it. I often got calls that lead nowhere. I also had a skype interview with Sharif who was Mr. Golden’s assistant. He told me that Golden was a workaholic. Golden has an unusual hobby: shooting wolves from a helicopter.

In Centrasia things move slowly. This is a region that relies on fossils turning into oil – a process that takes eons. Their byzantine bureaucracy also moves at a glacial pace.

It was six weeks later as I endured a hellish time tutoring two brats in Moscow that Sergey called back. I was hired. The head of the Golden Horde had picked me as his tutor. I knew little about Mr. Golden other than the head a construction company.

The Golden Horde has been given this moniker since they hail from the steppes of Central Asia. Many centuries ago a clan of great hardihood roamed that region and were known as the Golden Horde. These fearsome warriors spread rapine and ruin. Despite their barbarity they at least achieved something. This is more than can be said for the new Golden Horde. The Golden Horde (meaning the crooks I worked for) have that name as a pun because they hoarded gold. I was about to have an education in the material wealth and spiritual poverty.

I resigned from my job and flew to London. Two weeks later I was on a plane to Eastern Europe where Mr. Golden was based at that time. I cooled my heels in a four start hotel until finally summoned to meet the enigmatic Mr. Golden. I was driven by one of this underlings. This chap was also from Centrasia and spoke English almost flawlessly. He vouchsafed that Golden was under 40.

I then spent another day lounging around a hotel on a mountaintop resort. It was a chilly though splendid spring day.  In an idle moment I wandered outside the hotel. The ventilation was bracing outside. The fresh fragrance of forest flowers was heady indeed.

That afternoon there was to be a conference. The Big Wig was coming in. He had assembled all his chiefs from all over Eastern Europe. I wore my whistle and flute. One of Golden’s underbosses had me there to introduce me. I had my books and the man said ”be ready”. I was.

The underboss and I waited outside the main door of the conference room. Inside easily 100 executives were assembled at about 10 different tables. Three-quarters of them were male. There was a dais and a screen.

At last Mr. Golden was approached the door of the conference hall. He was accompanied by a skinny young interpreter and a well-built bodyguard. The bodyguard was wearing a suit like everyone else but through it you could see that this young man was all thew.  They both cut quite a contrast to Golden. Golden was perhaps 6’3” in height and girth. This was the only sense that he was a ’rounded’ individual. He was broad shouldered and he had a belly you could put on the table. His triple chin was just the start of a shining corona of lard that surrounded his foolish face. Mr. Golden had a pudding bowl haircut and suitably witless expression to match. His face was so fat that he appeared to be of indeterminate gender. I was later to learn that by my judgment of his face I had hugely overestimated him.  He was slightly swarthy and had Mongoloid features. He had a buzz cut and was clean shaven though it looked as though hardly any hair ever sprouted on his superabundant jowls. He wore a dark blue suit. He walked ponderously as much from arrogance as indolence. He must have had a Body Mass Index close to 40. Everyone is entitled to be obese but he really abused the privilege.

The sottocapo hurried up to Golden and greeted him obsequiously. Golden listened and answered in Russian. Golden’s voice was bassoprofondo and toneless. Someone with this bland voice tends to be a person of low intelligence and no empathy. Underboss introduced me. Golden turned his countenance towards mine. We exchanged greetings in Soviet and I shook his chubby paw. I was to discover that his egregious lassitude had turned him into an elective invalid.

Then we were ushered into the conference room. I saw on empty seat at a table in the middle of the room. I hastened to plonk my buttocks down. Then I was told in no uncertain terms that this was for Golden. I had to hurry off. I found a seat at a table in the back of the hall.

The slender brown haired youth I had seen outside sat in a translation booth. There he translated. Golden put headphones on. He was the only person in the room who could not understand English. Why was he put in charge of a multinational? His academic skills were evidently the worst out of over 100 people present. Even his goon of a bodyguard spoke passable English. I too placed headphones on. I listened to the Russian. I assiduously noted down new words. Otherwise this conference was deathly dull. Did I really want to know how steel price fluctuations impacted on the quarterly budget forecast in Bulgaria?

I later spoke to the interpreter. What nationality was likely to be proficient in both Romanian and Russian? Naturally he was Moldovan. He spoke splendid English too with but a mild accent.

Next day I bunked off on the conference and went to the gym and pool. Would they care? They were never punctilious.

In the evening we all gathered for dinner. I sat beside the underboss. Some of the Hungarian executives chatted to me. They were surprised that I spoke a smattering of their language. I said I had spent two years there. In what capacity? I did not want to reveal my previous job since that would give them a good clue as to what my current role was. Underboss had said to me in Russian that I should claim to be an adviser to Mr. Golden. That was half true.

There was dancing. Mr. Golden’s meaty hand took that of others. We stood up and danced in a circle. Golden was an observant Muslim and forswore spirituous liquor. But he was not fundamentalist and was not averse to mixed sex dancing. He was no terpsichorean but I was impressed that he was liberal minded enough to enjoy such fun.

There was traditional Romanian dancing. Young men in those white shepherd folk costumes danced. A young Romanian woman in a daring cocktail dress and very thick makeup took the microphone and harangued us in English to dance. She then led the dance.

Mr. Golden stood up and shook shapes. He had us all stand in a circle and hold hands and ‘dance’ after a fashion.

The next day I got up earlyish. Underboss told me that Golden had already left. I was then driven to the capital in the company of a German and a Tatar. I was put up in a hotel. The next day I was taken to the airport and flown out to ”Lakeland” via Frankfurt.

I had to get a train from the airport to ” Laketown”, Switzerland. I was met by a chauffeur and taken to a most magnificent hotel. There I was accommodated in royal style. I did not know it at the time but I was treated to 10 days of luxury with no work required. It was a serendipitous existence. I later discovered that the hotel I was in was owned by an Eastern European construction magnate. This gentleman had been president of Illyria. The Illyrian elite were very cosy with the Central Asians.

Laketown is a where Putin’s purported wife Alina Kabaeva parturated his second in about 2012. The small town is renowned for its superb private clinics and sanatoria.

On the first day I got up breakfasted and put my suit on in short order. I was waiting for a call to go and attend to Mr. Golden. I waited and waited and waited. I had a good time studying and watching you tube. I chatted to Golden’s underling back in Centrasia on skype. No word from the boss man. This was something I would get used to. I was underused. Fine by me. The company was paying so what did Golden care?

Day after day passed like this. The word came from Astana to take it easy. When they wanted me they would give me plenty of notice.

I mostly dealt with Uthman in Astana. The narrow eyed little Kazakh told me that the year before Mr. Golden had hired a fitness instructor from Moscow. After six months Mr. Golden had not done a single fitness session. The instructor was then told that he was surplus to requirements. I was beginning to suspect that this might happen to me.

I was able to take walks along the shore of a beauteous and tranquil lake. I looked across to another country on the far shore. I admired the very steep mountains that shot up from the lakeside. I observed furious snowstorms on the white peaks. I wandered into drowsy villages and bought a few comestibles at a minimarket. I made conversation in the local language with the dumpy middle aged woman working there who was soon calling me ”love”.  Jobs do not come easier than that.

Mr. Golden was president of his nation’s boxing federation despite never having entered the ring in his life. This was to be a recurring theme. There was a compelling need to emphasise his machismo. Why did he and his family feel obliged to assert their manliness and associate with musclemen and be surrounded by guns? I suspect it was due to a deep seated psychological problem. As the saying goes of women, ”If you have to say that you are a lady you probably ain’t.”

I had plenty of time to explore the gorgeous lakeside town. Mountains shot up from the lake’s placid shore. I could see snowstorms swirling on the peaks as I basked in the relative mildness of the vale. The lake was rich in ichthyology. The valley was splendidly verdant, spotless and tranquil. However, it tended to be damp and misty on account of the lake.

The other shore of the lake was Italy. I was in the only Italian speaking canton in Switzerland.

I walked around the town and bought a local Lika simcard from an Italian young female hawking them on the street. She was average height had a pretty enough face and her dark brown hair tied back carelessly. The blue T shirt that the company made her wear did not flatter her. Though she was in her early 20s she already had a bit of a smoker’s voice.

I ambled the streets as I had nothing to do but study property law.

In the hotel I found it hard to tear myself away from YouTube videos on Walter’s world. I also watched anything on history and politics.

Sometimes I got room service – coffee with cold milk. An obsequious middle aged Albanian male delivered it.

In reception and obese but pretty young German lady worked. Her auburn hair was tied back with an Alice band. She spoke very good English. But did not know what a pencil once. ‘Bleischrift’ I had to tell her when I wanted one. I discovered in Italian it is matita.

There was a slim Italian brunette aged about 30 on reception and her name was Gloria. She spoke with mezzo soprano voice and answered the phone ‘Io sono Gloria.’ She was very good looking and I considered asking her on a date.

There was another young Italian female on the front desk. But I learnt that she had a baby and a boyfriend to boot so concluded that asking her out might be foolhardy. She was in her early 20s so must have been the youngest mother in Italy.

The town had many Kosovars in it. There were Albanians newspapers to be read. The Mabetex construction company was very involved. I later found out that the company is also very active in Kazakhstan. The plot thickened.

The male receptionists were always very well presented, good natured and efficient.

Two of the hotel porters were Albanian. We conversed in Italian.

‘Como stai?’ I asked a grey haired slim Albanian with glasses as he stood outside the hotel.

He chewed gum and grinningly replied, ‘Muy bien gracias.’

‘Porche te a respondate in spagnolo?’

‘Porche tu a chiedato in spagnolo. In Italiano e come stai’ he said. ‘Parlo quarto lingue e sono tutto autodidatico’ he said proudly.

There was a free minibus shuttle into town. I took it a few times. It was a 10 minute drive. A bellhop in a blue tunic drove it. He was a slim and geled hair young Albanian. I happened to bump into him a few days later in town when he was off duty and in casuals. We chatted in Italian. He seemed to warm to me. I was not the sort of guest who looked down his nose at the staff.

I shared the shuttle into town one time with an elderly Australian couple. They asked what I was doing there. I said I was working for an oil company which was true in a way.

The town had many high end shops. It had a pretty lakeside park. Strangely there was even a forbidding dark grey stone English church.

I got onto some dating website. I connected with a buxom strawberry blonde Russkaya in Milan. Milan was only an hour’s drive away. Her name was Sasha and she was a few years my junior.

One evening I took the train for Milan and went for a date with her. I met her and though she looked sulky I fancied her. She had E cup tits. How could I not? We dined in a superb buffet place near Stazione Centrale and spoke in my halting Italian and Russian. I suggested we check into a hotel. After an evening of vigorous sex I was more than satisfied. The #180 quid on the hotel had been well worth it.

In the hotel next morning I chatted to a tiny Taiwanese woman who was tour guide to some people from mainland China.

I had Sasha come to stay with me in Swiss Diamond Hotel. She was most impressed. There was a lot of hard sex in the morning.

At breakfast she wore her miniskirt. She had slim and firm legs. This did not fit with her top half: she had a big belly and gigantic tits. They were almost offensively large.

There was an 80 year old very small Italian made who saw people into the dining room for breakfast. The white haired bespectacled man wore a suit that looked like it had just been dry cleaned. When he saw Sasha’s décolletage the old man almost fainted – so much blood going to the geriatric’s cock.

After I had digested I would go to the gym. A good workout on the exercise bike and cross trainer and weights would get the testosterone going. Then back up to the room for a hard fuck of Sasha again.

After one such energetic fuck Sasha suddenly burst into tears. Had I done something wrong? No, she had been through a lot. She was living with an Italian in Turin a few months earlier. Her boyfriend had dumped her. The year before that her father had dropped dead at the age of 55.

The place had a splendid indoor swimming pool and Turkish bath. I availed myself of both and the Finnish sauna and the Russian sauna.

I visited nearby towns such as Bellinzona and Locarno. The latter was known to me for its pact of 1925.

Switzerland is notoriously pricey. I strove to keep expenses down.

I was also keen to shed weight. I forewent dinner some days. But a relative had died the previous month. I knew it was wrong to worry too much about money. There are no pockets in shrouds.

It was Easter in Switzerland. I had to tell them to stop putting complimentary choc in my room.

Once breakfast was served in the rooftop restaurant. Though it was 8 o clock in the morning the manager there incongruously wore a white dinner jacket.

In the gym I met a French black family there. The mother and father had three daughters in their late teens or early 20s.

I remember being given time off. This was welcome. But I was unpaid for it. I managed to make it to my nephew’s first communion.

The trouble was I had no idea how long my involuntary holiday would last. One week turned into three.

I was summoned back to Laketown. No booking had been made in Swiss Diamond Hotel. I lodged in a less pricey one. I tried to pick up the tall and slender Polish blonde in her early 20s. The gracious young lady decorously turned me down.

Mr. Golden’s underlings complained that I was blowing a hole in their budget. I suggested they economise by putting me in a cheaper hotel. This they did and I lodged in Hotel Delfino. It was still most agreeable but nothing like as luxurious as the aptly named Swiss Diamond Hotel.

Sasha was there on her birthday. I had suggested Greek love to her. This she willingly agreed to. She had done it many times before. I even gave her some on her birthday. She later regretted doing that on her birthday of all days.

Mr. Golden’s wife and children were in town. His kids attended the American School in Switzerland (TASIS). I suggested that I earn my pay by tutoring his wife or children. But nothing came of it.

I was with Mr. Golden in Romania for about 5 days. The in Switzerland for 2 weeks. Then I had 3 weeks off. Then I was back in Switzerland for another 2 weeks. Then I was sent to Kazakhstan for a week. Then I had two weeks off that I did not ask for. Then I was summoned to Romania.

In Switzerland I was told to be ready to go to the airport. I donned a suit and tie. A car picked me up and drove me to the miniscule Lugano Airport. There I met Dima – he was the Russian-Kazakh with a widow’s peak and was aged about 45. He was knowing, understated, slim, and sallow. Dima spoke superb English.

In the terminal I met Mr. Golden. Bizarrely he wore a tracksuit. I suppose they are almost pajamas so comfoertbale to sleep in. He was bluff and spoke but sparling.

‘’Na semelyot budyet pyervi urok’’,

‘’Da’’, I nodded. I had just enough Russian to comprehend him. I had bought EFL books on his account.

We boarded a business jet that could seat 12. But the only passengers were myself, Mr. Golden, a middle aged Kazakh woman and a youngster who seemed to be her son.

On the plane Golden changed into slippers. It was just so Soviet!

I spoke to the German air hostess – Maren. She told me that it was a no pork flight on account of the passengers being Muslim.

On board a business jet from Switzerland to Kazakhstan I finally did a lesson with Mr. Golden.  We opened an elementary English book and he did a page under my direction. Mostly he slept.

==========================

THE FAMILY

I was to get an introduction to the weird world of billionaire trash.

It was almost a year after I was hired by Golden that I was flown to Centrasia to teach his offspring. I arrived before dawn in midwinter. The temperature outside was – 28. I was greeted at that small airport by a lanky Russian who was perhaps over 30 years of age. He must have been 6’3” and had mid brown hair that was slightly receding. Lanky had a thin face and those sulky lips that are so very Slavic. He was also meeting an Azeri named Ahmed. I had not buttoned everything up as we approached the exit of the terminal. Lanky stopped and told me I had better button up. Who was he, my mother? He was younger than me. But Lanky knew of what he was talking. I am very glad I took his counsel. I buttoned up and stepped out. A wall of the most gelid air imaginable hit me. My cheeks stung with cold. I felt the roots of my teeth freeze.

We hurried to the car. Lanky drove us through the winterscape. The one conversation that was off topic was the Ukraine – so had said the agent who gave me the job. Sure enough the very first topic in conversation that Lanky broached was – the Ukraine. I chose to keep my opinions to myself on that one. Ahmed professed himself to be an outspoken admirer of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Not much had changed since 1991. Lenin’s admirer was dropped off at a hotel.

The car drew up at a grim grey 10 storey block of flats. It could have been anywhere in the former Soviet Bloc. It was the sort of bland and functional residential block that I am well used to. Out we hopped and up the stairs. The plain white walls were at least in decent nick. It was pitch black outside. Lanky knocked on the door of the flat. The door was opened by a flat faced and bespectacled Centrasian woman and the change in temperature was very striking. Soviets have their flats hot. Very hot! There was an entrance hall with racks for shoes and a carpet there. I was to share an entrance hall with another flat. We had been greeted by a round faced Centrasian woman who was approaching middle age and she spoke brilliant English. Turns out she was a lecturer. She was in a bright but plain house dress that did nothing to flatter her rotund figure. This is a very special sort of dress that women in the former USSR wear when they feel like slipping into something unsexier. Then an Asiatic young woman came along. She wore a black furcoat with the hood up. She was thin and the coat made her almost disappear in it. She was an estate agent. There were forms to sign. Turned out that Aysel lived in the flat that shared an entrance hall with mine. She shared it with her husband and two children as well as her brother-in-law, his wife and child.

