Fr David Forrester

Titles:

Servant of God; servant of man

Posh boys’ priest

From the Tiber to the Thames

Establishment rebel

Angel of mercy

Father Forrester was the finest priest I ever met. Compassionate, ebullient, intelligent, full of fun and fired by a fervent faith – he had a most marvelous effect on the lives of countless thousands of people. His bounteous kindness was legendary. He won the hearts of even inveterate enemies of the faith. He had the most exceptional ability to form a rapport with everyone from princes to paupers. David was generous in every sense. He was a man of quiet virtue and was no Pharisee. David was a man of immense tolerance and eternal patience. He was certainly forgiving of my puerilities.

Priest, doctorate, unofficial social worker, author, historian and the master of five languages (English, French, Italian, Latin and Ancient Greek) – David was a man of many parts. He was also blessed with a fine singing voice. He was said to have been a passable actor too.

CHILDHOOD

David Forrester was born in Rushden, Northamptonshire in 1934. His father was something high up in a shoe factory and his mother was a nurse. Unusually for the time, his mother worked full time. Almost everything about his family was uncommon. David had a brother who was 12 years older than him. His brother was at boarding school before David was born.

The family was well off and owned a car when that was very rare indeed. But his parents rowed frequently because his father was compulsively unfaithful.

Cod psychology makes me wonder how David’s parents formed his character. David described his father as being tall and clever but someone who wasted his abilities. He refused to take responsibility. David suspected his father did not love him. Shockingly, David’s mother told him when he was small that when she became pregnant with him David’s father urged her to abort the baby. David seems to have been closer to his mother who was a very active and responsible person. As a nurse she was always going to people’s houses to cure them.

It seems that David reacted against his father. The belief that his father did not live him and indeed wanted him dead can only have added to this. The father was a womanizer and David was a celibate. His father was selfish and uncaring. David was the polar opposite. David’s father squandered his intellect whereas David did not do so. The father was lanky and David emphatically was not. Can this also have added to his desire – perhaps subconscious – to differentiate himself from his progenitor? Perhaps this wish to distance himself from his father explains his religious proclivities. He sought to be close to the Heavenly Father. Moreover, by turning to Catholicism he rejected his father’s denomination. On the other hand this was also a rejection of his mother.

The mother is the one whom David appears to have followed. She was the responsible and nurturing person.

As David had almost been murdered in the womb one might have thought this would make him vociferous is speaking up for a child’s right to life. But in fact he was not very exercised on the issue.

The Forrester’s were conventional Anglicans. Their religion was performed perfunctorily rather than passionately. David was put into a Salvation Army nursery. There he became passionate about the Bible.

A bomb dropped on David’s primary school almost killing him. His father was soon on the scene to carry him to safety.

At the age of 9, David was sent to the Duke of York School. It is a military school in Dover. The all-male school was extremely Spartan. Savage bullying was rife. David was intellectually precocious in an anti-intellectual school. He was also well below average height. Presumably he came in for more than his fair share of bullying.

The regime at Duke of York was severe indeed with extreme intolerance of the least untidiness. Independence of mind was treated harshly. There was endless square bashing but little warmth or nurture. All the teachers were former military men. The war was on and there were constant air raids.

At the age of 9 David had what was surely the most formative experience of his life. Walking along a beach on the Bristol Channel coast of Devon he suddenly became intensely aware that God was with him. From then on his faith was no longer something he practised perfunctorily. It became an all-consuming passion. It was redolent of John Wesley’s recounting his heart being strangely moved which led him to found Methodism.

In 1945 the war was coming to an end. David’s elder brother was serving with the British Army in Italy. All through the war his parents must have fretted. Would their firstborn be wounded? Or would he be killed? But by 1945 it was clear that Germany would soon surrender. Surely the brother would make it! It was then that David got the news that his elder brother had been killed in action. David said his parents never recovered. The brother had been 22.

At school David’s curiosity led him to wonder if the Church of England really was the most Christian Church. He noticed that Jesus gave his authority to St Peter who had founded the Roman Catholic Church. David came to believe that the bread and wine at communion was the body and blood of Our Lord and Saviour. He scorned the Church of England for saying that this was merely symbolic. David was convinced in the Real Presence.

The Oxford Movement had followed the same path as David a hundred years earlier: from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism. David became fixated with the Oxford Movement. Indeed he was to become a world expert on it.

David announced to his parents that he wished to cross the Tiber. His parents were displeased to say the least. They had been brought up on tales of the wickedry of the Church of Rome. It was an epoch in which low level anti-Catholicism was not uncommon in England. Catholics were known as RC’s (Roman Catholics) and looked upon as un-English. To be fair most Catholics in England were at least partly Irish, French, Italian or something else. People said the ditty – the Englishman Italianate is the devil incarnate.

At school David resigned from the choir because he wished to leave the Church of England. The Colonel who was headmaster of the school told David that this was a transient phase and that his wish to leave the choir would not be granted. The army crushed dissent.

At the age of 17 David formed a romantic liaison with a Jewish girl of about his age. Both sets of parents thoroughly disapproved of the relationship. The two were forbidden to correspond. That was an era before most people had house phones. Mobile phones had not even been imagined.

The young lady and David wrote to Auntie Hilda. She was not actually his aunt but the woman who ran the playschool he had attended. She would then send the letters on so neither set of parents had an inkling that the two were in contact.

At 18 David proposed to this young lady and she accepted. It was all going so well.

The letters from the girl stopped without warning. What had transpired? David asked Auntie Hilda. She never breathed a word but simply showed him a photo of his fiancée descending the steps of a synagogue sporting a wedding dress and arm in arm with a man.

The impact on David can be imagined. He does not say what it was in his autobiography. Is this what led to his life of celibacy? Perhaps he could never feel romantic love again. He was utterly heartbroken as a mere boy. He and she never had any contact again.

There was almost irresistible pressure on Jewesses to marry Jewish at the time. So soon after the Holocaust, ‘marrying out’ was held to be a betrayal. Perhaps we should not judge this young woman too harshly. On the other hand she was clearly carrying on with the other boy behind David’s back. Moreover, she did not have the moral decency to tell David she was breaking it off with him. But how could she face it?

David had to do National Service. As someone of superior intelligence who had 9 years of a military school behind him, it was easy for David to be commissioned as a lieutenant. Many people in the 1950s were only semi-literate. Most people then left school at 15 without any qualifications at all. David would clearly have had no problem with the paperwork aspect of army officership.

It surprises me that he never once mentioned his time in the army. He seemed a totally unmilitary person. That said he was always immaculate although that might not be owing to his time wearing the Queen’s uniform.

Before going into the army David sat Responsions. That was the admissions exam for Oxford University that ran from the mid-19th century until the 1960s. The exam was in Ancient Greek, Latin and Maths. There was no English! Someone who had achieved the mastery of classical languages was blatantly capable of expressing himself or herself in English.

UNDERGRADUATE

David went up to Keble College, Oxford in the year of grace some one thousand nine hundreds four and fifty. Why did he choose Keble? Possibly because John Keble was a pillar of the Oxford Movement.

Rowing was David’s sport. Because of his stature he became a coxswain. He was about 5’4’’: the height of the average woman. There was some clash on the river. He told me that years later he was summoned to a meeting of all the coxes in Oxford to be chastised. He was rather nervous about showing up. David seemed embarrassed and amused about all those decades later. I felt it showed how close he was to me that he vouchsafed this tale. I do not know what the upshot of the meeting was but he gave me to believe that it was not as bad as he has foreseen.

At parties David did not know what to do with his hands so he took up smoking. When he recalled that for me over 40 years later he spoke of it disdainfully – he regretted his youthful folly and looked on his former behaviour with disdain. When he had smoked people were only just becoming aware that tobacco is injurious to the health.

David does not state what class of degree he took. This is probably modesty again.

TEACHING

David taught at Haberdasher Aske’s School. It is now officially named Haberdasher’s. Mr. Aske who founded it made his money from servitude. The school is commonly called Hab’s and is situated in Hertfordshire – just north of London.