Into my flat. Lanky took off his ankle boots. He showed me around the one bedroom flat. When the landlady was out of earshot he whispered to him that she had said she did not wanting me smoking there or bringing girls around. Well at least I never smoked.

The formalities were done. It was time to shake hands and let Lanky go. He was a sidekick of Mr. Golden so he had more kowtowing to do. I found him a decent sort. His English was almost satisfactory. We conversed in Russian mostly. I hit the hay. The estate agent and the landlady Aysel had gone.

I awoke several hours later. I dressed with 7 layers on my upper half. I headed out into the gelid temperature. I felt like Scot of the Antarctic. It was -28. I had been sitting down or lying down for almost 24 hours. Therefore I was bounding with energy. I walked for miles through the snowbound city. There were many wide spaces between buildings. I still got cold. It started to become dangerous. I had not an ob in the local currency. At length I came to a cash machine and managed to make a withdrawal. I had a snack in a cafe and got a taxi back to the music hall. That was opposite where I dwelt. En route we passed the supreme court. The Oriental cabbie told me the boast of the country, ”Our camels are very tough.”

A few days later I was finally summoned to meet the family. I stood in front of the grey five storey Soviet era block of flats. The uneven car park was thickly blanketed in fresh snow.  The wind whipped across the snowscape beyond the car park. There were many buildings of several storeys close by. Most were occupied but a few were derelict of half-built.

A car came to the car park of the block of flats. I do not remember who drove it because they had several drivers. The land was thickly carpeted with snow. The vehicle drove perhaps 15 minutes to the family’s compound. The land was flat and a few trees punctuated the endless plains. The countryside was mostly empty. A few bungalows lined the route. Areas of land were fenced off. A shack by the gate of their compound underscored the poverty in which most Turcomans live.

There was a black metal gate. A hawk faced but undersized guard in an entirely black army uniform stood there. He was not big and therefore tried very hard to look mean. He almost succeeded. He drew his mouth down and wrinkled his chin. Thankfully he did not display his khalashnikov this time. He always struck a truculent pose when I came along.

Out of the car. A few steps to the large bungalow that was the house. The abode did not appear to be huge but I was later to discover there was a huge basement. There were glass walls with white curtains around them. The door was opened by a butler. I say butler since I do not know how else to describe this sort of man servant. The house was uncomfortably warm as Soviet houses usually are. There was the terrace as they call it – the outer part of the house. It was simple but not spartan. Almost everything was white and pristine. There were two tables and several chairs in a very wide but very short room – if that makes any sense. The floor was white marble and highly polished. In fact the whole house had a floor like that but there were a few rugs around. The garish decor was the sort that gives the nouveaux riches a bad name. I was told to sit on a sofa. I was there twiddling my thumbs for 10 minutes. This was something I would have to get used to. Time wasting was this family’s main pastime.

The house was where chintzy met kitsch. The family could have been from Essex: tonnes of money and absolutely no taste. Almost everything was white and the place was very well lit. The furniture was minimalist.  I will hand it to them cleaning staff: it was spotless. These slave drivers were good at insisting the place was tidy. These people were clean in everything except their money.

Then a door opened to the main part of the house. In came a short and very skinny woman who looked no more than 25. She was accompanied by two boys in their early teens and by a little boy.

They greeted me. We shook hands. Her soft and tiny hands had surely never touched a dish washer. The mother was 10 years older than she looked. She spoke good English and inquired if I spoke Russian. I treated her to a blast of Russian. The point was more than proven. She could have passed for the sister of her eldest son. He was 15 and she was 33 at the time.

As tea was served. I asked the boys about themselves – their hobbies, their strengths and weaknesses at school.

The eldest fellow was emperor. He was in his mid-teens and skinny as a rake. He had brown eyes a messy mass of semi-curly black hair. He had a tendency to talk out of the corner of his mouth. I would also learn that he had a tendency to talk out of his arse – if you know what I mean. He sometimes involuntarily spat as he spoke. He never covered his mouth when he yawned but considered himself to be the very summit of sophistication. He had a pale Afghan face. Emperor had some redeeming characteristics. Over time the negative side of his personality became more pronounced. He managed to combine exceptional arrogance with an extraordinary lack of sophistication and shocking level of torpor. Two years later we were to part on bad terms. But I did not know that when I first met him.

The next in the line of succession was named Bright. It was a cruel irony that his name was singularly inapposite. It was as though fate was playing a cruel practical joke on him that his parents had bestowed such a name on him. Bright was the one who resembled his father most closely in terms of physique. He lacked muscle tone. It was as though he had a mild case of Down’s Syndrome though he was tall. An amorphous, sallow face clung around his prominent Asiatic cheekbones and straight back hair hung down to his eyebrows. He also had that monotone and displeasing voice. He was well above average height and his build was beefy. His puppy fat and leaden footed gait indicated that he would be a corpulent adult. There was a dullness to his brown eyes and a languor to his manners and movements. He had just entered his teens. Bright had not a single good feature to his character. He had many faults and they were severe. We had many candid one on one discussions. He told me plainly of all his wickedry but he did not consider it to be misconduct. Bright boasted of hitting smaller children. Bright’s unseemly zeal for the death penalty said much about him. His hobby was slobbing around. He was a deeply contemptible and unattractive character.

Lastly there was Milk. Milk was in the middle of Primary School. I call him Milk since he was a milksop and a little immature for his age as though still fed on milk. His hair was parted in the centre and he wore little round glasses. He was reserved and avoided eye contact. He was close to the autistic spectrum and at first his voice was expressionless. I was later to discover that this was solely due to diffidence. In time he gave voice to the full range of emotions. He was in fact by far the sharpest mind and the only one with something approaching a tolerable work ethic. Milk was the only likable child. There was almost nothing bad about him. I just hope he does not go the way of his siblings.

There was also an infant girl but I did not meet her at that stage.

These are not apercus that I arrived at instantly. It took a couple of years to fully get the measure of them.

The mother would look at me but her semi-hooded dark eyes were constantly darting away. That said a lot about her. She never fully engaged with her interlocutor. I would only gradually come to discover the depth of her vacuity. She never thought about anyone else – including her children. Her features were fairly Oriental. I later discovered they were not as distinctly Oriental as one might expect since he was a quarter Ukrainian. Her jet black hair was carefully brushed. She only ever wore minimal makeup. Her faintly yellow skin was as unblemished as can be. She must have had the priciest skin creams on the market. Though her face was easy on the eye I never found her an object of lust. Her body was too unwomanly for that. It was hard to believe that she had squeezed out a sprog not half a year before. There was not a pinch of lipid on her tiny frame. Her slenderness made a huge contrast from her husband who ate for 3. Add the two together and split the difference – would you get two average adults? No, the father was so overweight that the two would be obese. I later found her to be the most self-regarding and tight fisted person on the planet. She did not even enjoy her unjust deserts. She had not even had the gumption to acquire these ill-gotten gains herself. Her sense of entitlement to fabulous wealth, to deference and to inconvenience others was staggering. It all went to show that there is very little justice in the world.

We took tea served by an obsequious butler. These butlers never wore butler’s uniform. Instead they were good jeans and a smart shirt. Note that everyone was barefoot here unless they wore slippers. Shoes were removed at the door. Centrasians have that Soviet monomania with footwear.

Later I set off with the two eldest boys to the cinema. We went in a minibus. One of their 8 or so drivers was at the wheel. We were accompanied by Turar who was a bodyguard. This youth of 25 had a very East Asian face. It would appear that not s single follicle had sprouted on his countenance. Emperor had asked Turar is he was of Korean stock but Turar assured them that he was a plain Centrasian. Turar was 5’10’’: so tall for a man of his race. A handshake indicated that he had powerful biceps. He was agreeable and never tried to overawe me. I instantly sensed that he respected me. I did not get that feeling from some of the other staff. This man did not gurn his face into an attempt at an intimidating expression. Turar had a handgun in his belt. They must have been a family of very lofty status for this to be permitted. I was to come to know Turar. He was amiable though reticent. I deduced that he was lacking in self-belief. He did not try too hard to stress his tough guy status. He did not sport a buzz cut.

The minibus drove us about 15 minutes. We crossed over the ice bound river. The skyscrapers of Ashgabad were soon upon us. We parked at Kernal Mall. Up we went to the cinema. It was Unbroken. I translated the bit of Italian – ”ascultate.” It was an enthralling though galling true tale about an Italian-American former Olympic athlete who was taken Prisoner of War by the Japanese in the Second World War. He suffered the most barbaric cruelties in Nippon.

Later we took dinner in a Japanese. I conversed easily with the boys. Turar ate too. I addressed him in English. He replied in Russian that he scarcely knew English. I then engaged him in conversation in that other language. At that stage I did not even know the word ”gavyadina” meaning ‘beef’. I demonstrated that I knew the opening verse of their national anthem. There were almost the only sentences in the Centrasian language that I knew. I thought it meet to emphasise that I knew much about their homeland and I pretended to respect it. I was to keep up this ruse for a long time to come! The bill was settled in dollars. Bright told me this was possible at elite restaurants. They were highly conscious that they belonged to a family out of the top drawer. This was not so much a case of blue blood and broad acres. It was more cold blood and bribe takers. Their unjust enrichment was very galling.

At the door I was told another motor was there to take me home. The older two went home. I made a decent first impression. Emperor later told me his dad had warned him I was strict. Strictness was something they really valued. Unless they were on the receiving end! They had no self -discipline. Had I tried to introduce discipline I would have been fired pretty quick.

===========================

ROUTINE

Soon we settled into a routine. I would go to the gym and pool in the morn.  I would head to the Tent and print off some text that I had composed for the boys’ edification. These would be calibrated to be at their level with a few abstruse words thrown in for my delectation. Plus it is terribly dull to always write something at a low level. None of this lexis was too arcane! I would make myself available for work in the arvo. The driver would come anytime between 3 pm and 6 pm. I would usually be called beforehand. I would hang around the car park. The residents must have wondered what this foreign chap was doing loitering in the car park every afternoon. I stood out like a sore prick. My very first morning I had walked through the car park. A boy of about 10 was walking the other way. I do not think I greeted him first maybe he greeted me. Only a pleasantry issued from my lips before he said ”Vy Anglishani”?

I corrected him: ”Nyet, ya irlandets.”

It was dispiriting that my accent was so woeful that the child had fingered me as a foreigner instantly. There are plenty of people of Russian stock in the city so I could be taken for them.

I would be driven to their house. It was over the river and a few miles out of town. There were hoardings along a site being developed by the Vietnamese. The president had a retreat along that road. A low grey wall marked his compound. Tall trees grew behind it. His house was largely obscured. I think this was on purpose. Occasionally a helicopter plied its noisy way to the president’s country house. There was a drive off the main road and it was this drive that led to the president’s compound. A police car was permanently parked at the turn off. The land was as flat as a snooker table.

The gates would be opened manually by one of those guards in black uniform. The guards got to know me after a few weeks and no longer gooned their faces into something that was supposed to be menacing. The car or minivan would deposit me outside the house. I would approach the door to the terrace. It was always immaculately tidy. A butler would come and unlock it. They all had walkie talkies. I would be offered tea or coffee. I found these butlers to be affable. One was a wrestler – the sort of man’s man who so impressed Mr. Golden. This wrestler – Abram – did not swagger or stress his toughness. Despite being short he was self-assured.

One of the few commendable things about the Golden’s is their relative lack of racial or religious prejudice. They did not discriminate between Slavs and Mongolians in employment. Furthermore, they often wished Christians ”Happy Easter” and the like. Having said that they did favour people of their nationality (not ethnicity) when it came to holidays and medical care. Desis and Filipinos were considered untermensch – even if they professed the Islamic faith.

I would enter the house and be offered a drink by one of the Uzbek butlers. There were books in Russian piled high on the table. I would dip into them. There was a turgid introduction to law.  It tried to blind with terminology. There was much waffle about sociology and very little of substance about law. The periphrastination was much worse than anything I encountered in any textbook on English Jurisprudence. There were some volumes of Pushkin’s verse and I also cast my eye across those. A cursory look at Pushkin’s poems was enough to convince me of the man’s genius.

Only occasionally would I happen to see the father lumbering by. His heavy gait spoke of his gross feeding and shameful torpor. In all my months there I never had a substantial conversation with him.

I chatted a lot with Emperor. Conceptually he was fairly intelligent. He had an inquiring mind but a total disinclination to write. A Western publication had recently printed images of ” Peace and blessings upon him”. These were highly disobliging to the faithful. Some who had printed these pictures had been shot dead. Emperor told me that he did not exactly approve of these slayings but he did not disapprove either. These journalists had it coming to them. They were the authors of their own misfortune. I diplomatically pretended to think these images were an outrage. His ambivalent attitude to terrorism was something I would encounter continually. I showed exaggerated respect to his faith and he never smelt a rat. I had long since realised that dishonesty is the best policy. That seemed to be the family motto.Emperor was a braggart but not terribly so. He told me the family should be in Forbes for Central Asia on account of their staggering riches but they chose not to be for fear of attracting kidnappers. It was not out of modesty.

The boys were never facetious to me. They did not have the brains to be.

I would help the boys with their homework. I wrote texts on topics of their selection. I went to the tent and printed them out. These were reading comprehensions. Once I reached the house much time was wasted in winnowing the reading texts and finally selecting the one a boy wished to do that day. One of their pet topics was serial killers. Nice children! Only the oldest two had this very unhealthy obsession. When I asked them if they read by way of diversion they responded with circumlocution. Sounded like a ‘No’ to me.

At the start of a lesson I would review some of the information and vocab from the previous lesson. They would recollect some nuggets of information. They had a decent lexis but found phrase making to be taxing. I am fascinated by history and I hoped my enthusiasm would be contagious. Fortunately the eldest two liked history somewhat. I tread carefully – striving to avoid giving offence to their opinions. Islam must never be questioned. One could not slam the Soviet Government. Emperor was fair-minded enough to acknowledge that Stalin had starved millions of people to death. I did not prompt him on that one. What then of Stalin’s henchmen? Stalin’s successors were not radically different from the genius of genocide. It would be churlish to remind Emperor that his grandfather had been more than complicit in such crimes against humanity. What had his great-grandparents done at the height of the Stalin’s terror? They will have been adults in the 1930s. I shudder to think. Not that any of that will have been his fault?

Some days they would cancel. I was supposed to work Saturday and Sunday. I would be waiting and waiting and waiting. The call was supposed to come at 10 am. Sometimes it came at 1 pm. The boys got up very late on the weekend. Their lassitude was legendary. They said they played football and basketball at their house with their guards. I never saw this happen.

I increasingly saw how dysfunctional the family was. Being embedded with them was an education in how not to provide education. They considered themselves aristocrats but their conduct was anything but courtly.

Just occasionally Mr. Golden would be at home. I would see him lounging on the sofa – recumbent. His sons got their lethargy from him. On the rare occasions he saw me his face would be wreathed in smiles. He had heard well of me and would give me a hand on the shoulder.

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SECURITY ISSUES?

The black uniformed guards were the lowest status ones. They were all in their 20s and not necessarily physically imposing specimens. One was buck toothed and pop eyed but a decent sort. I noticed he disappeared after a couple of months though I did later see him at a bus stop quite by chance. There was a tall and fairly well built laconic type. This youthful guard as an Oriental like all the others. There was a scrawny chap who seemed unsuitable for such a role.  Above them were bodyguards who wore no uniform. These bodyguards accompanied the parents or the boys. They would go with the boys to school and pick them up but they did not wait at the school. The father went in a convoy of three cars. The mother even on her shopping trips went like this. Besides this there was a 3 m wall around the compound. Admittedly there was no razor wire atop the wall. Perhaps this indicates they did not really fear intruders otherwise they would have taken this elementary precaution. Alsatian dogs patrolled without handlers at night. When a guard opened the gate he was vulnerable. There were three gates. There was one guard on each gate. If they were actually in danger of being attacked why not have one gate and three guards on it? The gate was only held shut by a thin metal bolt. A car could easily ram it open.

These guards had crewcuts and even through cheap leather jackets their bulging muscles were evident. They were typical hard men. By their demeanour anyone could tell these boys were not to be messed with. The one I feared most was Arman. He had cheekbones like a gerbil and teeth to match.  His buzz cut was hardly needed to affirm his status. Though he was not a tall man he was built like a brick. I would not fancy taking a haymaker from him. These bodyguards had all served their time in the Central Army. Savage bullying was the order of the day. There was all the usual military stuff like polishing their boots till they shone like diamonds and jogging for miles with heavy packs. But the Asian Army went beyond that. The sergeants found it entirely acceptable to severely beat up the conscripts. The tougher conscripts would beat up the weaker ones. It was an utterly inhumane system. These men were so brutalised by this cruel system that it is little wonder some of them were warped by it. They boys often told me tales of how their guards had had to suffer the most grievous abuse in the army – running till they collapsed. Earl had had to go on a three day exercise without a morsel of food. On another occasion they were invited to dinner and encouraged to eat heartily. After three courses the young soldiers were then ordered out of the dining hall.

‘’Run!’’ their sergeant barked.

The young men could not believe it. Their bellies were full to the gunwhales. They were forced to do intense exercise – a run and then an assault course as they almost vomited. It was egregiously cruel and treacherous. It just typified Central Asian authorities. But I suppose they had to be ready. In a war you could be attacked just after dinner.

These men were as tough as can be but actually decent with it. These heavies were not to be provoked.

One of these guards was missing a tooth. How did that happen? You would not have asked.

I was told these men were not allowed to tell anyone who they worked for. Not even their wives – said Bright Soul. If they breathed a word of whom they worked for they would face a ruinous fine or else go to gaol. When Bright Soul told me that by blood ran cold. I had blabbered. I decided I must be silent as the grave about the horde.

At night Alsatians wandered the grounds without handlers. In the daytime they were kept in a cage. I never heard the canine yapping.

On one occasion the family took the guns off the guards at night – told them that they needed the firearms for cleaning. They then staged an attempted break-in to see how the men reacted – someone tried climbing the walls. The guards started chucking rocks.

This was a city of about 500 000. There was little crime and virtually none of it was violent. Every citizen was guaranteed an unfair trial. The prisons were especially brutal. Would anyone be foolish enough to attack a prominent family? Then again the family said their house in Black Town had been burgled. Were so many armed guards necessary? Was it all just an ego trip?  Was it not just armed snobbery? It is blatant that the father suffered from a crippling sense of inadequacy. This forced him to bolster his sense of manliness by having all these armed guards around. Moreover, hanging around with sportsmen underscored his own athleticism. He got exercise by lifting food to his face and he did plenty of that!

There is an amount of intra elite warfare as stated on wikileaks. The president allows this. He likes it so as it confirms his paramount status. This is neo-feudalism. The monarch lets the barons scrap to keep them relatively feeble and divided.

I really would not mix it with these bodyguards.

===========================

THE GROUNDS

There was a large garage near the house. It contained about 5 cars with room for about 5 more. One of the cars had the registration number 010000. They must have paid a pretty kopeck for that one. Vanity plates they are called in America. The drivers hung out in a drab telly room beside the garage. A beige carpet covered the floor. The glum looking drivers conversed but tersely. I noticed they had that Soviet fixation with slippers. I took my footgear off at the door and stepped into the room.

‘’Tapuchki’’ a driver exclaimed as he thrust the slippers towards me.

There was a football pitch cum basketball court there which I never once saw being used.

The grandparents had a house on the same compound. I was never in that house. I occasionally met the grandparents in the main house.

There was a drive in garage under the main house. There were various storerooms down there. Because of this underground car park they could get into and out of the car without going out into the Arctic weather.

I was sometimes offered food. Sometimes it was horse meat. Occasionally it was the cake that Russians like best: Napoleon. It is a creamy almond cake. I usually loathe almonds but somehow this rich cake made them tolerable.

====================

STAFF

The family had three chefs but only one was on duty at any one time. There were three butlers but again usually only one was on duty. There were three nannies. There were several Filipino and Filipina cleaners. There were perhaps a dozen gardeners. I saw an Oriental woman and greeted her courteously in Russian. This tallish female replied to me in Asiatic English that she did not speak Russian since she was Filipina. That was how I came to know a much put upon maid named Maria.

I came to know all the indoor staff. I came to like them all. The black uniformed guards were all decent sorts as much as I knew them. The same was true of the drivers. I did not chat much when in the car. I thought it sagacious to be laconic at first. Later I would engage in dialogue and ask them to correct my Russian. They were all affable but for Zhanibek. There was something contumelious about his manner. He was a short, bald, poor, middle aged and podgy. What did he have to be arrogant about? On one drive I told him I had a child and he said he had three. He said it was bad to have only one. I did not give him the benefit of my wisdom: that it was moronic of a man as poor as him to have three children besides it being a burden on the planet.

The family had a little dog. Of course the lassitude of the family meant that they never walked the cur. The butler had to do that. What is the point in having a hound if you never walk it? The butler who took the doggy out tended to be the jovial Uzbek with prominent epicanthic folds.

Jay was a very convivial butler. He was perhaps 5’6” and slight of build. He had bushy mid brown hair that surmounted a delicate face. His nose was scarcely wider than his philtrum. This man was half Kazakh and half Tatar. He had grown up in a Siberian village where he was the only one who was not of the Russian race.

Redman Roman was a stocky butler and sometimes wrestler. He had had a Che Guevara Cafe that went bust. How ironic that this advocate of communism had been an entrepreneur. He was soft spoken and amiable.

There was Turar – the baby faced bodyguard. He was likable and quiet. He never pretended to be something he was not. I sensed a lack of self-assurance in him. He was very athletic and never did his ‘war face’ at me as some others had.

Tall Earl was another decent guy. He was affable and insouciant. He had served as a close protection bodyguard for the president. He had a very athletic mien. Tall Earl had no need to act hard because he was hard. There was no mistaking that.

Short Earl was about 40 and had a crew cut. He had huge cheek bones like a gerbil. He was the most Centrasian looking. Shaking his hand I felt that he was a man of solid sinew. He was not tall but he was as tough as old boots.

Arman was an older Centrasian – perhaps 50. He was not that tall but again a mere handshake indicated that he was nothing but muscle. Bright rated him as the hardest.

Universe was a driver. He was a Centrasian. He was simple minded and good natured. He had never been abroad. He was married with two children.

The staff were always co-operative and polite. I took care never to make any criticism of the family, explicit or implicit, to the staff. This is an informer society. To have bad mouthed the family would have meant I had really pissed on my chips.

Mike the chef was a decent chap. He was slender which seemed peculiar. I remember the proverb – never trust a skinny cook. He smoked and drank vodka. He was partly of Polish origin but was an Orthodox Christian. Quite a few unfortunate Poles had been banished to Kazakhstan slave labour camps as part of the USSR’s racist policies. Those who survived were released after 10 or more years. Their descendants were not allowed to leave until the 1990s. By that time most had intermarried with Russians. Misha was in his early 30s: his hair was dark grey and rather prominent teeth. Emperor told me that Mike was embarrassed about his teeth. I was astonished to learn that I was older than Mike. He was married to the very lubricious Lena and had three little sons. Perhaps that had turned him prematurely grey.

Stas was one of the most genuine and amiable people I met. He was thoughtful and full of liberality. He came from a southern district though was of Russian stock. He was 6’2” and well built. This horny handed son of toil was a chef. He was forever cooking me tasty dishes unbidden.

There were two nannies. Both were Central Asians and seemed to have been selected for their rotundity. For once Mrs. Golden showed a bit of nous. These women resembled spinning tops and if Mrs. Golden was anything to do by her husband cannot have found these females desirable. Sex between Mr. G and these women would have been impossible on account of two huge bellies being in the way.

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SOCIAL LIFE

It may seem like grueling solitude. I knew the family’s staff. They were decent to me but never socialised with me. I started going to my local. I chatted to the undersized heavy smoking barman. The porky Russian owner sat on a corner bar tool sullenly smoking. I also met a young woman there with a tattoo of a snake on her arm. She told me it was a symbol of wisdom. Not many people went to ‘Manhattan Bar’ as it was incongruously called. It was very overpriced for a dive on the edge of the city.

I had a Russian girlfriend named Olga on the go. I flew her over and spent 10 days with her. Then she went home for 10 days. I brought her out for another 10 days.

Being a very forward type at one Internations party I met Yuliya. Yuliya was a Russkaya. She was a kept woman. She had been an air hostess. Yuliya had a passably pretty face. She was stick thin. She later revealed that she ate fruit and nothing else. She was 38 but looked 10 years younger. I went around to her place once. She showed me her boudoir first thing. I got the wrong idea about her intentions! I did not make a move right away. She had had a Western boyfriend who had bought her the flat. She was a full-time nothing. At least Soul could pretend to care for her kids. This mercenary bitch was not even decent enough to call herself a strumpet which is what she was. I did not beg a liaison with her. I was later able to expose Yuliya for what she is. I wrote to her weeks later saying my American pal would like to meet her and would be generous. She jumped at the bait. How much I asked? She took umbrage at that. Her sulphorous texts said she could report me. She was a decent woman and was being propositioned. She reacted so angrily because I had reminded her of what she really was.

Later I started stepping out with a Centrasian 12 years my senior named Flower. She was fun and delightfully deranged. She was petite – too small in the boobs department. She had grown up in Black Town. Must have been hard for her in that multi ethnic city where some of her Russian classmates will have had ample chests. Flower had small dark eyes and was very lively and fun. Her black locks were surely dyed and they hung down almost to her elbows. She had a broad flattish nose and those prominent Central Asian cheekbones. She was a Kazakh through and through but did not speak the Kazakh language. Her parents had put her in a boarding nursery from the age of 6 months to the age of 7 years. She only went to them on weekends because they were busy in the week. Her father had two children from his second marriage and five from his first!

I went to some internations parties. I noticed a nubile girl I shall name Damsel hovering. She was 30 but looked 18.

There I met a very pretty young Centrasian named Damsel. I began a liaison with her. Damsel could not come to me every evening. She had no objection to me carrying on bonking Flower. So I did. I told Flower that Damsel was my girlfriend. Flower accepted it philosophically. She was pragmatic enough to recognise that she was not flooded with offers at her age. She still came around to be bonked when Damsel was not there. I was three timing the Russian. I was a conscientious fornicator indeed and an equal opportunities one. Anything between legality and menopause, well just after even. If only as a sex starved schoolboy I could have known this. I like to be as naughty as possible. At the age of 16 I had sworn to myself that I would never, ever miss a chance to have sex. I have lived by that avowal. I am a man of honour!

I took a shine to Damsel’s Latvian pal. The Latvian was married to an Italian. I stupidly kept asking Damsel about the leggy Latvian. Damsel stayed with the Latvian some nights. Have you seen her naked? What are her tits like? How large are they? Are they firm? Are they perky? My obsessions with the 24 year old Latvian’s cans became tiresome for Damsel who was not well endowed in that area.

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PREDECESSORS

They had sacked a predecessors a few months before. That man lasted only a month. He had bawled out Bright. If ever someone deserved this it was that wastrel. Moreover, that man admitted to the horror of horrors: being an atheist.

They also had had a black British tutor who spoke perfect Russian. He had been a lecturer at a local university and only acted as preceptor to these princelings part-time. Years before they had a female tutor.

They considered having a tutor worthwhile but hardly met them.

=======================

RELIGION

Sometimes I would venture into the drawing room which doubled as a dining room. The place was spotless. The floor was all white marble. There were a few small rugs around. Almost everything was white or pale. A few blown up photos of the family, ancestors and ancestresses adorned the walls. About the only dark item in the room was a very large copy of the Koran in Arabic. No one could read Arabic. They read the book in Russian. The Koran was on a stand and it was very elevated on its lectern. This was because they reverenced not just the verbal content but the paper and ink. It begs the rational question – at what point does the text become the Koran? One word from the Koran? That can be used in all sorts of non-Koranic contexts. Two words from it together? Three words from it strung together? Or what? Religion is so often the sworn enemy of free inquiry. But I suppose I am committing a logical fallacy. It is the paradox of the beard or of the continuum.

I came to learn more and more about this clan. I was often treated to their worldview. They held Putin in high regard. They also exalted their president. It tickled me to praise him to the moon. I knew it would be have been the end of my job if I had done anything else. Their education was about deadening the critical faculties. It is notorious that faith terrorises the intellect and is inimical to academic freedom. Some questions must never be asked and some conclusions must never be reached no matter how absolutely positive the proof.

The nomads detested any Ukrainian who did not want his country turned into a satrapy of Moscow. Emperor said the Mayor of Kiev was stupid. I was to hear this oftentimes. One’s enemies are not bad, misguided, insane, or anything: they are stupid. It was odd. I would often castigate my enemies in worse terms but they are seldom stupid. They are often devilishly clever. But that is the standard Soviet insult ‘stupid’ even when the person so labelled is demonstrably clever.

The family was also Sunni Muslim. Like almost everyone of their ethnicity their religion had been dormant in the mid-20th century. Since the fall of communism they had gradually returned to their faith. Mr. Golden had been your typical Turcoman – drinking and smoking whilst never venturing near a mosque and having no idea what the Koran said. In his mid-30s he had found Allah. He had renounced alcohol. He still smoked a shisha. He went to Mecca in the company of prez. His religion underlines the equality of all people (Except women. And Shia. And slaves. And Jews. And blasphemers. And apostates. And Ukrainians. And gays. And, and, and…). In line with the egalitarian ethic of this religion only the super affluent are allowed into the holy of holies. I suppose that his faith increased his sophism. He had done much to merit nine and ninety virgins. It was strange that Mr. G sucked on a shisha and claimed to like the idea of a sharia state. In Pakistan they are outlawed.

Emperor told me how Shia are hell hounds. How could I disagree? He expressed stalwart support for Dr. Bashir Al Assad. This was chiefly because the Butcher of Syria was a bosom buddy of V. V. Putin. Emperor voiced his detestation of daesh who were not Muslims at all he told me. His opinions on Syria were very fully formed and absolute. I could not resist bursting his bubble. Then I pointed out to him that Assad was Shia. His precepts were: ”Assad is good. Shia are evil. Assad is a Shia.” Try that for a failed syllogism. How are you going to lawyer your way out of that, Emperor? It was my introduction to a new philosophical concept: a conundrum. But I was not over. I just had to piss on his parade. His credo was: ”Sunni are morally upstanding. Shia are wicked. Daesh are wicked.” Then I brought to his attention the inconvenient fact that Daesh are Sunni to the point that they revile the Shia as he did. That messed him up! Talk about a mind fuck. How are you going to lawyer your way out of that one? His face was a picture of sullen discombobulation. Most Sunnis are anti Assad or indeed pro-Daesh. Dr. Al Assad’s forces are mostly Shia or Christian or indeed Druze. Druze being schismatics from Sunnism which is considered even worse than Shiaism by most Sunnis. If this boy really believed in Sunni solidarity he should throw in his lot with… It was an object lesson in conditioning. People can very firmly believe in something without knowing the most elementary facts about it. This boy did not have the talent for sophism to make even a superficially plausible argument for his position. Indubitable fact had collided with unmovable prejudice. He was not artful enough in casuistry to attempt to explain away the manifold contradictions in his worldview.

Emperor learnt the words in the language to say ”In God’s name”. If someone of the faith prefaced a statement this was swearing that he spoke the truth. This was hilarious! He was shamelessly dishonest. This wuss would often bunk off school pretending to be ill. When I told him he was not really ill he would say that he was and then rub his nose vigorously – a surefire sign of lying. He would give other tells of mendacity such as blinking. The Book commands its believers to tell the truth even if these means bearing witness against themselves. Yet he continually handed in work he had not done. He had a very underdeveloped conscience – just like his old man. If he really believed the boy would have got up at the first chink of daylight to pray. But oh no he would talk the talk but never walk the walk. Faith was all about posturing and self – congratulation. The minute it required him to make a tiny sacrifice somehow the faith did not count. As for me I put my money where my mouth was. When I believed I heard mass daily in Lent – going well beyond my obligations.

I strove not to judge emperor at least not too harshly. He was ductile. It was hard not to be haughty when you are stinking rich and constantly told that you are a cut above the rest. At his age I too had a lot of bullshit beliefs. I had undergone a schooling which seemed to be intended to make one as cocksure as possible. Self-assurance comes across as arrogance to others. His political views were risible but mine too have sometimes been misguided.

=====================================

ACHIEVING SOMETHING?

My duties were very easy. I had plenty of time for study and creative writing. I was to later explore the city on foot and bicycle.

I tried to make each child learn at least 10 words a time. They had a vocabulary book. They would answer simple retrieval questions on comprehension exercises. Anything beyond factual recall was beyond them. They bunked off about a quarter of the days of school. These slovenly fools just lounged around the house in the morning and made a miraculous recovery in the arvo. They went on Umrah as well. This is a praiseworthy thing to do. To say nothing of its spiritual grace it is at very least an education. Listening to all those preachments they will have saved up much treasure in seventh heaven. Their faith is entirely altruistic!

Sometimes the boys would bunk of school claiming to be indisposed: of which more later. There will be a lot more about that later! Once Emperor came out to greet me with a surgical mask on saying he was staying at home owing to his being under the weather. They were so precious and feeble. Was the house not salubrious?

Their education was going nowhere fast – not that I gave a damn. They did not care a jot for their schooling so why should I? They do not need education. The parents plainly do not value it. I have worried about my own exams so I will be damned if I worry about someone else’s.