After Hab’s, David taught at Churcher’s College in Hampshire. It was a county that he was to remain associated with for decades.

David was received into the Catholic Church. He was considering whether he had a vocation.

D.PHIL

David returned to Oxford to take a doctorate. It was on Edmund Bouverie Pusey. Born Edmund Bouverie, he was from a landholding family in Oxfordshire. The Bouverie’s were French Hugenots who had come to Great Britain after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685.

Edmund Bouverie went to Eton and then to Oxford. He rose to become the Regius Professor of Hebrew at Oxford. A regius professorship is one founded by the monarch and there are very few of those. He was an Anglican who joined the Oxford Movement. He later added Pusey to his name. His family were the most notable inhabitants of that Oxfordshire village. It is not to be confused with Pewsey in Wiltshire.

Pusey House in Oxford is for the Forward in Faith Movement. This is a party in the Church of England that rejects women priests. It is for Anglo-Catholics. They are Catholic in every wise except for papal authority.

David later published his thesis as a work of popular history – Young Doctor Pusey.

ROME

The Catholic Church finally decided that David could enter a seminary. As the cream of the intake he was sent to the Venerable English College in Rome. He was 34 when he arrived. There he spent 6 years.

All the lectures were in Latin. The Second Vatican Council had only just closed. Modernisation was sweeping through the Church. Not everyone liked it!

The regime at the English College was almost military. They had to rise very early for prayers. They had to wear their seminarian’s uniform. Despite some of the students being in their 30s these men were not allowed out after a certain hour.

Despite the priesthood being about obedience, David was a rebel. He went against the rules and he dined in the houses of Italian friends.

Tony Battle was another seminarian there. He became a close friend of David’s. Indeed, David dedicated his autobiography to him. Toby was committed to helping society’s poorest. David joined him on some of Toby’s outings to distribute alms. Toby was of left wing opinions. David had a similar inclination. There is no reason to believe that the friendship was anything other than platonic.

In Rome, David met two students who were later to become the Archbishop of Westminster. One was the 6’3’’ Cormac Murphy O’Connor. The other was Vincent Nicholls. They were both good looking and presentable. For the laity they were relatable.

So many priests of that generation were odd bods – refugees from mainstream society. Some were young men in a hurry to be old. Some were reactionaries. Others were autistics. There were mothers’ vocations. These were men who entered the seminary because their mothers wanted the unparalleled honour of being the mother of a priest. She would decide that the only woman good enough for her son was the Virgin Mary.

David mentioned the lengths to which the college went to avoid homosexual relationships developing. Seminarians were told to go in groups of three at least. If two young men spent too much time alone they might develop a romantic attachment. In the evenings they sat in circles of around ten on tables. No one was permitted to sit on the same table two nights in a row. Again this was with the purpose of averting any intimacy. David did not say whether or not this succeeded in its aim.

In Italy, David became a friend of a male Italian doctor. It was with him that David went up into the mountains one snowy day and located his brother’s grave. His brother had been killed 25 years earlier. The Italian family declared that David was now a member of their family.

After a few happy years in the Eternal City, David graduated. He returned to the United Kingdom.

PRIESTHOOD

David went to Portsmouth. It was there that he was ordained. He worked as a curate in that diocese for many years. His stipend was tiny. He seemed to spend most of it on other people.

The parish that David was allotted to had a lot of deprivation. He did Trojan work amongst junkies, the homeless and prostitutes. He was ever mindful that they were all beloved of God.

In the 1980s he visited Rome at least once. He met Pope John Paul II.

David was keenly aware of the frailties of his brother priests. Some were self-regarding, some were selfish, others were oafish and some were spiteful. He recognized them as being all too human. If David had a flaw it was being too good and too compassionate.

BACK TO OXFORD

Whilst an undergraduate David had been in awe of the Catholic chaplain. He was staggered that he was made chaplain. He had a superb connection with the undergraduates. David did not take to many of the dons.

ETON

I first saw David Forrester in the summer of 1996. I recall one Saturday rowing up to Queen’s Eyot. Eyot means a little island in the Thames and only in the Thames. Eyot is sometimes spelt ait. In either case it is pronounced like the number eight.

I saw Fr. Knott and Fr. Forrester stepping out of a car in the car park across the river. They crossed onto the island by bridge. It was the first time I ever set eyes on David. He was to make such an enormous difference to my life but I had no idea about that back then. David was only 5’4’’ and physically unprepossessing. He was of medium build. The priest seemed serious and faintly nervous. He was about to take on a major responsibility. It was because he was so earnest that he was a little anxious. But this serious demeanour was not what he was like at all as I was soon to discover.

David was invited to say mass for the Catholics of Eton. Fr. Peter Knott SJ was due to retire.

Fr. Knott was then 73 years old. But he seemed more like 100. Fr Knott was rubicund, kindly, tubby, slightly ineffectual and deaf as a post. He was Santa Claus without the beard. His deafness was no doubt attributable to having been a Royal Artillery officer in the Second World War. The Jesuit was a thoroughly decent man but no longer connected with adolescents. His homilies were read essays. He had missed lesson one of public speaking. He never once attempted eye contact with us.

Perhaps one of the reasons by Fr. David Forrester chose to take over the role of Catholic Chaplain at Eton was that he was an outspoken admirer of an Old Etonian priest: Monsignor Ronald Knox. Knox had been raised an Anglican just like Fr. Forrester. Knox had made the same painful journey to Roman Catholicism. Even more controversially, Knox had been ordained in the Church of England before becoming a Catholic. He wrote a memoir of his time at Eton and how it eventually led him to embracing the Church of Rome. Monsignor Knox is said by some to be among the best stylists in the English language.

I am unsure if we were told that Fr. Forrester would be taking over next term when he said mass for us that summer half. He took to the podium in Upper School and said mass. He was only 10 years younger than Fr. Knott. Despite being white haired, David Forrester seemed two generations younger than Father Knott.

David struck me as sincere, energetic and emotionally intelligent. His homily mentioned having been a chaplain at a girls’ school years before. He said he would ask them in the run-up to the summer hols if any of them were due to go to Italy. A few would murmur yes. Then he would say that no doubt a few would have romances with Italian boys. He told them what to make of it if the boy said ‘’te amo.’’ It was a homily about love. It really was the theme of his life. David was a man with an incalculable capacity for love. He was the most giving person I have ever known. Nothing was too much trouble. He was as self-sacrificing and as magnanimous as can possibly be imagined.

It says much for his preachments that almost 30 years later I remember this. I can scarcely remember a world that good old Father Knott said in 3 years of homilies.

In the Michaelmas Half of 1996 Fr. Forrester moved to Eton. He had formally taken over from the very first Catholic Chaplain that Eton had had since the reign of Mary Tudor.

The Catholic Chaplain’s Flat is above Old Christopher. The building on Eton High Street has that named because of the Christopher Inn operated until the mid-19th century when the railways came and the need for coaching inns disappeared.

Ironically, Fr. Forrester’s one bedroom flat was down the corridor from the Pop room. Pop is officially named the Eton Society but no one calls it that. Poppers are member of Pop. They are what most schools would call prefects. The outgoing Pop elect the incoming Pop. Poppers are usually sports stars and command the respect of their peers. They are more or less crowd control for large gatherings of boys. They are allowed to come up with their own colourful waiscoats – all are individual. They were spongebag trousers with a houndstooth check.

Despite Pop being the police for the boys a popper can seldom boast as a copper is supposed to – I never drink on duty. The Pop room was full of overflowing ashtrays, empty beer cans and porn videos. It is a den of iniquity. As I say they are chosen for the kudos they have among the boys and not for being angelic. But the respect in which their peers hold them enables them to order others about.

I was up to Fr. Forrester for history. He taught us upstairs in Warre Schools – in the classroom on the right as you look at the building from the front. The desks were arrange in a hollow square. His hair was totally white and slightly thin. I had no idea that he had once had red hair. His hair never changed length – he must have had very regular haircuts. He was always flawlessly turned out.