=============

HAL

I was later to meet more member of the clan. Uncle Hal is the most notable. I dub him Hal in recognition of his misspent youth which at the age of 30 showed no sign of being over. His dissipation made him more likable than his God bothering and nauseatingly hypocritical brother. But this poltroon Hal was a pathetic excuse for a person.

Hal was a sot. It was a shock to discover that he was a diplomat. Send forth the best ye breed!  An alcoholic, chain smoking, academically subnormal, idle, adulterer is probably not the ideal diplomat. This scion of an ignoble house was as undiplomatic as it was possible to be. Hal was short and weedy but at least unlike his eldest brother he was not a fatty boom boom. Hal was also a braggart. He told me in his fractured English that he had been to Cambridge University. It was a lie so blatant as to be risible. Methought this meant he attended a course at a language school there. I will say this for Hal. He did not pretend to have any religious proclivities. Mr. Golden was always holier than thou and judgmental. Hal was delightfully free of any of these prejudices. Say what you like about Hal (unjustifiably prideful, wife beating, sybaritic, immature, unlearned, languid, drug addled, adulterous, monoglot and wastrel for example) but he was not a hypocrite.  I had a modicum of respect for Hal in that in this sense he was true to himself.

Hal was an outright hedonist. Golden’s crimes were made all the more nauseating by his much vaunted piety. The boys told me candidly of blazing rows at family dinners. Grandfather would give Hal a tongue lashing. They were at the end of their tether with his heavy drinking. He was matey with the chef. He would send a driver to pick up his neglected wife and children from the airport. Hal would go and get the chef himself. They were drinking buddies. Hal watched footer and slept in the staff house. He sometimes puked from overdrinking. His nephews were aware of his debauchery and even came along to see his vomit on the floor. They found his alcohol in the fridge. There were ructions in the clan. Golden would berate Hal for his dipsomania. I wonder if he ever got drunk as a skunk at work.

In time I would reside in a staff house in Doha. Half the time Hal was there of an evening. He would be sipping beer and downing vodka. He would be there with the chef watching English football and screaming Russian obscenities at the screen (”sooka!) when his team messed up. Sooka meaning ‘bitch’ but it is a general intensifier. Immature onanist though he was I must hand it to Hal: he was genuine. Though he was apolaustic the man did not overindulge in style. He might as well have been a brickie.

A little bird told me that Hal grabbed his wife by the hair in front of the whole family. Even his 8 year old nephew saw this. In full view of his relatives he dragged his wife across the room. If this is what this pathetic little coward was willing to do in the immediate presence of his kinsfolk what would he do behind closed doors? It would not surprise me if he was a wife beater. My disdain for him plumbed new depths.

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ANOTHER BROTHER

I later met Murad who was another brother of Mr. Golden. Murad was average height and much more than average girth. He was not as lardy as his eldest brother. Murad must have been a clever lad since he was in the secret service. Only bright people get into the secret service. The secret service in Soviet countries is the deep state. So many presidents are former spooks. Their cronies are also spooks. Murad spoke the best English of the lot of them despite having studied German at university. He was stooped and shuffled about wheezily. His gait and bearing were redolent of his eldest bro. It was also partially explicable by smoking as well as unusual slothfulness. He was younger than me but appeared to be 10 years older.

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THE DAUGHTER

I began to have my doubts about the sprog Zhumagul. This infant was born about 5 months before I landed there. The putative father was grossly overweight. He did not more exercise than walk from his front door down five steps to his car. Was such a man capable of granting his wife her conjugal rights? Even with a packet of blue pills it cannot have been easy. Pfizer must be doing well. Did Mrs. Golden really want him for his body? Admittedly when they wed he was in his early 20s and may not have resembled a Tatar John Prescott back then. Golden can surely no longer rise to the occasion even with a fistful of blue pills. I console myself with the thought that Golden and Soul will no longer pollute the Earth with more of their accursed spawn.

The Filipina told me that Mr. G had a mistress in Romania who was pulchritudinous. He was always flying to Romania ostensibly for business. The ulterior reason was to give his maitresse en titre a good seeing to.  Mrs. G. would then fly after him in an attempt to catch him. This was just servant’s gossip. I called to mind Fr. Chad’s dictum – listen to gossip but do not add to it. But what could Mrs. G do? Did she even want to dissolve her marriage? Courts in Kazakhstan were totally on the side of men. Besides he could bribe more than she could. She was living the life or Reilly – that of idle luxury. Why would she want her husband around more? If he was fucking a Romanian ho at least Mrs. G did not have to find herself being mounted by a man who resembled an ugly edition of an elephant seal.

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DOHA

I had been in the job a couple of months. Out of the blue I was told we were flying to Doha. They had property there. I was elated to go and see the radio rentals. I had spent some of my formative years in Qatar.

This being flown to people at no notice at all was par for the course with them. Information was not given on a need to know basis. In fact need to know information was not given – that is more accurate.

I was accommodated in a fantastic hotel. My work was as undemanding as usual.

The Golden’s had a few properties there. Qatari law was wonderfully lax. They did not need to know who the real owner was nor how the money to buy a place was acquired. They had registered their place in the name of a flunky. Later they re-registered it in the name of a trust. So often a trust is a cause for distrust. Money talks and yet silences.

Back to Centrasia. A couple of months later there was another unanticipated visit to Doha. This time there was a method to the madness. The objective was to prepare the boys for school admission tests. They showed up late if at all. The little chap made a satisfactory effort. The older pair wrote the bare minimum. The eldest fellow was so bone idle he would not put a full stop or dot an ‘i’. I told him myriad times to do so. His lassitude was scandalous. I cannot put all the blame on their shoulders. I did not care a fig for their education. As they each had tens of millions of dollars in patrimony they did not need a job ever. They would be got jobs because their kin were men of consequence. Moreover, barring the little chap they did not deserve education.  They went into these tests unwilling, unready and unable. With a minimum of effort on their part and mine it was unsurprising that they failed. They all told me they did not wish to shift to this country. Can their dismal results have been purposive?

It was on these visits to Doha that I met their Centralian teacher. She was a middle age woman of middle age. She taught them Russian and their ancestral tongue. She vouchsafed that Emperor was not bad at this indigenous language. Bright spoke it terribly. Milk knew a little.

Emperor was later to claim to know Italian and Hungarian. I tried a few pleasantries on him and he was flummoxed. He had been deceiving me which came as no surprise.

I was hired partly as a mentor for these boys. I was a good role model. I was neither obese nor weedy. I did not abuse substances. I always studied and achieved things.

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NEIGHBOURS

I got on well with Aysel though she was a diffident and unsmiling sort. Her husband was the bearlike Darkhan who was kindly. It was odd that she underlined the fact that I was not to smoke in the place. Her hubby was often popping out for a fag in the small hours.  Despite his huge size he struck me as lacking self-assurance. He was fat rather than strong His tiny eyes blinked bashfully. He worked at a car park. I never learnt the name of his older brother who popped in from time to time. The older brother was much smaller and an unfriendly sort. There were two little girls and a baby boy. I never figured out which child belong to which couple. There was Aktote who was married to the smaller (but older) brother. The older bro was much shorter and curmudgeonly sort. Aktote was very tall for one of her race. She looked like Olive Oil. Apparently her Russian was ungrammatical. I cannot judge these things.

Aysel’s bro came along sometimes and he was genial. Nurlan even invited me to go shooting. In the end I was not there next time they went off to do so.

I went to the corner shops in the car park or on the street around the corner. They all got to know me.

A middle aged ethnic Russian woman worked in the one nearest to us. This plain faced and full bodied dark haired female was pleasant enough. After a few months she said that she had heard of my occupation. In the summer holidays her little daughter came and assisted her in the shop.

There was a language school in my building. I considered offering my services part time. But no I needed to concentrate on my studies. It amused me to hear their lessons through open windows in the summer. There were a few such language institutes along the main boulevard hard by.

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RETREAT

The eldest too took religious instruction from an imam. Their father had only got religion a couple of years before. This indoctrination came at a very impressionable age for them. Miseducation seemed to have worked. Emperor had some critical faculties but the holy man had managed to blunt these. Bright was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact he was the bluntest. Therefore he took it all as Gospel – don’t forgive the pun.

In June it was decided that we should go on a religious retreat. One Friday I was picked up by Glory. He drove me to the mosque near the airport. There I spoke casually to him and Lanky. Glory spoke not a word of English. He was a melancholic sort. I remarked how the winter had almost proved fatal for me. Suddenly Glory was in gales of laughter. My mildest witticism had elicited this?

The boys were in the airport mosque. The sermon in Centrasian was broadcast over the public address system. There were hundreds of cars parked there. Finally they came out. We drove a little way and all met.

Nine boys were going on the retreat with the imam. I met a few of the fathers. One was a bearded man which was a very noticeable mark of piety. Beards are very rare indeed in this land. Being Mongoloids these men have almost no facial hair. I met another wild faced young man who was short but had enormous biceps. These people really adulate weight lifters and the like. Yes, that is the real proof of morality – facial hair. Not honesty, hair.

The imam had a goatee and could evidently not cultivate a bushy beard. He gave them a stirring pep talk in Russian. The idea was to behave as good Muslims and practise their ancestral tongue. Into the van. There were a few other cars going. The imam was a truly good man. He made a living by sucking up to the wealthiest thieves and salving their consciences.

The imam drove his own banger. His wife was in it. I saw her through the window. She wore a plain blue denim dress. It was as big as a tent and totally shapeless. If she wanted to kill desire stone dead she succeeded. They also had their little son with them.

We drove out of the city. Boundless prairie was on both sides of the road. The land barely undulated. The limitless land luxuriated in lushness. No streams flowed amid the green pastures that tapered away to the broad horizon. The grassland was solitary and level – stretching in every direction. The green of the meadows shaded into the shimmering cerulean sky. Soon we saw neighing herds of wild horses. They quadrupeds had been life to the peoples of these plains for millennia. These Centralians had been nomads till a century before. Their itinerant lifestyle was supported by horse meat and mares’ milk. I got some notion of the scale of the country.

When we stopped half way I noticed the imam’s wife did not get out. When we finally reached the hotel she did not greet us or even look at us. I knew enough about Dar al Islam to take her lead. I never spoke to her or even sought eye contact. She wanted to be the ideal of Muslim womanhood.  There was no way on earth anyone could call her a coquette.

At last the featureless grasslands gave way to a few low hills and clumps of pine trees. The straight road began to snake and bend. The road sloped upwards and the pine wood groves became larger and more frequent. Then it was more woodland and less steppe. We saw little lakes here and there. Stony hills rose near us.

We were in the Switzerland of the country. It was a bucolic idyll. The air was cool and refreshing. A placid and unspoiled lake was beside the road.

We pulled up at a wooden hotel. It nestled in a dense pine forest It would have been a Swiss chalet. To our rooms we went. The uneven land sloped down to the lake. There were several little holiday dachas around. People were having barbeques.

I had a spacious carpeted en suite room. From the window I had a view over the coniferous forest and down to the blue lake beyond.

On that first sunny evening the imam, guard and I had a meeting in the dining room. The guard was Tall Earl. The imam and Earl spoke Centrasian so I was unable to follow. They later translated into Russian for my sake.

The two teenagers who were the friends of my pupils were the most disreputable ones there. These two were particularly pompous and cocky even by the standards of their class. They were two of five brothers. They seemed to believe boys were superior. How did boys come into the world? Perhaps girls were involved somewhere along the line.

There was bullying going on and I did not intervene. It was not my place. I had no authority and my Russian was not up to it. Courage is always a mistake. When I taught in schools and intervened to defend the weak it was always turned on me. I was the bad one and had been too hard on the bully. The imam was in charge. Of course he did not stick up for the victims. No doubt that would have been un-Islamic.

I swam in the crystalline lake. It was very chilly indeed. I could not swim for long there.

There was a tent down by the shore. There was a rubber floor in it for wrestling. I was to do lessons with the boys. My two dolts arrived late and left early. I was not at all disciplinarian. I knew that if I tried to lay down the law I would be sacked. I handed out some reading exercises in Russian and English. I had the boys volunteer to look at the English text and do simultaneous translation. Emperor could translate Russian into Centralian. There were some comprehension questions to do orally. Bright lounged about and played with his phone. When it went off I courteously requested that he left the tent. Using a phone is fine but they must do so outside. Some of the boys were endowed with reasonable linguistic ability but others spoke almost no English. Almost nothing was gained.

I used the internet to surf filth. I was using a boy’s code to access it. Later internet access stopped. I asked the boy about it. He said it had been closed and there was a certain look on his face. I read there that he too had been looking at biological drama on it and the management had cut the feed for that reason. So much for the religious retreat.

I was friendly with the very diminutive sports coach. Despite his lack of height he had bulging muscles. He drove me into town. I conversed with him happily. We took luncheon with his friends in their holiday chalets. I wandered around the small lakeside resort town. I met some Azerbaijanis working there. They were bowled over to meet someone from Ireland who had lived in their country.

We twice played basketball in the nearby sports centre. There were no rules. People ran with the ball. This totally defeated the notion of basketball.  Possession could only be obtained by grabbing the ball or player. Basketball precludes contact. This put the beefiest boys at a big advantage. Some lads were 16 and some were 8. It was irrational and totally unfair. It was typical of my two to be total cheats. I pushed one over but he did not complain. That was out of character for him.  Emperor drove the four wheel drive on the road. The driver was in a bind. If he let the boy drive and the boy crashed then the driver was for the high jump. If he refused to let him drive then the boy could accuse him of anything and get him sacked. Poor old universe. In the end nothing untoward occurred.

At a meadow near this place a Mongol emperor had once held a council of war. He is honoured with a memorial there. This is perhaps the only country outside of China where a man who commanded genocide is held up as heroic. Is this skull piling despot really a role model for a modern president? He sees himself as a modern warlord. He is more of a Genghis Can’t than Genghis Khan.

I chatted to the old timer of an accountant in the computer room.  This Muscovite grandmother was good looking for a woman her age. It was bizarre to describe Ireland to her as I sat amid the endless forests of Siberia.

The boys has religious instruction. They also prayed five times daily. My shower prayed once a day at home. Apart from that they were too busy doing nothing at home. On the retreat Earl and driver Universe also took part in the prayer sessions. They were not that virtuous since they smoked.

The imam was a very moral man – ministering only the spiritual needs of the super-rich. My pupils later told me of Gog and Magog trapped in the mountain. They scraped away at the walls but could never escape. You know why? Every time azan (prayer call) sounds the stone thickens. It was a very enlightening week for them. Being made to believe stupid lies is so educative and morally uplifting.

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CENTRASIA.

You may get the impression that I disliked Centrasia and I am prejudiced against the people of that nation. Don’t get me wrong. I like the country and would happily return. There are some marvellous Centrasians. Plenty of them are decent. It is only a small number who are rates. Sadly rats tend to get to the top. Or is it getting to the top makes them rats?

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SUMMER TIME

I came back from the Antilles. I flew to Turkey. I was not told who would meet me. It was Lanky. He drove me to the hotel. It was a lovely spot full of villas. Soon I had lessons at their house in the adjoining hotel.

Ramadan was on. All but the little fellow observed it. They told me how their father was pious and their mother was gradually becoming more passionate about her faith. The man was ardently religious and the woman was not. Could it be that the faith offered more to one sex than the other?

They went to the mosque for namaaz. One of the bodyguards would accompany them. Both guards were Muslim. Milk asked that his favourite bodyguard sleep in the house in case he wanted him at night. It was as though the child had a deeper bond with this man than his father. Turar was a decent avuncular figure. He set an example of exercise and of abstaining from gluttony. Milk’s father was away more often than no. When Golden was bad he simply vegetated on the sofa. He rarely did anything with them. He was an elective invalid.

Turar did not just have brute strength. He was also skillful: he had to be flexible and have a keen eye. He had a degree too.

Occasionally I was invited to their wooden jetty to swim with them.

The oldest chap had his own boat. I went on it and their jet skis. My duties were undemanding as ever. Perhaps I should have visited cotton castle.

It was boiling outside. I swam diurnally. I feasted on the plentiful provender dished up at my all-inclusive hotel.

I very seldom met the father. I never had a substantial conversation with him. I knew a lot anecdotally. He was decent to his staff and tipped them. It was Mrs. Golden who was grasping and mean spirited. She was not even a housewife. Her sense of entitlement was shocking. Her miserliness towards her exploited staff was truly horrific.

I heard many ghastly vignettes but they are uncorroborated. Therefore I cannot lend them full credence.

It was in July that the news came through of their applications to schools in Qatar. They had all been rejected by all of them. It came as a slight surprise. I feared they may be irate and blame me. Oddly they did not do so. I was told for certain that we would not be moving to Araby.

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CHARACTERS:

The personalities of the family had fully emerged after a few months.