I was in a class of second raters. Despite being a historical obsessive I had missed an A* in GCSE.

David began to teach us in his gentle tenor’s voice. It was an eminently listenable and lively voice. His timbre was faintly camp as were his movements. If I had had to guess at his sexuality I would guess a repressed homosexual. I did not guess at the time. In fact, the only romantic relationship he ever had was with a young lady when he was 17. But I did not discover that until after David died.

Fr. Forrester was courteous, soft spoken and in fact soft. David was unscary and not authoritative. But Etonians are well brought up and their captiousness has its limits.

The other boys asked him provocative questions.

Nick Small said, ‘’Sir, do you believe all Protestants will go to hell?’’

‘’Of course not’’ he said seeming faintly worried by the question.

I wish his riposte had been, ‘’No, only you Nicholas.’’

David taught us about the French Revolution. I knew a bit about already. But the Necklace Affair and Cardinal de Rohan were news to me.

He gave us fact files and asked us to think about how we would get the measure of a historical figure. He told us about Louis XVI being an amateur locksmith.

The most valuable thing that David taught me in history is that we must ask about a historical figure: what makes him tick? It was an extremely valuable question. The same applies to everyone. About a new pupil I always ask the parents: what motivates her? It is the vital question to ask about anyone? Is he or she intrinsically or extrinsically motivated? Does she want to pass a certain exam get into a particular school, get a medal in a sport, get elected to something, do the best for her children, be recognized for her beauty, to find love, to make money, be thought clever, make people laugh, win admiration for her intellect, be left alone, publish novels or what? What makes her tick?

David produced an imaginary character and had a fact file for him an army officer whose political affiliation had been Conservative and was now New Labour. This being the height of Blair mania – just before the 1997 election.

I recollect his exact words about Louis XVIII saying, ‘’I would rather hew wood and draw water than rule like the English king.’’

In the run-up to trials (internal school exams) David gave lectures on a topic. There were these extra lectures so we could get select trades – i.e. the top ones. I went to the Eliot Schools Lecture Room to hear him speak. His topic was the Oxford Movement. I had not heard of it before. He said it was a vast subject. He described the various factions in the Church of England. He spoke of the iniquities and inequities of pluralism i.e. a priest holding several parishes and collecting the salaries for all of them and paying a much lower salary to other priests to do the work. David also expostulated the Tracts and the seminal one – Tract XC or ‘tract ninety’ as it is pronounced. He explained that this is why the Oxford Movement is sometimes known as the Tractarians. Little did I know at the time I was having the privilege of hearing from a world authority on this subject.

David recommended Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold for a taste of the religious spirit of that epoch. I read it. Of course, David would have known that beach as we went to school there.

The novel Barchester Towers contains characters who reveal a lot about the Oxford Movement – so David informed us.

I later discussed Cardinal Newman’s Apologia pro vita sua with David. I still have not read the whole thing.

David marked my trials paper. I had unwisely answered a question on the romantic movement in a history paper. David later told me ‘’quoting lots of lines of Shelley at me is not going to get you very far.’’ I earned a medicore grade.

I once asked David why he became a Catholic. He said he wanted a 7 day a week religion and not a 1 day a week religion.

I only once ever saw David angry. In a div (lesson) of the boys said something cruel about another. David was instantly incensed.

‘’You are mistreating someone who is made in the image of God!’’, a vein wobbled on the side of his head.

He uttered those words ‘’the image of God’’ with the most striking sincerity I have ever seen.

I discovered by looking at fixtures that not only was Fr. Forrester an Oxonian he also had a D.Phil. 9 out of 10 beaks has been to Varsity. But to have a D.Phil. was rare. That made him one of the heaven born in my view.

David came across as being unsmiling at first. It was only later that he opened up. The warm and humorous side of him began to shine.

David was caring. I remember on Common Lane on one occasion I walked beside him.

‘Do you have friends?’ he asked me concernedly. Being an odd bod I was unpopular but I did have a few friends.

I was religiously obsessed. I heard mass every day in Lent. It was just me and him there in the antechapel of College Chapel. He said mass there daily usually just to himself.

Once I went to hear mass during trials. David was in his lay dress until he donned his sacerdotal vestments over them. He said mock gravely that people were praying because ‘’they hope their prayers will have retroactive effect!’’

I had never heard that term ‘retroactive’ before. I remember his very deliberate facial expression as he enunciated the word retroactive.

At Eton, David got the Newman Society going. It was named in honour of John Henry Cardinal Newman. Newman had been a doyen of the Oxford Movement. He had converted from being an Anglican priest.

The Duke of Norfolk came to address the society once. The duke was the foremost Catholic layman in the realm. I wrote it up for the Eton College Chronicle. The meeting took place in the august setting of Election Hall. At one point His Grace said the rule against contraception was imbecilic. He looked around, ‘’Where’s David? David’s gone.’’

I remember Ewan McCowen laughing at this. Presumably the priest had gone to wash his hands but the implication of the timing was that he found the topic of contraception so embarrassing that he had run away.

David told me the story of how he was headhunted for Eton. Catholic worthies phoning him up and asking him all sorts of questions without saying that they were sizing him up for a job.

I recall one chilly day walking along Common Lane and falling into conversation with David. I idly told him how I was wearing my old tailcoat and it was far too small. I took my arm out of my overcoat and showed him my how tailcoat sleeve was far too short. He was tickled pink.

David’s homilies were effectual. He had the prosody, the gravitas and the emotional vocal range that is required of an excellent preacher. Of course half the boys were indifferent to religion or even hostile. Some were half asleep and scarcely even mumbled the Nicene Creed.

Scanning the pews suspiciously David would ask rhetorically, ‘How many of us said our prayers last night? How many of us have been to confession in the last year?’ He was no naif and would have been painfully aware that in most cases our religiosity was lax or even non-existent.

Being a fervent Catholic at that stage I could honestly answer that I had. I strove not to be smug and say like St Paul had when he was Saul, ‘’as to the law I am faultless.’’

Some of David’s anecdotes I recall to this day. He spoke of addressing a public meeting. A youngish black lady entered the meeting a bit late.

‘’She had such a smile that it seemed with that smile she could get anything in the world’’, he said zestfully.

At the end of the talk she came up to David and spoke to him privately. She told him, ‘’I am an outcast in Uganda where I come from because I am divorced and in Uganda that is a total disgrace.’’

‘’Oh dear’’ said David sympathetically.

‘’Then I discovered that I have HIV’’ she said.

‘’Oh dear’’ David added nonplussed.

‘’Then I found out I was pregnant and I had an abortion because I could not raise a child when I know I have HIV’’ she said.

David was then stuck for anything to say. So he hugged the woman.

She said, ‘’you know you are the first person to touch me like that in a year.’’

It speaks volumes for his boundless love for others. He was a fountain of compassion and goodness even towards perfect strangers.

There were other heart rending tales. As soon as he was ordained a priest he was summoned to a hospital where a 17 year old boy was dying. He prayed with the boy only to discover that he was an orphan. David performed the funeral. No one came to the funeral. It made me reflect how fortunate I was.

At mass he told us how his brother had been killed in the Second World War. This gave me some sort of idea of David’s age. David also let slip that he had done National Service so must have been born by 1941.

Speaking about his brother David told us that in Italy he visited the grave accompanied by his Italian doctor friend. I distinctly recall him saying of his pal, ‘’he is now a successful paediatrician.’’

David’s faith was unlimited. When he spoke of Mary the Mother of God he would say the words ‘’Mary ever virgin’’ with an especial elan on the word ‘virgin.’

Never afraid to take on authority, David sometimes criticized the Church. He said the Church had been ghastly. Bricking nuns up for fornication – he said, ‘’no wonder there was a Reformation.’’

David treated us to other stories. He told us about his visit to Texas. He did a decent impression of a Texan accent and swagger. David did not like swank or those who blew their own trumpets. He simply had to take them down a peg or two. He was invited to address the symposium of 400 American priests. Then he told the Texan priests, ‘’I can understand why anyone would die for freedom. But why would anyone die for Texas?’’

At mass boys were given the duty to read the Bible aloud.

Van den Berg ma was reading from The Book of Exodus. The gobbet said, ‘’I am the Lord your God who took you out of the house of bondage, out of the land of Egypt.’’ Except he accidentally read it as ‘Eton.’ The boy flushed with embarrassment went back and corrected himself.

When people misspoke David never chided them.

Sometimes after mass I would be invited back to Father Forrester’s flat. He would never bring a boy there alone – always two or more. Perhaps this was for child protection reasons.

In David’s flat we would have sherry. He would also serve us nibbles. He explained that the head master said he had to give us something to eat however small when serving us alcohol. This was presumably so we would not get too drunk. Having us in inebriety before luncheon simply would not do.

These chats at his flat were an opportunity to get to know us.

On one occasion David said, ‘’we need to get George a girlfriend.’’

The chaplain was absolutely spot on. Female affection and validation is what I craved most and have craved ever since. But he did not act as a dating agency.

I subsequently found out that he later started to function as a dating agency. He honestly set boys up on dates with suitable girls! The inappropriacy of this, as it would now be seen, would be a barring offence. Of course he was simply making people happy.

It does not seem to have crossed David’s mind that a few boys might prefer a same sex relationship.

Whilst having drinks after mass in C Block there were a few boys from D Block there. I cracked a joke about David being short. The others chortled at this low blow. David scowled and said ‘’ha ha ha George’’ bitterly. He was too merciful to me for such insolence. But as time was to tell he was a moral giant and I was a Lilliputian.

I recollect going to his flat one Sunday after hearing him say mass and finding there was a young man from South Africa there. This chap was in his mid-20s and had known David at Oxford and David had invited him to stay the night in the flat.

‘’He slept there last night’’ said David emphatically pointing to the sofa.

It had not crossed my mind that the man had slept anywhere else. Looking back on it I suppose he was keen to allay any suspicion that David had had a physical encounter with this man.

David was not very authoritative. When someone in his flat was misbehaving and proposing to go into a room that was forbidden David said, ‘’Charlie, no!’’

The vehemence of the ‘’No’’ was noticeable. But the wayward youth still defied him.

I recall a boy two years below me suffered the death of his father. The boys was about 14 when this happened. David had a mass card for the deceased on his mantelpiece. He always showed the greatest and most genuine sympathy for those who were in mourning.

Curiously, despite being fond of David and growing to respect him immensely, it was while I knew David that I came to be an atheist. But this led to no diminution in my regard for the priest.

I was called upon to read aloud at mass one Sunday. I could not resist reading in an unmistakably scornful and sarcastic tone. I was pushing the envelope. David pretended not to notice. He never said a word to me about it. Was he too forgiving?

David was liked by everyone. No one had a bad word to say about him. Even anti-religious people were fond of him.

In C Block we were given a lecture about HIV. David delivered it. He spoke in a matter of fact manner about how this disease was transmitted. He had ministered to many people who had died of it.

On one occasion I bumped into David at school. He mentioned to me ‘’history that you are so good at’’. He turned away chuckling to himself – not that he was joking. It gave him such a thrill to boost someone’s self-esteem that he felt almost naughty. He radiated kindness and positivity.

I told David that I had been horrified to discover that someone I was close to had had an abortion some years earlier. What should I do to speak to her about it and try to persuade her to seek God’s absolution. He said, ‘’it is totally against the teaching of the church for her to do that’’ but he counseled me to ‘’choose your moment carefully.’’ I have still not chosen that moment.

David insisted on raising the standards of Catholicism. He insisted that boys sit a test before they went for confirmation. At the end of mass he read out some names and insisted that they remain behind because they had done ‘’rather abysmally’’ in their test. It was uncharacteristic of him to say such a thing.

I quipped to David that I would vote for him in the college one day.

‘’What college?’’ he said looking quizzically.

‘’In the college of cardinals’’ I replied mischievously.

He instantly brightened into a smile. I was suggesting he should become the pope.

David often befriended miscreants. He was forever pleading their case. He was not sectarian and he would intercede to save Anglicans as much as Catholics.

I recall his tale about meeting the Queen Mother. As in she was the mother of Queen Elizabeth II. The Queen Mother greeted David. David knew that people were not to say anything to a royal unless the royal spoke first. This was to prevent everyone trying to speak to the royal at once. But David broke the rules and informed her that he taught the page boy who held her train at ceremonies.

‘’I think he is a good boy’’, she said in a comically posh accent.

David laughed heartily at that – the boy concerned was one of the worst behaved in the school.

Her Majesty was amused, ‘’I only said I think he is a good boy’’ she said – realizing that David was chuckling so much because the youth concerned was an incorrigible reprobate.

I went off the rails in my last 18 months at school. I was too old for school.

I got blind drunk on one occasion and micturated on the Burning Bush. David heard the rumour. He came up to me on the street some says and told me what I had done. ‘’That was appalling George’’, he chided me but he could not hide his amusement either. He did not dob me in.

David was always trying to help out troubled and troublesome boys. One whom he took under his wing was the Honourable Tom Lumley. Lumley’s father was the Earl of Scarborough. Desite his lordly state, Tom was not in the least bit haughty and did not speak with a particularly posh accent. Tom was an Anglican but did this did not diminish David’s wish to help the boy one iota.

I got into big trouble in my last Michaelmas term. I was imprisoned on the private side of the house. Expulsion seemed certain.

Fr. Forrester was summoned. I confessed to him in the religious sense. He listened gravely – not looking at me. Yet was somehow sympathetic.

The Head Man was John Lewis. The New Zealander was known for taking a very long time to make up his mind. This worked in my favour. For most heads it would have been an open and shut case. The decision to expel would have been made instantly. But David’s intercessory efforts were crowned with success. David was an angel of mercy.

I visited David that December of 1997 when I was coming back from my Oxford interview. He was delighted to see me.

He said my prank was soon forgotten. Some F Blockers had gone back to their prep school and caused trouble and that became a bigger story.

I introduced my mother to David some months later. He had spoken to my father on the phone during the affair. Pater had joked to him ‘’are they building the gallows.’’

I was at first rejected from Oxford. I asked David about it. I wish I had asked him before my first application.

David said he would arrange for me to have luncheon with Fr Tom Weinandy. Weinandy was an American priest who ran Greyfriars. Greyfriars was a tiny permanent private hall of Oxford University. It no longer has any connection to Oxford University.

I went to Oxford one Sunday wearing a suit. I had hardly ever been there. This was long before the days of Google maps. I had the bright idea of walking to Greyfriars. It is on the far side of the city! If ever there was a time to splash out on a cab it was that day. My future was riding on that. I asked directions all the way. Somehow I managed to find it. I arrived an hour late for luncheon! I was so late he commented that I was supposed to arrive at 12:20. The only way to cope was to lie and say I thought it was 1:30 I was expected.

I still made a decent impression on the priest.

I asked David about it next day. He said Fr Tom had said, ‘’if that boy gets two A’s and a B we will take him.’’

Like an absolute idiot I did not take this easy way into Oxford. Such is the folly of youth! As it happens I got into Oxford anyway and to a far superior college. It is odd how right the wrong decision can be.

A few months after I left I was back to sort out my UCAS form.

Peter Mandelson was due to speak. I waited at the arch into Weston’s Yard.

David did not want me there. He jokingly said go away. Then he said let’s all kick George. He pretended to kick me.

I had a camera and suggested taking a photo of Mandelson. David told me not to so I did not.

Mandelson was then one of the most prominent cabinet ministers. He got out of his ministerial car and I shook his hands along with the others.

I went to the talk that Mandelson gave.

I met David again in Oxford in early 2003. He was very pleasantly surprised to see me.

I once heard a man in his 20s say he wanted to meet 17 year old girls at university. David chided him, ‘’you sound like a paedophile.’’