EMPEROR

Emperor was willful and full of himself. He had deep affection for his parents. His filial respect was notable. There was none of the rebelliousness that Western teenagers feel towards their parents. He was deeply influenced by his imam. He told me when he wed he would require his wife to wear a hijab. His mother never sported one. He even had the cheek to tell her not to wear shorts. To give Mr. G his due he said that his wife could wear shorts. The boy was very categorical. He wanted hardline Islamic mores to be observed. I asked him if he warmed to the idea of a Shariat state. He did but said it was impractical in a land with a large Christian majority. I was wiser than to ask what would happen to his uncle Hal in such a state since than was reprobate. His dypsomania was known to the boys. Emperor had an infidel girlfriend. He would not able to meet her in a Shariat state. He wanted to attend a mixed school. In Saudi Arabia Muslim schools are single sex. He had a paranoid detestation of homosexuals. When I had the boy read my precis of Ataturk’s deeds he deprecated Ataurk for secularising Turkey.

The boy had a passion for self-laudation. He told me he spoke Italian. I really do. Asking him to count to five soon put paid to that boast. Even reading English he stumbled over the syllables and writing it he slaughtered the syntax.

His braggadocio was one of his more unattractive character traits. Why this grandiosity? It had been inculcated into him by his parents. I too was stuck up at his age on account of my schooling. I did at least try to achieve something through writing and study.  He was shiftless but seemed to think he was a major achiever.  He claimed that his family did much for charity. I was sager than to remind him that all their lucre was stolen from the people anyway. His delight in the death penalty indicated inadequacy.

He was a vociferous supporter of the president. Bizarrely he decried Turkmenbashi as a wicked dictator. I thought this was ironic since Turkmenbashi and Karimov are so similar that one could be an alias for the other.

Emperor wanted to be hard but had a weedy frame. What a cruel trick of nature. The family adulated muscle men. He could not be an athlete when he was so languorous. This must have caused him distress – his failure to measure up to the family’s goals of being tough. But they all failed abysmally there.

I told Emperor how his family was very exalted and managed to say it with a straight face. Exalted for what? Greed? Theft? Vulgarity? Indolence? Underachievement? Boasting? Time Pleasing? Babyishness? Who would adulate these freebooters?

The cadaverous youth was occasionally considerate. I will give him some credit for expressing compassion. He was a little broadminded. He said had he been brought up elsewhere he would have different opinions. Getting work out of him was like squeezing blood out of a stone. He had abilities but squandered them. He only ever wrote anything with the greatest reluctance. Soon he was having me do his homework for him. It was as though he considered doing his own work infra dignitate. I knew his English teacher socially. On one occasion I thought it would be a good jape to write Emperor’s essay for him but using such high falutin’ vocabulary that it would be blatant that he had not composed it himself. Emperor had not grasped the rudiments of grammar. Therefore it was blindingly obvious within half a sentence that this boy had not written a word of this essay himself. The teacher had a sense of humour failure. On other occasions I was subtler. I would write at his level and deliberately insert grammatical disagreements. I used his American colloquialisms in essays to mirror his inability to distinguish between street slang and academic English.

This youngster went for wrestling coaching sessions despite his scrawny frame. He showed me a video of him wrestling and losing. I assumed he was showing me one of his more creditable performances. It was unfair on him that such expectations were placed on his slender shoulders. He was little more than skeletal. He was trying to live up to his father’s contemptible and puerile fantasies of martial prowess. He was arrogant. If he had actually achieved anything then he could have had a better conceit of himself.

It amused me to tell Emperor what he wanted to hear. I said that Mr. President was the most fabulous one in the world. I could barely suppress my chortles. It astonished me when he said that the president of a neighbouring country was reviled. The president of the next door nation was very similar. Was he too purblind to see this? I also told the boy that his father was highly respected.

I had him read some recondite redactions at first. But they were heavy weather for him. Thereafter I wrote more condign texts for this teenager. His innate ability was average and not high as he imagined. He was so mollycoddled and overpraised. He was a laggard and refused to write. It did not matter and iota to me so I let him not write.

Emperor was a Second World War buff. He was very conscious of the countless horrific crimes committed by the Wehrmacht in the Soviet Union. He gave me chapter and verse on these numerous atrocities. He then told me that when the Red Army reached Germany, ”They did nothing.” As in he was claiming no Soviet soldier ever sought revenge for the rape of his daughter or the murder of his mother. Are you having a fucking laugh? As any other army would have done in a similar situation the Red Army looted, raped and murdered in Germany. It is hard to judge them harshly for such crimes. They had seen mountains of corpses. They were so enraged by the numberless massacres committed against their people that they were driven mad by bloodlust. Who can blame them? What they did was immoral but only an angel could have resisted such urges.

When the boy grew exercised about a topic he would look down and knit his brow. Spittle would gather at the corners of his mouth.

Emperor believed in Sunni solidarity. He also denounced Daesh and admired Assad for crushing these fiends. Belabouring the civilians of Syria – no Assad’s minions had never hurt a fly. Emperor detested the Shia ”dogs from hell”. Then I discomfited him by informing him that Dr Al Assad is a Shia. Birds of a feather must stick together? Does that mean fighting Assad and backing Daesh? Does not compute. He had vociferous opinions on a subject about which he knew sweet F A.

The eldest often quoted his grandfather as a never failing source of truth and sagacity. After dinner the grandfather would treat the family to a disquisition. As he held forth they would listen with rapt attention to his rants. 9/11 was an inside job. Osama Bin Laden was not behind the World Trade Center attacks. Obama was a puppet of the Jews. Gaddafi had been a good man. Putin was magnificent. Emperor would sometimes give me the benefit of his views on things. ‘The world according to Emperor’ was very entertaining indeed. He told me Shiaism was irreligion. He did at least have the perspective to admit that in Russia there was a lot of anti-Muslim prejudice. Otherwise his loyalty to Russia was doglike. He had to somehow harmonise a reflex approval for Russian policy with solidarity for the Umma. Square that circle! He had a great capacity for doublethink. He was in a state of denial about things. The boy had had irrationality dinned into him as though it was the acme of all virtues.

Like most cruel, feeble, pathetic and spiteful people he favoured the death penalty. He was over the moon when his president restored it. Why take such a retrograde step? It was because the economy tanked. To divert attention from his shortcomings the thief-in-chief decided to fan hatred of the unpopular. Capital punishment was to be restored for paedophiles. I do not approve of the death penalty generally. When it is imposed for a crime less than murder it is barbaric. I asked this moron what the age of consent was in his land. He said 18. Not sure if he was right. That is high as jurisdictions go. What would be the moral difference between copulation with an 18 year old and a 17 year old? One cannot draw a hard and fast distinction between a man who does it with an 18 year old and a 16 year old. I was too circumspect to remind him what age his mother was when she wed. She was under 18. This cretin was so malicious that he was unwittingly calling for the death of his father. Did holy men of his faith really wait till a girl was 16 before marrying her? Remind me how old Ayesha was when the Prophet Mohammed married her? Peace and Blessings upon Him! He was also an ardent fan of the death penalty for drug mules. His faith teaches him compassion and mercy.

Emperor sometimes voiced admiration for Usama Bin Laden. Yet he denied that the sheikh was behind the atrocities in 2011. So why adulate this man? He is not renowned for his exegetical work. Emperor was adept at denial. He could both believe and disbelieve in the same notion at the same time. He honoured this man for that crime against humanity whilst also believing that this man was in no wise connected to that crime. It was a sort of a Schrodinger’s Bomb paradigm if you will.

I would question some of the boy’s outlandish notions. No one doubted that Al Qa’eda was behind the 1993 World Trade Center bomb. Why was it so hard to believe they attacked it in 2001? The 9/11 attacks severely damaged the US economy and made Bush look grossly incompetent. Why would he do that? The Iraq and Afghan Wars that flowed from 9/11 had hardly been rip roaring successes for the United States. Why would Osama release all those videos bragging that he authorised such attacks if he did not authorise them? Where is the evidence that he was paid by Washington to do so? He then had to live as a fugitive. Osama hardly lived in luxury – look at where he lived in Abbotabad in the end? Why would the US kill him if he was so useful? The thesis that the US Government was behind these crimes was preposterous. It was difficult to argue with someone as illogical as him. The boy was an unhinged conspiracy theorist with the best of them. It was his imam who had led him up this blind alley.  He grew up in a semi totalitarian society. Thinking for oneself was very much discouraged. Dissent was perilous. I must see his daft beliefs in this light. I was lucky enough to grow up in an open society. I must not be insensitive to that fact that he was being forcefed nonsense. He strove to avoid the inescapable conclusion about 9/11.

Emperor also believed whatever his religious instructor told him. Growing a beard was good. Yes, morality consists of facial follicles. It is not about refraining from theft or anything. How richly ironic that at the age of 17 he had no facial hair. Perhaps this caused him low self-esteem or an emotional disturbance. At the same time he was complacent. The book is obviously rooted in a certain locale since men in Central Asia have hardly any facial hair. Have they been created wicked?

I saw something of myself in him. I had been similar at about that age. I was torn between religiosity and my libidinousness. It was funny that he wanted a Sharia state and did not wanted to go to an all boys’ school. He was frightened that there would be gays at a single sex school. They might homosexualise him? If there was a Sharia state then the genders are segregated. Logic and thinking things through were not his fortes.

This youth had very high ethical standards. As in he refused to eat pork though curiously telling porkie pies was permissible. Cheating is totally acceptable of course. Morality is dietary and not about how one treats others.

Emperor was so pampered as to be clueless. He imagined that bribery and favouritism existed all over. Perhaps he cannot be blamed for this. He could not get his head around the fact that Prince Harry was given bad grades. Fairness and integrity were totally alien concepts to him. Emperor was hilarious without intending to be. He asked he if could go to Oxford! I should have told him that if he made a massive yes he could go to Oxford: as a cleaner. He dedicated tutorial time to asking questions about things that were impossible to achieve and never to achieving something. Never has so much help helped so little. The notion that he actually had to work to accomplish something was Hebrew to him. He was going to be a freeloader all his life.

Then he developed a strange obsession with Syonyanto. The work ethic and discipline of that city did not faze him. He blocked out unattractive facts. As for discipline – if he was ever reprimanded he reacted like a spoiled toddler. He would not delay gratification and used cognitive distortion to claim that unwelcome information was false or came from a hostile source. Many people take that attitude. He had not been taught to cope with ambiguity or to accept that a countervailing viewpoint might have some validity. He was never agnostic on any issue. He was very categorical. This delinquent was not entirely responsible for this. He may have inherited bad genes. There was also stress and instability in the family. Moreover, he had been brainwashed with the notion that gullibility is to be exalted and reason denigrated.

This misguided boy spoke of going to West Point. Imagine him as part of a cadre of cadets! He was the most unmanly boy around. He had no decorum. He had a foible of yawning and never putting his hand across his gob. He had the table manners that would disgrace a cannibal: He ate with his mouth wide open. When exercised, phlegm gathered at the corners of his mouth. But he thought he came out of the top drawer. He wanted to go to Eton because that is the top status school. Yes, he was well got by Central Asian standards which means his grandfathers tortured slaves for Stalin. Very respectable! In fairness, many nobles in Europe are descended from people who acquired their wealth and titles through equally barbaric means.

Emperor’s work was always jejune and slipshod. There was not enough of it. He could not write as well as his bro who was 7 years younger than him. He was always inattentive in school. He was weary much of the time. It made me wonder if he had glandular fever or something.  Such work as he handed in was always dilatory.  As he become more lethargic so his voice grew duller.

Emperor was a malcontent. He had more wealth than most people ever earn in a lifetime. Yes, he was an ingrate about this. He would only rail bitterly if he felt he was slighted. This could be things like a teacher criticising him. He wanted to go to the cinema. As usual he was late for the bus. He wanted a bus load of people to wait for him. Just one minute? He should have been just one minute earlier. He was so selfish that he often delayed the school bus just to underline his own importance. He had been told not to follow that bus to the cinema. He told his driver to take him anyway. He driver did. Emperor then tried to join the others in the cinema. The teacher told him not to. Emperor swore at the teacher and claimed that the man shoved him. Emperor later withdrew this allegation but did not deny having used an expletive at the man. Emperor ought to have been expelled. His mother was outraged that the teacher had put the interests of 20 other people before Emperor’s laziness and disorganisation. She said she would go into scream at the man. Then she, er, didn’t. She seemed to recognise that her son was in the wrong.

Emperor once lamented that his teacher had called him ”a stupid idiot.” If the man had done so it would have been a totally accurate statement except for its undue mildness. The 16 year old was almost crying when he said this. What a victim he was.

He was living in a very hierarchical society. The thing about such societies (like an army) is that people are obsequious to the higher ups. They are also vile to the lower downs.

Unsurprisingly someone this stuck up and selfish had few friends. He had no hobbies to socialise over. He brought two pals to Turkey. These boys came from a family of five brothers. It was as though they considered boys better than girls. How did they expect boys could be born? These two were especially arrogant and indolent.

Emperor was chronically idle. Like his parents he refused to face facts. Most people try to screen out unwelcome information. It is a tendency I have noticed in myself. I try not to do it. But Emperor was particularly terrible at this. Like his parents he used avoidance tactics. He would do anything to avoid dealing with the issue. He was blameworthy for not doing his work. He seldom lifted a finger but it was always someone else’s fault that his grades were dreadful. He was horrendously irresponsible: a chip off the old block. In a fair society he would end up as a car park attendant. This is a fine job for the idle and unambitious.

Emperor ‘s mind had been toxified by his religious teacher. This ‘education’ had succeeded in turning the boy against the values of the Enlightenment.  The brain washing had him believing in demons trapped in cave. These ghouls tried to scratch their way out. But each time the call to prayer sounded the stone grew back. He was so brainwashed he told his mother not to wear shorts. To give him his due Mr. G told the boy not to be so cheeky. Emperor told me he was insist that his wife wore headgear.

Emperor cared a little for his appearance. It was droll when he started losing his hair due to stress. That gave me some levity. I have more full hair on my head as I push 40 than this boy did at 15.

There was little parental monitoring of Emperor. He became aggressive towards the end. He was irate when I pointed out that he was not ill but malingering. He used very slight illnesses to bunk of school. He twice admitted that I was right when I put this to him in a non-confrontational manner. He then decided he was mortally offended because I had told the truth. His slobbing around at home was due to neglectful parents. See the example they set him. They were woeful role models.

I saw a poster which quoted Thomas Edison. He said his ingredients for success were commonsense and stick to it-iveness. This was the polar opposite of Emperor. He was flighty and weak willed as it is possible to be.

Emperor had grown more apathetic. He was passive in lessons. He had goals but was not goal oriented in his efforts. Effort may be too strong a word. He seemed indifferent to getting to Syonyanto. He said he wanted to go but action speaks louder than words. His extreme lethargy was galling.

I told him a lot about Lee Kuan Yew. The work ethic was something that Emperor paid lip service to.

Emperor believed in a certain ancient text. He took its glibbest statements to be the most marvelous profundities. Occasionally reading this book could vitiate all his sins. What he really exalts is hard cash.

The boy is a chip off the old block. He will no doubt carrying on claiming credit (and money) for work that others do. He shall surely have the same insistence on craven sycophancy.

====================

BRIGHT

Bright was the most detestable of the boys. He told me when he was 9 there were Turks at his school. ”They think they are like kings.” He hit a Turkish boy for being stuck up. That was rich coming from one of the most unwarrantably proud boys I have ever known. The school moved to boot him out. His grandmother was friends with the headmistress. She phoned up and told the woman not to expel Bright. Bright was allowed to stay. Then he took a violent dislike to another Turkish child and he hit him too. One five occasions Bright was almost kicked out. Each time his granny had the school keep him in. What about child protection? The others were suffering violence because of this despicable thug. He told me his parents did nothing about it. I do not doubt him on this issue. If on the other hand the parents felt their dim witted slighted they would have reacted with fury.

When in Doha, Bright said if anyone was rude to him he would, he would, well he would … He never specified what he would do. He was hinting that he would punch another boy. Why did he not come out and say it? I suppose because in reality he knew he would not hit anyone. This is not because he was not a bully. It was because he was a coward. But at the same time he liked talking tough. He was a very transparent scaramouche.

In Lawrence of Arabia one character tells another, ”When God made you a fool he gave you a fool’s face.” So too it was with Bright. This dullard looked dim. As someone I know used to say of people like Bright, ”I looked into his eyes and there was nobody at home.”

His name was as though his parents were playing a cruel practical joke on him. Bright Soul – there was no one dimmer or duller of soul than him. His name was singularly inapposite. Such a despicable oaf I have never seen. He totally lacked empathy for others. He could not comprehend other opinions. He did not have opinions but simply repeated his parents’ shibboleths verbatim. He was self-important due to his wealth. Money and self-worth were the same thing to him. So much for his faith favouring equality. He never reflected on his privilege. In fairness to him boys who are a baker’s dozen of years old seldom do.