We discussed my housemaster Mr. Woodcock. Woodcock had stood down after only 6 years in charge of a house. 14 years is the usual term. He had been having an affair with the school nurse. This was setting an immoral example. He soon left the school.

David said ‘’I think Mr. Woodcock was ashamed’’ – he disliked everyone knowing what he had been up to.

Fr. Forrester also spoke about the new head master. He had introduced a rule whereby anyone caught smoking in the house was suspended first time and expelled for the second offence. When he told me this David put his left index finger across his upper lip in indication of a moustache and raised his right arm straight at a 45 degree angle for a derisory sieg heil – saying that the headmaster was a tyrant.

I went back to Eton for the Fourth of June in 2004. David was just about to retire. I rang the doorbell of his flat. He was in his dressing gown – about to have a shower. But we had a pleasant though brief chat.

AFTER ETON

David later worked at Woldingham School. He was chaplain but did not teach.

I was in email correspondence with David in 2007. I told him of my hair raising behaviour. He wrote, ‘’I hope you know what you are doing.’’

I should have written to him more in dark times.

In 2008 David fully retired.

I lost access to my email account in 2014.

In 2014 I went back to Eton. At the railway station I serendipitously saw David being accompanied by a young man. I was taken aback but elated.

‘’I know you but I do not remember your name’’, he said with flat affect.

It was the last time I ever saw him. How I wish I had taken his details.

In 2009 David penned his memoir. It is a book of lucidity and worth. There are some amusing episodes and poignant ones too. The book has pace and its lyricism rings out. I can hear David saying it. He has a gift for laying someone bare in but a few sentences. It was a revelation to see him describe some women as attractive. David was correct about the head master of Eton for most of his time: John Lewis. Mr. Lewis was gauche. One of his worst moments was when in School Hall Assembly he told B Block and C Block about how he went to the Tower of London to see the ceremony of the keys. There was a lack of emotional intelligence to Mr. Lewis. I thought it was a mildly interesting vignette but the delivery was clumsy and went down very badly with the hardened cynics who were the audience. He also related this tale in chambers to the beaks (teachers) who reacted similarly.

I later discovered that David had been in Abingdon in 2010. If only I had known. I was very close at the time.

David’s liberality remained undimmed. In Oxford one day he was wandering with a penniless young seminarian. David bought him a pair of shoes impulsively. He would do anything to make people happy.

CONCLUSION

David was the most loving person I have ever known. What a wonderful father figure he was. He was goodness itself.

David was totally committed to his vows. There was never a whisper about him ever doing anything immoral.

David was the most honourable person I ever knew. How I wish he could know how much I love him. I regret that I never hugged him.

I wanted to weep to purge myself of my grief for him. But when I read an account of his death it moved me to tears.

How I wish there is a heaven for him to go to.

It was a grey and grim January. I was in London and between jobs: story of my life. An oligarch’s tutor is a happy one but it is also an unstable one. Jobs are short term and insecure.

An agency told me about a job in Switzerland, ‘’they are a Greek-British family and they divide their time between London and Gstaad. A brother and sister both aged 7. Might you be interested?’’ said a pukka young man on the phone.

My financial situation was such that I would have been ‘interested’ even if it had been in Afghanistan. Plus the money in this London-Gstaad job was very alluring. In fact the pupils were much too young for me to tutor effectively. But I thought it smart not to divulge that. They arranged for the father to call me.

One afternoon I was pottering around Richmond-upon-Thames. I knew the phone call was due. I darted into Caffe Nero to be out of the drizzle. I was phoned by the father – Mr. Papathomas. He spoke with a typical middle class London accent. It was not Cockney and not quite RP.

‘’Hello, George how are you?’’ said the man.

‘’I am very well thank you, Mr. Papathomas. And how are you?’’ I replied trying to sound upbeat and deferential at the same time.

He quizzed me a bit about my experience and my attitude to tutoring pupils.

‘’I can do proper sit down lessons. There can be songs and games and silly dances. I can get down on the carpet to play with them. Would you prefer a tutor to be serious and grown up or to meet the children on their own level?’’, I inquired cautiously.

‘’There is room for a bit of both I think’’, said Mr. P sounding fascinated.

‘’I am very innovative. My approach is to get to know the pupils – what makes them tick. I find out what their strengths are and what the areas they really need to develop are. In my first year of teaching an older colleague said to me that everyone has at least one topic he or she likes to speak about. Find out what that is and you can always connect with that person by asking the person to speak about that pet topic. I give ample praise and encouragement as well as practical guidance about how to get better – I give examples. I have lots of mnemonics to help them. If they make a mistake I sometimes let it drift so as not to be too discouraging. When it comes to correction it is best if they can self-correct – I would ask them is this word really spelt correctly? Most of the time the child will see that it is not and he or she will correct it. I only correct it if the child cannot.’’

‘’You are very personable I can tell that just by speaking to you’’ said Mr. P.

After 20 minutes it was decided – I would come out for a trial.

A few days later I got myself to Farnborough by train. Farnborough has the UK’s main private airport – i.e. private jets only. I had seen on the map that the airport was not too far from the railway station. I considered walking. I am glad that I splashed out on a cab in the end.

I arrived at the security barrier gate to the airport. The uniformed little middle aged jobsworth had to ask me for some special code number to be let in. This I gave.

Into the airport terminal. It was in many ways an ordinary airport terminal just that it was very small and there were only about 10 passengers there. None of them were young.

There was a camp middle aged concierge in a well pressed grey suit with red and white stripy tie, gelled mid brown hair and, if I am not mistaken, very discrete makeup. He could have been Dale Winton’s catamite.

‘’Is there anything I can do for you this morning sir?’’ he sibilated poised over me with this hands clasp in a servile attitude.

‘’Yes, please could you iron this shirt?’’, I handed one to him from my bag.

He duly returned with it a few minutes later and it was well ironed.

It was getting to departure time. I was having trouble concentrating on my law book. Then along came a bluff and heavyset man in his 50s with greying hair. He wore a ski jacket and a rumpled dark blue suit beneath it.

‘’Excuse me sir are you Mr. Papathomas?’’ I inquired anxiously.

‘’No, but I am flying him’’ the man replied in a detectable Dutch accent.

In a few minute the concierge came up to me and told me there was a car to take me to the plane. I duly left by car and in a minute it drew up at the 10 seater business jet on the runway. At the door of the jet a very slim and very pretty young air hostess greeted me. She was almost 6 foot tall in heels. Her hair was as jet black as her nails and lipstick were blood red. This contrasted almost jarringly with her snow white complexion. She was perhaps too heavily made-up.

‘’Good morning and welcome on board’’, her soprano voice said in a very strong French accent.

‘’Bonjour je vous empris’’, I replied. She was crestfallen that I had identified her as French instantly.

I boarded the jet: it was limpid and smelt aromatic. I found my seat. The door to the cockpit was open and the plump pilot from the Netherlands foostered with his controls. I was once told by an airline pilot that the pilot is just there to reassure the passengers. The whole thing is run on autopilot. One day airlines will start to fly passengers on pilotless planes. But would you board a plane without a pilot?

In a minute two more men climbed into the jet. There was a short, thin bald man of about 60 – he shorted Mr. McGoo glasses and a brown polo neck.

‘’Hello George’’ he said very quietly.

‘’Good morning are you Mr. Papathomas?’’ I said expectantly shaking his bony hand.

‘’Yes, yes’’ he said casually and then looked away.

He was accompanied by an overweight 50 something bearded man with whom he spoke French. The other man did not even glance at me and it was plain to me that he did not wish to be greeted by me.

Within seconds we were taxing down the runway. Taking off in a tiny plane is so much more exhilarating than taking off in an ordinary sized commercial passenger plane. One feels the takeoff so much more viscerally. The whiz down the runway is very brief and then it is up, up and away. It took only 30 seconds to see the green fields laid out lack a rug beneath us.

Mr. Papathomas and his interlocutor spoke sotto voce in French the whole way. I speak the language very well. I took my cue from them. This was patently not a conversation in which I should participate. They were discussing delicate business matters.