Bright was unwittingly clownish. It soon took me all my self-control not to burst out laughing at him. His unstudied buffoonery extended from naivete, to his soup slurping to the languor of his movements.

Bright really was a miracle. He was the first ever five toed sloth. What are you best at? That is whatever you spend your free time doing. He simply mooched about.

In Lakeland Bright threw a schoolbag across the classroom. He was a nauseating brat. Where did he get all this behaviour from? Partly it is genetic but it is also environmental. He told me his father said he must never let anyone laugh at him. Why does Golden take himself so seriously? He has no sense of humour about himself. This suggests a very brittle ego. His father was also hypersensitive. Nothing was every his fault. Everyone else was responsible for his wrongdoings and failings. Like father like son. Bright was more his father’s son than the others. He did not try to understand the feelings of others.  He had no friends at all which was as many as he deserved.

Bright mentioned how a teacher at his previous school had reprimanded the Prime Minister’s daughter. The teacher was then rebuked and threatened. Bright did not comment on the girl’s behaviour or whether the teacher’s scolding of the child was fair. It was the fact that the girl’s father held a top job that meant that she was immune from criticism. Any notion of fairness or egalitarianism was entirely alien to him. Where did he get that attitude from?

Bright thought he was special rather than special needs. He would purposefully wear the wrong clothes to school – just to underline his belief that he was too important to follow the rules. In fairness when I was a teenager I sometimes got a kick out of breaking such rules. This was not due to thinking I was above the law. It was the thrill that I might be caught. I did not imagine that I was so high status that I could do so with impunity.

I am an ordinary person in that I have done a little good and a little bad. Bright did not seem to have done anyone a good turn in his life. He was certainly not hiding his light under a bushel. He was eager to talk up his ‘feats’ in wrestling and he boasted of his supposedly encyclopedic knowledge of theology. Yet he never mentioned having done a good deed. Had he ever given a present without expecting one back? Had he ever donated a brass farthing to the needy? Had he ever befriended a lonely child? Had he ever stuck up for someone who was being picked on? Had he ever forgiven someone? Had he ever told the truth when it was hard to do so?

Bright was obstinate. It was hard to get him to write. He also went to the loo for ages. He was not as opinionated as his elder sibling. However, unlike Emperor was not independent minded to any extent. He parroted the ravings of his grandfather. These were jejune and half-baked conspiracy theories about how Obama was a marionette of the Jews. He was crass, lethargic entitled and despicable. The poem The Idiot Boy could have been dedicated to him. Most people his age do not have much of an inquiring mind but this boy was especially unthinking. He had been conditioned not to have a critical faculty. But even without this brainwashing he would never have developed opinions of his own.

Bright had bad bearing. He was too idle to even stand up properly. He shuffled around – so lazy he would not even pick up his feet. Slouching would one day give him chronic back pain that he richly deserved. He had a mental block. Bright was totally reclacitrant. He could not pronounce ”h” no matter how many times it was drilled. It came out as ”kh”. Being mentally subnormal does not make him bad. It was his disgusting brutality that made him bad.

Trying to get this boy to write was to be Canute against the tide. But I failed to motivate him. I had him read aloud. His voice was far from euphonious. He was always dallying about doing his work. His drowsy eyes suggested he seldom understood me.

The boy shambled around slowly. He was slow in everything he did – speaking, learning, writing etc…. This boy disbelieved in the Theory of Evolution because he was the missing link itself. Itself not himself.

Bright was mutton minded and that was not his fault. Five schools in as many years would mess up the education even of a wunderkind. Bright was not just changing schools or cities but countries and even languages. His low ability is a cause for compassion and not contempt. It was his personality which is what earned him my disdain and dislike.

Bright spoke about serving in the army of his country. He knew of military schools and if you go there ”you are a real man” he said with awed respect. A man? This big weed hardly qualified as a toddler. He was so hyper sensitive and lacking in drive or discipline. He said they were only allowed out for the day if their clothes were immaculate. This waster had never washed his clothes in his life. I pointed out that soldiers are severely beaten up by their commanders. He had told me stories of his bodyguards being beaten in the army. He said this was true but he proudly informed me that his grandfather had sway and would see to it that no one touched him. For once this child was on the money. If he was not going to have to be subjected to military school what was the purpose of attending military school? As always with them it was for show. It was the pretence. They always strove for the appearance of things because they could never achieve the substance. It seemed his had inherited the faux manliness of his father and the intolerance of countervailing thoughts.

He had a memory like a sieve. He was so slothful that soon he had me doing his work for him. I did not give a damn. It was less work to get rid of him and do it myself. His education had got off to a faltering start. He had attended seven schools in six years. I am fairly sure he was never booted out of one. He would have bragged about it if he had been slung out on his ear as he richly deserved. These constant moves were down to moronic parenting. This ceaseless chopping and changing depleted what little knowledge he had as he was confused by different languages and systems.  His education had been totally disjointed. It says much for his general all around stupidity that he could not do 5 x 5 by the end. I would teach him something and have him repeat it. But then it was in one ear and out the other. He was forever grumbling that his school was no good. He was worthy only of disdain.

Bright claimed to speak Centralian. On the retreat his bro had translated from Russian into that language. Bright never did. Bright had attended a Turkish school in Ashgabad for a while and boasted that he could converse in Turkish. Yet when we were in Turkey he had me speak the language for him. He was a stranger to truth yet again. Let me be clear – as David Cameron used to say. I know only a teensy bit of Turkish. Unlike Bright I do not overstate my abilities.

I do not deprecate those of low academic ability. They can achieve other things and be very genial. This moron was totally meritless and entirely without virtue. He was the unthinking man’s slob. He was a marathon time waster.

There was a snake in the Science room. Bright was terrified of it he said. But all of a sudden he was not. The beast was to be fed a live mouse. Bright went close to see the reptile devour the unfortunate rodent. Sweet child! It is easy to perceive why this boy empathised with the snake. He is cold blooded, cannot communicate, sleeps all the time waking only to eat and personifies wickedness.

Bright felt disdain towards Filipinos. Including those who professed the same faith as himself. He said his assistant could not speak English. She spoke far better than he did. He could not abide it when she laughed at him. He was the most risible figure ever. He was sensitive to ridicule because he sensed that he is ridiculous.

In his free time he lounged around. He was a waste of space. In any decent society he would struggle to get a job as a bin man.

In a group situation he was diffident. He was severely lacking in self-belief. A deux he was boastful.

=================

MILK

Little Milk was a decent sort. There was nothing wicked in him. As he got to know me he overcame his reticence. At the start he spoke in a soft and unvarying tone of voice. His answers were monosyllabic. I would notice he was weary and suggest ending a lesson. He was so decorous that he would not answer. In time he opened up.  He grew more animated. We would joke. I would regale him with animal noises. I would do impressions of my great uncle Frank with the bald head. Frank had the loudest and most raucous laugh ever. As he laughed at earsplitting volume he would rub his scalp vigorously with both palms. This is how he became bald. In fact I never met Frank – he died before my birth.

I have christened this child since he was a milksop. I do not lament that – he was very manageable. As a square he was fairly industrious and ductile. He was also predicable.

Milk was phlegmatic and introverted.  Those with centre partings tend to be geeks and he was one. He preferred objects to people. As he developed a bond with me he grew more loquacious. He was fixated with space travel. He developed hobbies such as chess and football. I hold out some hope for him.

There is also a benjamin of the family. She is too young to judge. I hope she bucks the trend. The chances are not good because the family environment is so poisonous.

========================

MRS GOLDEN

This woman is the villain of the piece. Her name was ‘Soul.’ It was bitterly ironic since she was the most soulless person imaginable. I cannot limn her other than with an acid pen. She is most miserly and mean spirited person I ever heard of. Destiny dealt her the best possible hand. She was fairly smart and pretty. She was high born in that her father was a prison governor. Torturing political prisoners counted as highly respectable and even honourable in her country at the time. At 17 she married a young man from a prominent family. Her beau also had good job prospects. She seemed to have been permanently mentally arrested at the age of 17. She was as impetuous, willful, unreasonably unreasoning and choleric as the most spoilt teenager. Mother Nature had blessed Mrs. G with a pretty visage. Her healthy complexion was an odd contrast to ugliness of her conduct.  She had an incalculable amount to be grateful for: wealth beyond belief, a generous husband, four children who were healthy physically if not psychologically and she had looks. Morally, she was an ogress.

Mrs. G was a woman of unrelieved loathsomeness. She was ice cold towards people except when she was shrieking abuse at them. It is small wonder that this rebarbative shrew seemed to have no friends. Nor is it any surprise that her children were a contemptible race.

Some people mature faster by having children young. Their responsibilities force them to become responsible. With Mrs. G it was the polar opposite. She was belligerent, vain and profanely self-centred. She cared only about filthy lucre and was the most negligent parent I have ever met. It struck me that she had a narcissistic personality disorder and oppositional defiant disorder. Recalcitrance, impetuousity, petulance and childishness were among her less objectionable traits.

I wonder whether Mrs. G even finished school. In my part of the world a girl who gives birth at 18 is considered a failure. But Mrs G had it made. She lived a life of the highest luxury without doing a minute’s work. Yet it was all ”woe is me”. Her theme tune seemed to be ”Reasons to be cheerless.” She was the archetypal poor little rich girl. I do not imply that she had anything in common with Barbara Hutton of the film Poor Little Rich Girl. Barbara Hutton at least felt compassion for the impecunious and gave away much of her wealth.  Mrs. Golden is perhaps the most self-centred person of all time. Her behaviour was so often invidious. There was no sense of l’embarrasement de richesse. She was rapacious and disgustingly selfish.

The woman had left school without education aged 17. Yet as an educational consultant remarked this female considered herself a world expert on tertiary education. It was indicative of her dearth of self-awareness that she was so ultracrepidarian. She should not have presumed to judge above her fuck me boots.

Mrs. G just popped out her babies. There her responsibility towards them ended. They were handed over to nannies. She was canny enough to select hefferlumps as nannies. That way there was little chance that her husband’s wandering eye would land on a nanny. So she had more gumption than I had initially given her credit for. Yet Mrs. G was as two faced as can be: pretending to care about her children in public.

Mrs. Golden expected glowing reports on her sons each time. Only in Milk’s case was it possible to write on while being only a little dishonest. Remarks that were less than saccharine irked her. She usually would make no comment at all. When she did so it was weeks after the event. She was tardy in everything.

Mrs. G was the worst of billionaire trash. She was willful and haughty. She always strove to underscore her standing by inconveniencing others. She set a terrible example for her sprogs. She was vindictive, deceitful and hypocritical. I saw a lot of these traits in her eldest two sons. Is this due to heredity or to the environment? Probably both. Her social-cognitive impairment was flagrant. She would never examine things from another person’s standpoint. This explained her extreme egocentricity. The discipline she tried to uphold with her sons was very erratic. They were given no clear boundaries. This was making them sociopathic.

Mrs. G was so self-important. She never tried to understand another person’s feelings. She did not seem to consider this a problem.  She had a greatly inflated sense of her own worth and always demanded preferential treatment. She was obsessed with fantasies of success for her sons despite them doing nothing to accomplish this. Mrs. G wanted them to be part of elite institutions without having to earn a place. She wanted unstinting obedience but thought rules did not apply to her. She was very exploitative and stuck up. She was extremely envious and mean – she bitterly resented every penny spent on her staff.

Rich bitch was having someone sent from the USA to help her sons. The agent found a flight and asked Mrs. Golden’s permission to book. It took some hours for Mrs. G to reply. She approved. Then the agent went to book and the flight had gone up $20. The ticket was bought. When the bill came Mrs. G was fulminating about the $20. Rather than be happy that she had hundreds of millions of dollars she preferred to gripe about 20 bucks. None of it was her money anyway. It was all stolen! This egotistical termagent had never earned a brass farthing in her life. Here was a woman who derived satisfaction only from stealing and possessing – never from giving and doing.

Evidence of her emotional incontinence and general ignorance can be seen in her writing style. She used exclamation marks! A lot!! In fact more and more of them!!! In every sentence!!!! Which shows what a moron she was!!!!!

This angel faced virago was not quite all there. She was socially retarded and utterly lacking emotional intelligence. Her extreme self centredness extended to being an exceptionally shite mother. She would not make eye contact when speaking to people. There was clearly a screw loose. She had never cared a fig for anyone else including her own sprogs. Her husband’s physical hideousness was outmatched by the wife’s hideousness of personality. Imagine a billionairess who is pinch penny towards her underpaid maids. She did not pay for their health insurance to which they were legally entitled. Imagine earning 12 pounds a day!

The woman was caught between her husband’s new found God bothering ways and her own It girl fantasies. Her egomania and avarice were bottomless. She circulated photos of herself in hot pants and a crop top. Her spouse was trying to induce her to find God. This woman was reluctant. What is it about the faith that is unappealing to a 21st century woman? It is not hard to tell. But I would rather that she was a cock tease than she was in an abbaya.

Soul Golden was so out of touch. How could she not be never having earned a penny in her life? As will be seen it is not as though she was a housewife either. Her sons were lackadaisical and cowardly. They did not even flush the loo after themselves. They were chips off the old block. She was such a useless laggard herself.  Yet she said they should go to West Point. She was unwittingly hilarious! I would pay good money to see the eldest two being torn to shreds by a drill sergeant. These slothful fuckwits would be laughed off the parade ground on the first day. She was raising her sons to be the touchiest and idlest wimps. She also toyed with the idea of them going to military school in Russia. That was the Suvorov. The woman was utterly delusional. The Russian Army is not tough. It is utterly brutal. Dozens of men are killed by their sergeants every year. Others commit suicide. There is a special rich boys’ section of these military schools for the privileged. It defeats the whole purpose of going to army school. The boys could attend such as school in Central Asia. Bright told me eagerly his grandfather could tell the school not to harm him, ”and they won’t do nothing to me” he said in his ungrammatical English. I had dinned it into him time out of number that in English a double negative is a positive. I know it is different in Russian. I would explicate the rule and get him to repeat it back to me. I worked through several examples aloud and on paper. I would have him play it back to me. Five minutes later he would be making the same mistake again. He had a mental block.

Why send them to a military school to be treated with kid gloves? It was a classic example of their illogicality, injustice and lack of probity all rolled into one.

Her temperament was over sensitive. She was totally insensitive to others. Perhaps she had been overly admired by others. She did not give her children realistic feedback about their performance. She was overindulged as a child I suppose. She certainly overvalued her two good for nothing sons. She was totally unreliable and was no caregiver herself. She was not clever enough to be manipulative. She seemed to perceive her sons as a measure of her self-esteem but oddly did nothing for them.  Mrs. G would jet off on a break from doing nothing. As she went on holiday the boys were in charge. Lunatics taking over the asylum and all that.

Mrs. Golden was an unfit mother. In another country the authorities would have taken the children off her. She would fly away on shopping trips for several days at a time and leave them without adult supervision – including the 8 year old. Yes, there were servants but the boys ordered them about. Mrs. G wanted us to be strict. If we were that was cruel she said. If we were lax we were letting her down. No one could win but she was never wrong. She suffered from a complete lack of fairness of introspection.

Mrs. G sometimes said she felt guilty for bringing them up so appallingly. Why were they floundering? Did she ever look in the mirror? What sort of example did she set of immaturity, irregularity, self-pity and angst? She was not at all contrite about her woeful underperformance.

If this woman had accomplished something I might have accorded her a smidgeon of respect. If she had gone riding, if she had played the cello, if she written a trashy novel or even read one – if she had done something worthwhile with all the free time and money in the world then she would have contributed something. In fact this harridan was a total waste of space. She was as vacuous as can be. Hilariously she opened a restaurant and ‘managed’ it from thousands of miles away. This way the empty headed girl could tell herself that she was a businesswoman. She had never succeeded in anything. She was as vapid, thick and heartless as can be.

Jean Paul Getty, the oil billionaire, said that a businessman’s wife has no excuse for being bored. She has all the free time and all the money in the word to devote herself to a cultural attainments, charity work or – heaven forbid – a career. Such a woman who moans about being under-stimulated it making a feeble excuse for idleness. The nihilism of her regrettable existence was a marvel. She was plainly suffering from wealth fatigue syndrome.

Mrs. G was unreasonable. She was very easily offended for herself and vicariously. If any teacher was obliged to reprimand her wayward children she was outraged. It did not enter her thick skull that the teacher might be obliged to scold her sons for their slovenliness, sluggishness, tardiness, rudeness and woeful work. She was super touchy and very anxious to assert her status. Deep down she must have realised she had no status. She refused to obey rules and comply with requests for information from me or from the school. It was as though she was seeking to irritate others. She never had the decency to own up to her own mistakes and shortcomings. Her parenting was atrocious.