I relaxed into the flight. Soon I was dozing. I awoke later as the air hostess served sushi.

It was only an hour later when we came in over the snowy Swiss Alps and landed in a drizzling Berne.

Again a car took us to the terminal. At passport control we were the only three people.

The other man bade farewell at that point.

I was out of the building with Mr. Papathomas and heading towards his car. I relaxed into it and chatted to him amiably.

His car in the car park was a space age one. It was very low and aerodynamic. I tried to open the door.

‘’It opens vertically’’ he said softly. So it did.

I saw into the motor. My feet were almost at ground level in this 2 seater.

‘’I have always been into fast cars, fast boats, fast this that and the other’’ he explained.

‘’I see’’, I said deferentially.

‘’Let me tell you. My wife and I – we are Greek. But I was born in London. She was born in Cyprus but came out when she was little. Anyway we were unable to have children. So we adopted a Russian boy and girl from birth. They are not natural sister and brother. They were born only 6 months apart. They know that they are adopted but they do not understand it yet’’, he kept his eyes on the road.

We sped through lovely Swiss landscape. The oncoming darkness hardly dimmed the splendor of the pine forests, the icy rivers and the snow covered fields. There were some classic wooden Swiss chalets. Being Switzerland everything was spotless. It is a land of narrow dales and steep mountains. There were numberless sharp twists and turns to negotiate.

At last we came to a large hotel in the middle of a luxury resort town named Gstaad. I was let out by him and told to go and check-in. A room had been reserved. He would be back for me in the morning. I did as I was instructed.

There was another strikingly nubile young lady on reception. She had a face with skin so perfect it was as if she had never frowned. She was tall and thin without being too thin. She wore a perfectly while blouse and disappointingly demure black trousers.

‘’Bon soir. J’ai une reservation sur le nom de Callaghan’’, I said essaying to suppress by RP accent.

She tapped something into the computer. ‘’Yes, I can see Mr. Callaghan’’ she said in English in her Swiss-French accent, ‘’Mr. Papathomas has reserved for you?’’

My public school accent had betrayed me.

In a minute I was up in my room. It was not large but it was very comfortable. There were bare wooden walls. They were going for an old style Swiss aesthetic.

Later I went downstairs to dine. I ordered a Swiss steak.

It was about to come when I got a call. Change of plan. I was to come to the house that evening. Otherwise I would have almost no time to meet the children next morning. Be outside the hotel in 10 minutes.

I informed the head waiter that I would not be eating the steak after all.

‘’Ok but you still have to pay for it – it cooked now’’ said the thickset middle aged man in flawless English. I signed for it and dashed off.

I was outside the hotel. The night sky was snowing silently.

I looked out across the deserted streets. There were many fine looking hotels and houses shining.

A mini bus drew up. Out of it stepped a plump, swarthy, middle aged man – his black hair was flecked with grey and he was clean-shaven. Stupidly I ignored him.

‘’Good evening – excuse me. Is your name George?’’ he said in a Greek accent?

‘’Yes, it is. Are you from Mr. Papathomas?’’, I asked eagerly.

A moment later I was in the van and we were winding out way up the snowy mountain to their mansion.

Five minute later we came to some low metals. Gates. They opened slowly. In we drove. I was let out by a large house.

Ding dong. I pressed the bell.

A good looking blonde lady of about 35 opened it. She was of ordinary height and was on the slim side.

‘’Hello George and good evening my name is Katerina’’ she said in a cute German accent.

‘’Gruezi! Guten Abend gnadige Frau. Wie geht es ihnen?’’, I said as I shook her manicured hand.

‘’Vielen gut danke. Aber ich bine eine Deutschin und nicht eine Schweizer Deutscherin’’ she corrected me.

I had used the Swiss-German salutation and not the Standard German one.

There was a lion skin rug in the entrance hall. I am sure it was genuine.

There was a stone floor. The place was finely furnished and everything seemed new but for some well-preserved antiques.

I was ushered into the drawing room. Several people milled around.

Mr. Papathomas introduced me to his wife.

Mrs. Papathomas was about the same vintage as her spouse. She had had cosmetic surgery. The affect was not displeasing. She was a slender and short woman dressed in camel colours. Her dark blonde locks were carefully tied back.

‘’Meet Jamal’’ said Mrs. Papathomas.

She introduced me to a mixed race black-white man of about 30. He stoop 6’4’’ and his enormous muscles showed through his clothes.

Jamal’s iron fist pumped me. He was a very forward and immensely self-assured chap.

‘’I am their personal trainer. People said that they did not get enough exercise in when they travel. So I set up a new programme – travel with your trainer’’, he said loudly.

Jamal was all positivity. I had been a trifle anxious but he relaxed me.

I often made decorously self-deprecating remarks. He always told me I was too hard on myself.

I was introduced to two Italian architects. She was in her 50s and he was in her 40s. It happened to be the lady’s birthday. She was tall and had mid brown curly hair – blatantly died. She was rather tanned. The man was palish and had a thin beard and receding hairline. I conversed relaxedly with them in Italian. I was unsure if they were a couple. Later I discovered that they were not.

I met a shortish Cypriot man in a blue blazer and red silken tie – his whole outfit was by far the most formal of anyone there. He was about 40, tubby and had dense jet black hair.

His wife was a blonde Russian woman who was easily 10 years younger than him. Her English was limited so we spoke in my bad Russian. I have never mastered the anfractuosities of Russian accidence. Russian grammatical cases are still a mystery to me.

Finally I was brought around the corner into another drawing room with a woolly white rug on the floor. I met a dark skinned young Greek woman who was a teacher. Her English was excellent.

The Greek teacher said, ‘’I do some Greek lessons with the kids. If they take on you then you will do English. Ok, Mr. Papathomas said to try and engage with them now.’’

I got down onto the carpet and attempted conversation with the children as naturally as I could which was not very. I felt gauche. It was an artificial situation. Careful to speak quietly and in a slightly high pitch I introduced myself and I spoke to the children about the toys they were playing with.

The children largely ignored me. I cannot blame them. How would I have felt had I been in their position?

There was another little boy there – Leonides. He was the son of the other Greek man. I discovered it is pronounced Lay o NEE daze. I had always said lee ON e dass. It made me think of the co-king of the Spartans.

I spoke to the mother about the Greek books there. I read some of the titles aloud.

‘’How come you can read Greek?’’ she was astounded.

‘’Oh I can just figure it out from the Cyrillic alphabet because I speak Russian’’ I said as nonchalantly as I could.

Then we dined.

Fish was served. I had been offered meat.

‘’He doesn’t like fish’’ said the father.

I chatted to the other Greek man. It was mainly about the First World War. He asked how many were slain. I said 16 million. He misheard it as 60 million. I thought it best not to tell him that he was mistaken. He said that you think of the cost of educating a person and then it was all wasted.

Mr. P decided to hold forth. He related some supposedly mirthful tale. I did my damndest to guffaw at the right moments along with the others. He was a decent raconteur but his stories of yesteryear were not that droll.

After dinner the children were to be put to bed. Once they were in their pajamas Mr. P summoned me to their room.

I noticed the images of Orthodox saints all around the bedroom. It was a comfortable and well equipped bedroom but not as enormous or luxurious as you might have thought for a family of such affluence. He told them a tale about his headmistress when he was little. They listened attentively. Then it was time to say their orisons. Before they did so Mr. P. said whatever you give to others God will give you back tenfold.

‘’That is not a bad deal’’ he philosophized in a very soft voice.

I did not share my reflection that if you were donating to charity solely because you wanted a recompense from the Almighty then there was no altruism or virtue in your benefaction. It would have been churlish to treat them to his wisdom.

Then they were on their knees with eyes tight shut, palms together and fingers pointing heavenwards. The boy extemporized his prayer. He addressed the Most High: ‘’Dear God – you are amazing…’’

Later I was dispatched back to my lodgings.

Next morning after brekker I was summoned to the house once more.