What this female had in dollars she lacked in grace, sophistication, taste and even common decency. Her between-maid was far more of a lady than this unrefined termagent. She also lacked any notion of noblesse oblige.

Mrs. Golden took some English lessons. She was very unpredictable about them – the timings and what she wanted. She never got to grips with our vernacular. Of course about five lessons were too much for her busy schedule. In the British Isles we are paranoid about child protection. I was not worried about being alone in the house with any of her sons. Not only am I totally innocent but I know that Centrasians are not fixated with child abuse and are not going to false accuse someone. I was faintly frightened of being alone with the mother. If my foot accidentally touched hers under the table that could be seen as a comn-on. If she misperceived me as being in any way flirtatious that would be said to be an attempt on her virtue. In a shariat state it is less than ideal to be an infidel man accused of attempting adultery with a Muslim millionaire’s wife.

She went on holiday every month or so. She left her children behind of course.

Mrs. G was soulless despite being named Soul! She was grasping and larcenous. She cared only for threads and not for things of the spirit. Her materialism was yet more proof of her vacuity. The virago was also utterly philistine.

Soul worked on her appearance. She never appeared with unvarnished nails. Her days consisted of shopping and going to the beautician. Those garments do not buy themselves you know! Mostly it was online shopping. Going to a shop was too much like hard work. I would love to ridicule her to her face – archbitch.

The mother was the most negligent mother of all time. She did not wash her baby, dress her, read to her, play with her, feed her, carry her, speak to her or even look with her. Outside she would be all lovey dovey with the baby – like an actress. As soon as she was in the house the baby was plonked into the arms of the nanny. She was utterly false. There are crackheads who do more for their kids than she did.  She is unworthy to conceive a child. She disgraces the name of mother. But with her husband being middle aged, morbidly obese and a chain smoker it is doubtful that even a packet of Viagra can cause him to get a hard on. If he climbs on his skeletal wife he would probably crush her. The man is as sexy as a retarded walrus so I cannot imagine the sight of him naked set’s Mrs. G’s pulse racing – unless it is with panic. Perhaps sexual frustration is part of her misery. The good news is that this gruesome twosome shall pullulate no more. The world is already overburdened with their wasteful and odious offspring.

I taught Mrs. G a few lessons. The times were always changing. 8:30 one morning. It was due to be 10:30 the next. Then she would bring it forward to 9:30. Next day was due to be 9 am but she would suddenly postpone till 11 am. Next day it would be 10 am but she would cancel at the last minute.  She was so whimsical that she gave up after a few lessons.  During one such lesson I mentioned Valentine’s Day. Her eldest had been in a dilemma as some at his school said it was a sin. Of course idiot boy did not know the English for sin but I knew the Russian word. Bear in mind he has had private lessons in English since as soon as he could walk and I have never had a single lesson in Russian. Mrs. G said that Valentine’s Day could be immoral but for her and her husband it was nice to have some private time. That was hilarious! The big galoot of a husband of hers – as sophisticated as a buffalo being romantic? Oh yes and the most self-centred woman in the world actually loving someone? It was a risible image.

Mrs. G wanted her sons to do well at school but did not make them attend. She was the pinnacle of irrationality. At least this fishwife made no pretence at religiosity.

People who send an urgent email to Mrs. G. She would not reply. The person would then phone and she would not pick up. Texts also met with a wall of silence. The person would contact her by every means for three consecutive days. A week later there would be a response. But if Mrs. G wanted something she wanted it now, she wanted it yesterday. Why did you not do what she wanted before she even thought of it? If she felt slighted she was blistering. It suggested that she had oppositional defiant disorder. Her eldest sons had a touch of it. She did not seem to ‘do’ interpersonal relations. She never seemed satisfied.

Mrs. G was anti-social and histrionic. She had two modes – indolence and fury. I was drily cynical about her but she was not easy to predict. She had no conscience and was amoral. Perhaps she was compensating for feelings of inadequacy which is why she wanted all those clothes. She was unscrupulous about theft and exploitation. She was negativistic which is why she was cruel to others. She only had pseudo achievements – owning things. Maybe a high childhood status had made her so – adored by parents who taught her that ripping people off is admirable. She had a superiority complex which is why she wanted the rules to be broken for her.

Oddly, she was not that vain. She was guiltless about being so inhumane to her servants. How could a mother be so callous?  Her narcissism was mainly of the elitist type. She did not try to be seductive or famous. Indeed she was very much into privacy.

This greedy and criminal woman often moaned about how much she paid me. She paid me? The company paid me. I am not moralistic. I am tainted too. Every time I was paid I received stolen goods.

This harridan was as rapacious and grasping as you can imagine. Yet she felt so sorry for herself. Her self-pity was as sick making as her cruelty. Think of the tens of thousands of pounds she spent on glad rags for herself every year. With just a fraction of that money she could have saved the lives of children in Burkino Faso. But no she would rather spend sickening sums on threads for herself that she would never wear. But doing a good turn for another did not seem to occur to her. Mr Golden had at least had the gumption to use the state to steal money. Mrs. G had not had the get up and go or low cunning to even steal.

Mrs. G bought clothes almost daily. I only met her perhaps 20 times. Yet I sometimes saw her wearing the same outfit. She had 4 houses and presumably a full wardrobe in each of them. She had millions of dollars of ill-gotten gains. But I almost never saw her smiling. The vacuity of riches was one of the most valuable lessons I drew from observing this unhappy thief. She never, ever put anything back into the society she had robbed. It was all take, take, take…

Many of her possessions were not even from hubby’s salary or even from theft. These were grace and favour items owned the company but which they could use. Or should that be disgrace and favour items.

Ways forward were offered to her for her under achieving children. Agreements were made and signed. But there was no follow through. It was always later, later, later. Yes, No, Yes, No, No, Yes, No, Yes, Yes. Definitely maybe. Do I make myself unclear? She was unreliable even to herself. What example did this world class loser set for her progeny? Her empty life was the most contemptible thing about her. That is saying something!

Mrs. Golden was argumentative. She was an extreme authoritarian who could not abide being under the authority of others – besides her husband.

Despite her fitness sessions it was not as though she got to be nifty on the dance floor. She may have wanted a glamorous social life. Instead at best she got to socialise with her hubby’s boorish pals. The fact that she even took exercise says something for her. Her sons did not get their Olympian idleness from her.

There was a much put upon maid named Maia. This luckless Maia also had her first child at 18. Unlike Mrs. G this woman named Maia did not come from a privileged family. She cared for her three children. In her late 20s she was obliged to seek work abroad to supplement her husband’s meagre salary. Mrs. G promised poor Maia that after a year Maia would be allowed a holiday to go and visit her little children. Twelve months passed and she told her children she would soon be home. Maia asked permission to go. Mrs. G would not even let the maid finish her sentence. The answer was a flat no. ”We are busy now. Maybe I will let you go in a few months. Maybe.” Maia spent all night in tears. Imagine Maia telling her three little children desperate to see their mother that mum could not come for months more. As if a dozen indoor servants was not enough? Letting this unfortunate woman see her children would not have cost Mrs. G an ob. How could she do this? How could she? As one mother to another? She did not deserve a child. What a harridan. I felt the deepest disdain for her over his mistreatment of her maid.

These many sob stories from Maia had an effect on me. She looked at me pleadingly as if to say: could you help? I had not the heart to disappoint her totally. I did help her a little. I have no doubt these hard luck stories were true.

Maia told me the boys did not even flush lavatories after themselves.  I was later to discover such disgusting evidence for myself. They are very refined indeed. Where did they get this extreme laziness from? It is not hard to guess. Their mother was too idle to even eat properly.

Maia was to be paid a pittance. Even then that was not paid in full or on time. Her family was forced to borrow money to make ends meet. They then had to repay it at an exorbitant rate of interest. Maia was to get health insurance but it was not provided. A year’s health insurance cost almost half a month’s salary. How much would that have cost? About $200. Mrs. G would spent that amount on a blouse that she would never wear. Mrs. Golden was greedy and proud of it. It was all ”me, me, me”. She did not give a shit about anyone else including her children. She is lower than vermin. Her veins flow with the foulest poison.

It is a heartbreaking tale of savage selfishness and shameless exploitation. I would that her evil existence comes to an agonising end but only after she knows what it is to be stooped over all days scrubbing floors with a J cloth whilst being publicly humiliated.

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FAMILY HISTORY

The family history is intriguing and instructive.

Mr. Golden’s parents came from Southtown. Mr. Golden’s dad had been in the army and police. He was then Minister of the Interior.

Mrs. Golden’s family came from Blacktown. Mrs. Golden’s dad had been in charge of slave labour camps. Little surprise that they switched from an ideology that enslaved millions to a religion that permitted it. What sort of a man would wish to work in such an oppressive system? This may explain the boys’ fixation with punishment. On the other hand they responded the mildest rebuke by a teacher with a sense of wounded indignation.

Many people in Blacktown were exogenous. It was the most multi ethnic town in the USSR. This is what Mrs. G could not speak Centralian.

One must not visit the sins of the father on the son. I do not blame the children for the wrongdoing of their grandparents. It was difficult to avoid the conclusion that some of the negative traits were in the blood.

The grandparents had been born in the 50s. They grew up on agitprop.

Mr. Golden said he was a piss poor pupil. At least he had the self-awareness and honesty to say that much. It was a very rare example of accurate self-analysis on his part. Looking at his progeny I can believe it. Genes like his is it not a crime against humanity to pass them on? He had attended university and studied something. He was not noted for an interest in anything recondite. Once he graduated he wed a damsel from a similar oppressor background. He may even have been good looking aged 21.

The police was a well recognised bolt hole for dolts. If a man could not secure any other job then he would join the police. It was a good job for the ineducable, the unemployable and the idle. The police commanded very little respect in the USSR. The tough guys joined the military. The clever boys joined the secret service. The police were neither tough nor clever. Golden did a few years as PC Plod. No doubt he was promoted double quick because father pulled strings. It is all about exchange of favours. Then he was made a judge. I do not think he will be ranked with Solomon, Lord Denning or Justinian for his jurisprudential reasoning. He went back to university. Was he attracted by the life of the mind? Golden was then awarded an engineering degree in two months flat. How so? Presumably, he did not a stroke of work. Then he was made boss of a semi state construction company. A man with no knowledge of engineering and no business experience was made head honcho of a construction company. I could not think of anything more irrational or unfair. What is common to the three jobs he did? There is ample scope for kickbacks. Of ill-gotten gains there were plenty.

These people were as over-privileged as can be. To think that 25 years before they were communists. They claimed to be diehard egalitarians. If I were in their position would I not exploit my unfair advantage? I would not do so to such a gross extent. I have a small amount of common decency.

There may yet be another revolution in that zone of the world. What happened to capitalist bloodsuckers in 1917? Some ended up swinging from lampposts.

The more I got to know about Golden the more I did not like the cut of his gib. Tub of Lard that he was he was not torpid only in terms of exercise. I noticed he always took short cuts – getting things he did not deserve. Taking them away from those who merited them.

Mr. G’s hobby was shooting wolves from a helicopter. A wolf skin (complete with head) was a rug in their house. I am surprised: I would have thought he would not kill these predators out of professional courtesy. They only attack the defenceless especially when they outnumber their prey. Did Mr. G not have a certain fellow feeling for them?

Mr. Golden was president of the country’s boxing federation. Not that a man so morbidly obese was capable of swinging at anyone. There was some kudos in heading this outfit. The appeal of it for him was mainly that it was intended to emphasise his tough guy credentials. Several of these athletes were proven to have taken performance enhancing drugs. In public statements Golden professed himself to have been stunned at horrified by people falling short of the highest ethical standards. Ha ha ha ! If he takes credit for their victories (and he does) then he must also assume responsibility for such disgraceful misconduct. Golden was an unsporting as one can be. Cheating was a way of life to him. Did he not at the very least connive in these prohibited practices? Did he order them? If he was unaware of them he should still be dismissed. It is precisely his duty to know what is going on in the organisation he leads.

Golden refused to partake of swine flesh. This was ironic since boar was his soubriquet in the family. I suppose he liked it as he fancied himself as a hard man.

Sometimes I would be in the house and notice him languidly reclining on a divan. He resembled an elephant seal: ungainly, blubbery and cacophonous. But that is unfair. To seals that is. Seals are intelligent animals. Seals do not indulge in pathetic puerile macho posturing. They actually fight. Moreover, seals can swim.

It turned out that Golden was a low down thief of the most cowardly and contemptible sort. A common criminal was respectable by comparison to this despicable crook. Yet he sickeningly swathed himself in robes of righteousness. He was a whited sepulchre. He suffered no prick of conscience. His dad was high up in the police – not an uncommon scenario when it comes to massive scale thievery.

Golden disappeared millions of $ in an international deal. All this went to the Bank of Nowhere. The dosh is squirreled away in a town which is well known for being a place to hide dirty money. He salted it away in a bank outside his own country. This man vaunted his patriotism but in fact he never trusted his own country’s institutions. This was an Olympian defalcation. This was hinted at by people who work for the same conglomerate. They have to be surreptitious. But they know to keep their heads down and feign respect for this egomaniac. It all figures. As soon as the money vanished he bought a hotel overseas. His property portfolio in countries without transparency suddenly expanded.  Presumably he had to give a drink to the prez and his henchmen. Mr. Golden’s filthy lucre was used on a property portfolio abroad and a yacht in France. Him scooping money from the public was not a victimless crime. Many patients will die because public hospitals cannot afford medicines for them. The penalty for theft in his religion is on the stiff side. Does he really believe in that? Why is he so eager to enjoy ill-gotten gains? It suggests a total lack of faith. If he really believed in his religion he would be satisfied with things of the spirit and savouring his reward in the hereafter. But no it was peculation and self-indulgence that actuated him.

Despite having so, so much he was not happy. It was never enough. He had no elan vitale otherwise he could have enjoyed some hobbies or achieved something. He preferred to laze around.

Golden is a true patriot. Of course he loves his country from which he pillaged hundreds of millions of dollars. He is anti-Robin Hood. He purloins from the poorest to give to himself. He had made a truly outstanding contribution. Few men have done so much for the immiseration of their people. His sanctimoniousness was nauseating.

Common criminals have a little sneakiness and daring. Using the agencies of the state to commit peculation requires no audacity or even low cunning. This clan was made up of mafioisi without even selfish courage.

Mr. G was close to the prez. Why did he praise this man to the heavens? Could it be that there was a sliver of self-interest? The clan were the most arrant time servers. This is a society in which brown nosing is compulsory. But Mr. G’s level of sycophancy was sickening even by Kazakh standards.

There was a touch of the mediaeval despot about Mr. Golden. Small wonder that he adulated neo feudalism in his homeland: he was one of the robber barons. He served the thief in chief in return for holding way over a fiefdom. Mr. G resembled Henry VIII in more ways than one. There was the insatiable avarice, the hypocrisy, the adultery, the gross feeding, the fake martial prowess, the magpie confection for glitter, the hypocrisy, the temper tantrums and the nauseating self-righteous rhetoric to surround it all.

I surmise that the family were concentration camp guards. This is judging from the family’s jobs and the towns they hailed from. If you say Blacktown to anyone from the USSR and he or she will say ‘concentration camp.’ Political prisoners and religious adherents were sent their in their tens of thousands. Ethnic minorities were enslaved in line with communist racist policies. In the 1930s up to a third of the Central population was starved to death. I do no criticise anyone for doing what was necessary to survive. I would have done likewise. I do not scorn the ordinary guards. But what sort of a man would rise to the apex of such a system of brutal exploitation and savage exploitation?  To be promoted a man would have to distinguish himself by being notorious for being particularly savage even in a system notorious of its inhumanity. Only the worst sort of low down thug and time server would. This clan had risen to the top be being the most eager instruments of oppression.

They were commies when that suited them; abjuring their faith. In order to join the Communist Party people had to make a declaration of atheism. It would not do to bring this to Mr. Golden’s attention. His forefathers had been apostates. When communism fell so did their communist beliefs. They had once imprisoned those who even whispered about independence. Then they proclaimed themselves nationalists. They re-found their faith at exactly the moment it became politically advantageous to do so.

The contract said I worked for the company. I was paid by them. I was part of the hypocrisy. Every time I was paid I received stolen goods.

I wonder about Golden’s methods of neutralisation. How does he justify industrialised theft? After all his is a very moral man – he reads a book. ”I am allowed to steal because I was in the police. No, no, when I steal it is legal because I was a judge. No, no: when I steal it is ok because my dad was Minister of the Interior. No, no, when I steal it is a morally upright thing to do because I am already rich.” When he was a judge how long did he award to a man who stole a wallet? It is sickening.

Golden had been the sacred meteorite. He is a very virtuous man. He has circumambulated a cube seven times. That is what really makes you good. A multi-millionaire stealing from a baby’s plate is totally permissible. This is what he did – almost literally. Which is worse? Drawing a cartoon or stealing from the malnourished? I have my answer and Golden has his.