I was brought into a side room for an informal interview with Mr. and Mrs. The room was splendidly furnished with silverware, statutes, a marble table, antique armchairs and oil paintings. There were many images of ships including container ships. I got the impression that that was how they made their loot.

‘’We have a yacht in Cyprus – I call my son captain when we are on it’’ said Mr. P.

‘’Should I call him captain too?’’, I said gamely.

‘’No, that is strictly only for me’’ he said.

‘’I see’’, I said a little disappointed.

‘’We are drinking juice all the time – Jamal has us doing that’’, said Mr. P as he and his lady wife held tankard of some horrid vegetable juice.

They asked me for my philosophy of education.

‘’You have to ask what it is you consider to be a good education. Is it just exam grades? Is it to have cultural enrichment and sporting achievement? Or is it to be happy? Or is it to make friends and contacts? You might be able to do all these things but you ought to list them in order of priority? I tutored a lot of Koreans and they cared about grades and nothing else. They achieved a lot academically but were deeply unhappy and often had not cultural or sporting achievements. They were joyless and often obese. Exam grades in themselves do not make for happiness or a successful career. It is a bit like making money. What is the purpose of the money? It is to be enjoyed.’’

They looked away out the window and across the snowy valley below and nodded ruminatively.

The family divided their time between London, Gstaad and Cyprus.

They noted that they found out I had my own educational consultancy. In fact that was going nowhere.

I said by to the Russian lady, ‘’Sledyushi raz mi govorim po russki’’.

She was thrilled to hear someone speak her native tongue however poorly.

Then it was into the minibus with Jamal, the children and a chubby British nanny. The brunette nanny said hardly a word but smiled like a Cheshire cat.

I was being driven to Geneva Airport. I am unsure where they were bound for.

I tried to speak to the children a little. We counted in French. I told them about the Swiss Flag when we saw it – being only one of two perfectly square ones in the world. They found this supremely dull. It was plain to me that I had failed to connect with them.

Jamal was very full of himself. He spoke of his constant partying in the United States – of flying back just for one night of it.

We drove down the valleys and the snow thinned out. There were some brown fields and some deciduous forests quite bereft of verdure. At length with came to the shimmering surface of Lake Geneva. It made me think of Le Rosey – the most expensive school in the world. It has campuses in Gstaad for skiing and one by Lake Geneva for the summer. We had driven between them in an hour. I had applied their once speculatively.

Oligarch’s tutor or Educating Nikita

For several years I bestrode the world tutoring the children of the rich and infamous. The names have been changed to protect the guilty. It was a life of five star hotels, superyachts and VIP entrances. These billionaires moved me from one country to another at a few hours’ notice. This made it impossible to have a long term relationship. Therefore, seducing nannies and maids became my specialist subject. I did this partially on account of being a roue. But it was not mere libertinism drove me to such courses. I was having to spend long periods of time along with the son of the household who was often in his early teens. Methought it sage to prove to the family that I am incorrigibly heterosexual. I was working in surveillance societies: Azerbaijan, Turkey, Russia, Kazakhstan and the UAE. A family would be much more comfortable with me spending a lot of time alone with their son if they knew that their son was totally safe with me. Do not infer from this that I am impliedly accusing gay men of being unsafe with minors. I am merely commenting that such a view is not uncommon in some of the countries I worked in. I had to assume that everything I said and did would be reported to the parents. Therefore even an advance on a lady that was rebuffed would be reported back and serve as evidence of my gallantry and, as they would perceive it, ‘normality.’

How did it all begin? I am Irishman who grew up in the Middle East and I had a bit of an education knocked into me in two of Britain’s most notorious bastions of snobbery: Gordonstoun and Eton. The few years at I passed at Oxford were as elysian and as uneducative as can be bearing in mind that my time there was spent getting hammered, making mostly failed attempts to score and engaging in ill-judged flights of right wing rhetoric. It was the Millennium. The economy was turbocharged, mortgages were easy to come by and salaries were good. It would ever be thus. With Eton and Oxford behind me a golden future was assured me: or so I thought. To continue this life of bookish debauchery I foolishly thought the best option was to teach in British public schools. I was about to have a very painful collision with reality.

Coaching rugger to some malco-ordinated asthmatics, essaying to impart the intricacies of appeasement to Year 10 and staring down the long barrel of involuntary celibacy in rural North Yorkshire palled. I grew weary of being interrupted a hundred times a day ‘’please be quiet.’’ I disliked lying on reports and pretending idlers are good pupils and being excoriated by tyrannical control freaks who call themselves Directors of Studies and school inspectors. I made the astonishing discovery that not every school is Eton. Public schoolboys and schoolgirls in minor public schools are some of the most conceited, boorish and willfully ignorant of the breed. As Graham Greene said they truly are the cream of the country – rich and thick.

For a few years I struggled unavailingly to impart knowledge and virtuosities to the offspring of haute bourgeoisie. The results were indifferent. My decent income afforded me the opportunity to indulge in my hobby of travel. I had conceived and ill-conceived ambition to visit 100 countries by the time I was 30. This involved me visiting anus mundi (Karachi) – don’t! I sometimes asked myself – why do I do this to myself? I was often lonely and dispirited on these tedious trips. I would have been far happier had I got myself a long term bird.

By a set of curious chances I worked in Romania: don’t!

Bucharest is a cheap imitation of Moscow. Some of the buildings are smaller scale models of Moscow buildings. It has totalitarian town planning and architecture. The same held true of other places I worked: Baku and Astana. But as I was in a copy of the USSR; why not see the real thing?

And so it came to pass that I tired of Dacia and penury. The chance came to work in a benzine republic called Azerbaijan.

When I was 7 mother had read me a good on Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. I was scintillated. The book limned the leader of the October Revolution as a moral titan: fearless, cerebral, visionary and the emancipator of the downtrodden masses. His mass murders were not even mentioned in passing. But as a child I started to find the Soviet Union enthralling. I had a child’s atlas. It said that the USSR consisted of three countries – Russia, Kazakhstan and Siberia. I know that was oversimplified but it was aimed at little children.

The Soviet Union offered an alternative civilization. It could have all turned out so very differently. When I was little the Cold War was very much on. No one realized it would come to an abrupt end. In the early 1990s the dissolution of the USSR led to several wars.

AZERBAIJAN

I flew into Baku one sweltering September evening. I was greeted by a morbidly obese red bearded Afrikaaner. The elephant – as he was unaffectionately known – had built his career teaching in schools far from his native Orange Free State. He was known by that unflattering soubriquet on account of his elephantine proportions and that he hailed from Africa. He had taken over a British school in Azerbaijan. It was his vengeance for the Boer War!

The British school was perhaps the most mismanaged school this side of hell. But it was well paid. That was the first time working in the former USSR. The school was run by a business manager named Besti – more like beastie. She was a modern version of Rosa Kleb – the female anti-hero from the James Bond film ‘From Russia with love.’ This presumable female was hideous physically and even worse in personality. She was a disgrace to womankind.

Azerbaijan is the hick version of Turkey but with strong Russian influence. The Land of Fire – as it is known – is a secular Muslim country. It is governed or perhaps I should say owned by a dictator: Moustache the Great. It is staggering that this oil rich fiefdom has regular power cuts. It was so redolent of Sacha Baron Cohen’s fictionalized version of a dystopian Muslim former Soviet state that I dubbed it Boratistan.

After a couple of years struggling unavailingly to teach IELTS and the English Civil War to Azerbaijanis I decided it was time to seek pastures new. I have always been a reflector and often wondered of things would have panned out better had I not gone to that land at all or indeed had prolonged my stay by even a few months.

PRIVATE TUTOR

ESKISEHIR, TURKEY

I was in London kicking around. I was tutoring in a desultory fashion. I got some casual work in a Korean hagwon (‘’study institute’’). This one was so undistinguished that it has since gone bust. Trying to make a go of it with Korean pupils. They are the best I have ever had. I hate to be nationally prejudiced. Ductile, cerebral and industrious – they are ideal. I was fortunate that none of them resorted to Cho Sun Hwee behaviour.