If Golden really was holy he would have been penitent. He would have not purloined public wealth in the first instance. Even then he could have returned it to the state. But no he continued to worship the golden calf.

One injunction tells men who believe in the Book to wear beards. It is not a commandment but it is enjoined to the faithful as a virtuous act. Mr Golden did not grow a beard because people would think ill of him. So what mattered more to him? Serving his God or the esteem of men? As soon as his faith required him to make a teensy weensy sacrifice, like braving silent disapproval, Golden would abandon his faith.

Why had Mr Golden got religion in his 30s? Perhaps he sensed he was much in need of absolution. It is strange that he made such a show of virtue. For him the wages of sin are fucking fantastic. I hope his turn to religion is not a sign of nascent de-secularisation. He is religious in so far as it makes things easier. Smooths his path to the president and means he can sound righteous. The moment religion requires him to make a sacrifice it is gone. If religion requires him to, for example, not steal from the poor then religion be damned. He could steal a billion from the neediest – nothing wrong with that. But no one should drink beer – that would be an impiety.

When he visited the city forbidden to unbelievers he went in a spirit of piety. His faith teaches him the equality of the richest and the poorest mendicant. Of course he stayed in a five star hotel. I must not be too cynical. Mr. Golden was a sincere worshipper. Of Mammon that is. As well as his emetic greed this man was driven by a compulsion to emphasise his status. He plainly suffered from a deep seated sense of worthlessness.

They slept in the day during the fast. At night they got up to pig themselves. Where is the morality in that?

Golden was not much of a bon viveur unless you count eating. He was no gastronome. Horse flesh and rice were his favourite foods. He was no aesthete. He had a billion dollars and absolutely no taste.

Why do so many of his compatriots live in grinding poverty? Why are orphans so badly provided for? Could this have anything to do with some of the elite purloining from the masses? The kleptocracy makes my blood boil. What is really nauseating is that Mr. Golden having the temerity to think he is righteous because he mumbles certain incantations in a language he cannot understand. Golden and those of his ilk were living off the fat of the land. Their lucre is the filthiest of all. Their hyper consumerism and nauseating self-righteousness infuriated me. It made me see why people had become communists 100 years ago. The bitterest irony is that these people had been communists only 20 years before. The Golden’s were the most contemptible time servers. They would have happily been Hitler’s henchmen so long as they made some money out of it.

He has no faith in his own land. He goes to the doctor in Germany. Nobody trusts Centrasian qualification – particularly Centrasians. Golden would know something about being awarded degrees he did not earn. He knows qualifications can be bought in his homeland. It is all extremely unfair on those smart and hardworking Centrasians who earned their degrees the proper way. Academic fraud by the likes of Golden devalues the endeavour of all those with integrity. In many countries earning money through such fraudulently obtained qualifications is an imprisonable offence.

A dickie bird told me that Mr. Golden had a mistress in Ultenia and that she was nubile. That might not be true since I was getting it third hand. I would not put it past him to break his marriage vows. I do not disapprove since his wife was the worst harridan that ever lived. Why would a good looking young woman hang around a hideous ugly charmless loser like Golden? Money might have something to do with it. He had rendered himself incapable of infidelity due to his gross feeding. Which irks me about his adultery is that he professes a certain faith which preaches a rather stiff penalty for that offence.

What was Mr. Golden so obese? Why was he so avaricious? Was he filling a void? Perhaps this is cod psychology. Gluttony and financial greed are common even among those without any deep psychological flaws. He often lost his temper and was easily enervated. He was furious and resentful.

Mr Golden was as thin skinned as can be. He was Donald Trump without the business nous. He told the boys never to let anyone laugh at them. No one would ever laugh at Golden. It was easy for Golden to talk tough when accompanied by several armed guards. Why was Golden so touchy? Partly it was due to his extreme immaturity and wimpishness. It was also because he knew that he cut a ridiculous and contemptible figure. He knew that he was a fraud. A fraud as a graduate, a fraud as a copper, a fraud as a judge, a fraud as a businessman, a fraud as a man of God and a fraud as an adult. He had no hinterland and no self-worth because he was worth nothing.

There was a much put upon Pakistani driver – the One who answers all. As well as driving he had to act as a factotum. It was a very difficult role due to madam’s caprice. When she messed things and sent him to the wrong place she would roundly abuse him. It was her fault because she kept giving contradictory instructions but she did not give a damn.

A couple of years ago a Turcoman driver of theirs in Doha used the Ferrari while the family were away. The Pakistani driver found out about this. As a good and faithful servant the Pakistani informed on the Turcoman. I do not blame the Pakistani for doing his job. He was also saving his own skin. Had he not done so then he may have been accused of this. He would at the very least have been complicit in this. Golden flew in especially to confront the Turcoman. The man was summoned to the house. He was then treated to yelling by Golden. The boys told me how their father had been in a towering rage. I can picture his flabby face quivering with fury. In fairness Golden sacked the man and let him go without punishment saying ”God is his judge.” Golden stole hundreds of millions of dollars from the impoverished. Yet when someone else borrows – not steals – borrows his car without permission Golden screams like a hungry infant. But who really stole the car? In fact who really stole about 20 cars, five penthouses, two hotels, a helicopter, a super yacht etc…..? It was not the Turcoman driver? God is his judge. Indeed. God is also Golden’s judge. It reminds me of the parable of the man who was forgiven by another but was then very unforgiving to a debtor. Who is more in need of forgiveness? Is is a poor driver who uses a car without permission? Or is it someone who has had unjust enrichment through nepotism and then commits fraud to the tune of hundreds of millions of greenbacks? Golden was bereft of any notion of fairness. It reminded me of one of the parables. You ask your master to forgive you an enormous debt and he forgives you. Then you demand that a debtor repays you a penny – reacting furiously when he cannot repay you.

Golden liked to belief in ancient doctrines. Centuries of scholarship have only served to calcify them.

This pharisee had a poster of himself stating that he had been into the holy of holies. His belief in equality did not preclude him using his unfair advantages to the full. Irrationality came naturally to him. For him righteousness consists of gullibility, mumbo jumbo in a language he cannot comprehend and certain propitiations. The very notion of integrity was foreign to him. His real religion was the worship of Money – as though money makes someone morally upstanding. Did this self-proclaimed religious man want to build up riches in this world or the next? It is blatant. Of material wealth he was a most faithful votary.

Sadly he gave up shisha so he may not get the cancer that he so richly deserves.

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DOHA.

I sometimes read their irregular habits as deriving from the former nomadic lifestyle of this race. Their houses were not large or imposing in view of their staggering wealth. On the other hand they had a fleet of flash cars. Was this because the house equated to a yurt and was thus unimportant? On the other hand the cars were the modern equivalent of horses and it was vital to own as many of them as possible and superb ones at that? Maybe this was cod psychology. They had perhaps ended their itinerant existence a century before. There was something else I noticed about non-settled peoples. They were very elastic with timings. This was true of people of the Arabian Peninsula or East Africa. Herdsmen did not favour periodicity and continuity. They were constantly on the move and responding to weather. As Argentines and Italians are said to be very lax about punctuality perhaps my observation is codswallop.

I discovered the Centralian word for book was ‘kitab’ the same as in Arabic. Before Muslim missionaries brought their faith to the benighted people of the steppes perhaps they had no books.

The house in Doha was by the sea on a man-made island. It was a spacious three storey white building. The marble floors were scrubbed daily by a much put upon Filipina between maid. A wolf’s skin complete with head adorned the entrance hall. This set the tone for the kitsch that pervaded their house. Risibly a piano took pride of place. No one there ever tinkled the ivories. Both Emperor and Bright claimed to play musical instruments. But I never saw them doing so nor did they tell me of an occasion in my 2 years with the clan when they had played any music. Bright also informed me that music was un-Islamic. How on earth could he believe this and then also play an instrument? He was capable of such blatant doublethink.

The boys carried on with egregious indolence. They pretended not to have homework. Lousy grades were explained by the teacher entering it wrong into the system. The grade has since been raised. Or the system had a malfunction. He had done some work that had not yet been marked and that was due to earn a fantastic grade. It was laughable. They were totally disorganised. They were stinking rich in both senses. Their wealth was obscene and it was obtained through illegal means. Yet their vast fortune afforded them little contentment. Their self of entitlement meant that they derived little satisfaction from living the life of Reilly. The penthouses, the swimming pool, the sports cars, the servants, the delicious banquets, the computers, the clothes, the private jets, the super yacht:  took it all for granted.

A contract was drawn up at Mrs. Golden’s suggestion. There was an exchange of obligations. They were not to use phones during lessons etc… Repeated breaches of these terms were reported. As the boys confidently predicted the contract was not enforced by their parents. It soon became a dead letter.

Mrs. Golden was full of avoidance tactics. She would never take responsibility for her actions or her inaction. Her sons were faithful copies of her in this sense. What example did she set for her children? I would not put her in charge of a doll let alone four children. She was forever shifting the blame to schools. They were culpable for her children being loafers and failures. In fairness, Milk was performing decently. The boys were loafers but she could not face it that she was to blame. She was totally immature.

Mrs. G had never been thwarted. She had always had her way. This is why she was so petulant. I pray that an agonising fate awaits her.

I would like to see her do a labour of Sysephus – stooped over scrubbing floors for the rest of eternity. She really needed to be humiliated and taught what work is.

I told them to try. Practice makes perfect – I would have thought that adage is irrefragable. They would not obey instructions. Unsatisfactory does not begin to describe their effort. I am also culpable. I did not give a damn about their schooling. I like learning more than teaching. I only wished to teach pupils with a high aptitude and a great appetite for learning.

The boys were dispirited about the move. Milk was stressed out about not being in a school. He was so frustrated that he lashed out and thumped me during a lesson. All the grief he was going through was entirely avoidable. It was caused by his parents’ instability, injudiciousness and stupid decision making.

I met their cousin World. World was the son of Hal. World spoke perfect English for a child his age. He was a very genial chatterbox. This spindly boy was the most amiable member of the clan.

Milk was taken by a school soon enough. Emperor was rejected a few times. Finally a school was desperate enough to take him. Bright was rebuffed by half a dozen schools. It was mid-October and they still had not located a place of education for him. I suggested the Russian school. They would not hear of it. It had to be an Anglophone school. I noted that Bright had previously had his schooling through the medium of Russian. The Russian school is at least a school which is far better than no school at all. Moreover, he would still have English lessons there and with me. They point blank refused to even consider it. Perhaps a factor in their considerations is that the standard of Maths in Russian schools is a few years ahead of Soviet schools. This boy could not do 6 x 2.

After much arm twisting and no doubt some palms crossed with silver Bright was accepted into an American school.

Bright was terrified of the snake in the Science room – or so he told me. When it came to it he had no problem going in despite knowing what beast was in there. One day the teacher was doing to feed a rodent to the serpent. Bright then said he would stay at break time to see the little creature killed. What does that say about him? It suggests a sadistic and morbid character. Sweet child!

Bright was as lethargic as ever. He was also a hypochondriac. What a waste of space he was. But as for spite: he had it in spades. When a Filipina assistant spoke in a less than respectful tone his conceited tantrum overcame his extraordinary listlessness. He was actuated to write a letter of complaint to the headmistress.

I explained that the mind is like a muscle. The more you exercise it the better it gets. If life weights for you it puts muscle on me not you. But if you do not exercise it then your mind will atrophy. If I do your homework in the long run it does a disservice. These idle fools did not budge. I am not disclaiming responsibility. I failed them too. I failed to motivate them – not that I cared. They were world champions in sloth.

I told them they had to make an effort. Achievement is ability multiplied by effort. Notice it is not plus effort. It is multiplied by effort. A very high innate aptitude will lead to zero achievement of the aptitude it multiplied by zero effort. Emperor understood and agreed. Yet action speaks louder than words. Or in his case inaction. But it never caused him to change tack. I explained that cheating was wrong. He was bemused by the very notion of probity. To think he robed himself in the garments of righteousness to visit the meteorite. His book tells him to tell the truth even if this involves bearing witness against himself. He also told me that incantation that comes before swearing he speaks veraciously. Those who vaunt their own honesty so much as the most dishonest. A chip off the old block!

They were staggered that someone of my qualifications did my job. They were so mercenary they did not understand that someone would value quality of life. Of course they will be given sinecures. They will have jobs but not work. These boys had no sense of noblesse oblige yet they felt not the least inclination to do anything – even for themselves. They had been given so, so much and achieved absolutely nothing. They attended the most expensive school in the country and had a private tutor on top. To think some children do not get to attend school at all!

The mother had a bee in her bonnet about Synonyanto. She wanted her boys to be schooled there. Her friends’ children had done well there. She was oblivious to the fact that these children will have had to make an effort. People in the Shining South have a phenomenal work ethic. Fools are not suffered gladly there. Her laggards of sons would get short shrift in that country. Much time was wasted filling out forms for the school. I knew it to be futile. Emperor had to describe his achievements on the application form. It was a rare moment of levity for me hearing this outstanding underachiever claim to have accomplished much by lounging around and occasionally playing on his X box. He had wrestled occasionally. The only video he showed me of it – presumably his finest hour – was him being soundly thrashed.

Emperor was a child of reasonable ability. According to his mother he had won prizes in earlier years. She provided no corroboratory information. When? In which subjects? He bunked off school pretending to be ill. He was a most contemptible malingerer and filled with the most mawkish self-pity. He was worse than a wimp. Then he would return to school and find he was behind. So to avoid facing up to his workload he would again claim to be unwell and take time off school. Then he would return to school and find himself even further behind. He did not have the courage to confront the problem. Yet again he would say he was sick and stay at home for a week. It was a vicious cycle. He never grasped the nettle. His pathetic mother always caved in. She was moronic enough to think that missing a quarter of the schooldays was normal. She also said he had angina. Angina is found in the grossly obese and he was stick thin. It also affects heavy smokers. He did not smoke. It is almost unheard of in someone under 35. He was 15. Who diagnosed this? It was probably Dr Mum herself. She qualified from Hypochondria School of Medicine. She was guilty of criminal negligence towards her sprogs. Had I not known better I would guess that she was striving to ruin their education.

The autobiographical title ‘Chronicles of Wasted Time’ could have been written for these lads. They had a pool they never used. They were 10 metres from the sea and never swam in it. Such luxury for people of outstanding lassitude is a case of pearls before swine.

They thought their nationality was the master race. That included those of Russian blood. People who were citizens of their land were allowed home every fortnight. People from South East Asia or the Subcontinent were lucky to get home once a year.

When a Centrasian was ill the order was to take her to the best hospital and do not have regard to cost. But as for those from the Far East – let them die.

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CONCLUSIONS

Private tuition is no substitute for effort. You can spend any amount you want on a child’s education and it will make little difference.  There must have been close to $100 000 spent each year on the education of each child. How many children in Burundi could have been schooled for that? The boys each received not far off 600 hours one on one tuition. The elder two achieved precious little. They tried very, very hard not to try. They were extremely inventive when it came to thinking up excuses not to work. Their mother helped them in coming up with ever more unlikely reasons for their failure. They failed not just academically but to act their age. They did not fail tests so much as fail to show up to tests. That is a double failure. I would not mind my child failing but I would object to the child not even attempting the test.

You will never find someone meaner than a billionaire. They did not become obscenely rich through liberality. I have worked for some ultra high net worth individuals who made their lucre through nous and graft. I accord them a modicum of respect. I have no such regard for kleptocrats. Their parsimony towards their sweated labourers is made more galling by their extreme extravagance.  It is the self-righteousness that accompanied their extreme selfishness that really sickened me. Goodness is savagely punished. Evil is lavishly rewarded.

Egregious idleness is no barrier to advancement in a nepotistic society. Even Bright will be awarded a degree he never studied for. His belligerent stupidity will matter not a jot. He will be given a job he is incapable of doing. A working class chap will have to do his work for him and be paid only a tenth of Bright’s salary. It is invidious. If one had to design a system to bring about under development you could not do better. It is a truly invidious state of affairs.

A billion dollars will not buy you class. That much put upon Filipina maid was ten times the lady that Soul was. I curse her from now to the crack of doom.

I am not seeking sympathy. I had a very easy time. I got paid stupid amounts to do very little. I recommend this job to others if you do not mind it turning you sardonic. What angers me is what was done to others. It is obloquial that such a situation pertains in the present day.

This screaming injustice makes my blood boil. But I triply underline that I have imagined this whole immorality tale.

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THE MORAL OF THE STORY

It should be a cautionary tale. It is a lesson that we constantly need to be reminded of. It proves the ancient adage – money does not buy you happiness. Billionaires can be miserable too. These children had more than most people can ever dream of. Yet they are not happy because they do not appreciate it. It is all about being grateful for what you have rather than being resentful for what you do not have. Seek the happiness in your situation.  Do not spend time trying to find reasons to be grumpy.