On Gumtree my little eye espied an advert for a short term job in Turkey. It was posted by a Mrs. Yuksel. ‘Yuksel’ does that name mean anything to me? I only ever knew one person with that name. It was a diminutive Turk I knew at university.

I was interviewed by Mrs. Yuksel in an up market café in Knightsbridge. She was a very Westernised Turkish lady d’une certaine age who was elegantly dressed, perfectly coiffed and spoke English with only a vestigial accent. The brief was to go to Turkey for a few weeks to tutor mainly a 14 year old boy. The aim was to prepare him for school entrance exams in the United Kingdom. I was game for a laugh.

Have bag; will travel. The job was mine.

A few days later I befound myself boarding Turkish Airways to its theme tune ‘we are Turkish Airlines we are globally yours’ – it was an annoyingly catchy jingle. I was confronted by the potato face of Wayne Rooney gooning out of the screen at me. Turkish Airlines had a sponsorship deal with Manchester United in those distant days.

I was picked up in Istanbul Ataturk Airport by a middle aged chubby Turkish driver who spake not the British tongue. My time in Azerbaijan had gifted me with a few stock phrases in Azerbaijani. I offered him pleasantries in that tongue. He simpered. Azerbaijani is the country bumpkin edition of Turkish.

We walked to the car park. It was divided into zones known my colours – green, red, blue and so forth. It struck me then that I did not even know all the colours in Azerbaijani or Turkish.

I was going to a city called Eskisehir. I considered myself well up on Turkey’s geography. But until that point I had never heard of Eskisehir. It means old city. My experiences of Turkey up to that point had been of the spumaceous littoral. I had only once ventured into the craggy hinterland.

I lodged in Sarar Hotel – named after the nearby textile factory. The hotel was plain but unobjectionable. Only the manager spoke English.

The next day was a chilly March morn. I grazed on the sumptuous Turkish buffet breakfast. All that soft white cheese was not good for my alarmingly bulging waistline.

I was brought to the family’s house a mile away. It was a large beige house with perhaps 4 bedrooms, an outdoor pool and a more than decent sized garden. These people were rich but not Crassus.

I was greeted at the door by an olive skinned maid who was perhaps at the equator of his first century. Her once raven locks were streaked with silver. She was no fawning or obsequious sort. She greeted me in German – her only foreign language. That was how I communicated with her from then on.

‘’Good morning welcome’’ croaked out a 40 something woman.  ‘’My name is Elnura’ she shook my hand. She was the mother dressed all in camel colours. She had dyed dark auburn hair and was heavily made up. She was a handsome female but her looks were marred by decades of smoking. Her voice was as rough as a badger’s arse.

‘’This is my husband Necer’’ she said.

‘’Gunaydin’’ I greeted him as we shook hands. He was the same age as his wife and stood over 6 foot. He was lean and fit: a decidedly good looking man with a hawkish nose and manner. The father’s very dense hair was black and he wore it en brosse. He did not speak any English so our conversation was limited.

‘’This is my son Aslan’’ said Elnur She introduced me a 14 boy so chubby he could have passed for 18. His skin was pale but somehow infused with pinkness that comes from being obese. His black hair was loosely curly and bouffant. He was energetic yet bashful in his greeting.

‘’Now meet Alia’’ said Elnura. I met a 10 year old girl. She was darker than her brother and bizarrely wore a shawl. She was a good looking child apart from her teeth being too big for her mouth and she was somewhat undershod. Her black ringlets hung down to her elbows.

My mother’s English was so good that she expatiated on the intricacies of the first conditional and the second conditional. I can never remember which is which and I am supposed to teach this stuff for a living.

The family was not even vestigially Muslim. There was no Koran, no sign with Arabic calligraphy and no attempt to keep to halal dietary rules. The dad broke out the raki (Turkish vodka) every night.

The house was very modern, well appointed and tastefully furnished. The floors were all white marble. There were a few different seating areas in the drawing room depending on whether one preferred to sit soft or hard.

Then it was up to the son’s bedroom. It was wooden paneled and not large. We dove into the books.

Incredibly, such a fat boy was an international athlete? Which sport? Showjumping. That must have been a strong steed to carry him. I discovered that his poor mount was a gelding. The boy has Olympic aspirations.

Aslan went to a private school close by. He had been taken out of school for some time to bone up for these exams. He had had plenty of English at school but his English was surprisingly bad considering.

I took luncheon and vesperal repast with the family. The healthy food almost killed me. It was vegetables, fish, a spot of white meat, beans and suchlike. They seldom even had bread – it was always brown when they partook of it. There was no ice cream, no cake and no pudding of any sort. I could not for the life of me work out how the boy got so hefty on so meagre a diet.

The maid took pity on me. Perhaps she considered me underdressed. She gave me some of her husband’s clothes. You know you are badly dressed when a Turkish servant donates clothes to you! The shirts fitted me but the trousers did not on account of my bulging waistline. My time in Azerbaijan had not been conductive to slimness. They pack their comestibles with salt and sugar. I had a confection for uc inek (three cow) cheese which did me a power of harm. It had caused my waistline to bulge alarmingly. Nonetheless I appreciated the kindly female’s gifts. I still have some of the shirts and that lambswool jumper.

I did interview practice with Aslan. He mostly got the gist of the questions – mostly. He needed to be coached extensively. Giving monosyllabic answers is not the done thing. Apropos of some question he said, ‘’I am a socialist’’. Methinks me meant secularist.

The family supported the People’s Republican Party. That was the main opposition party. It was the party of the founder of the Republic of Turkey. The family said that the Justice and Development Party was trying to turn Turkey into Saudi Arabia.

The mum was a science teacher. She sometimes drove me home in her land rover. I did used to fear sometimes being alone with her that people might think I had made a move on her.

I had some time off and went to wander around the town. Eskisehir is very historic as its name suggests. There is a narrow, rocky, river gushing through it but the embankment makes it more like a canal. There was hardly any green space. It made me think how verdure revitalized a city.

The city is in the middle of steep stony mountains. The land around is rather brown and almost barren. There are very few short, stumpy dusty trees. The lack of foliage is somewhat dispiriting. It is not a remarkable or beautiful city.

Atop the distant mountains I saw some copses and spinneys. Did the legendary Turkish wolves lurk in these darkling woodlands?

There were a few fine mosques graved with pretty minarets and there were Arabic incantations engraven on the many marble walls in the Latin script. I saw this likewise on buses ‘’Allah Korusun’’ meaning ‘’God protect.’’ I am a cloud dweller and given overmuch to introspection and a rich inward life of fantasy. I often catch myself in loud and animated conversations with historical figures as I amble along the street. Sometimes this befell me as I strolled by a mosque. Occasionally I heard the Arabic incantations emanating from the masjid and these curious cadences mingled with my far-off reveries.

Very few local people had any English. It is well off the beaten track for tourists. It was considered Central Anatolia. I found myself conserving with Johnny Turk in German. Because of the gastarbeiter scheme 40 years earlier some people had worked in Germany for a while. Even those who had not sojourned in Germany had often learnt German in school for a few years.

Much of the city is modern, bland and functional. There are tower blocks and dull shopping centres. There were plenty posters of the AK Party – that was the party of the President – Erdogan.

The streets were not terribly clean. The odd paving stone was chipped. The place could do with a few repairs. Skips on the filthy streets were overflowing with rotten refuse. Charming!

I saw a monument to the Cyprus Air Martyr. I looked him up. He was a local man who became and air force pilot and was shot down when on a bombing mission over Cyprus in the 1960s.

While I was there the Catholic Church elected a new Supreme Pontiff. It inspired me to look up footage from that magnificent documentary – Pastor Angelicus ‘’Angelic Shepherd’’. This 1940s programme is a look at the pontificate of Pius XII and featured His Holiness being carried by the Gentlemen of the Vatican on his Sedia Gestatoria to the heavenly strains of the Allelluia Chorus by Handel. Handel was a Proddy but never mind – the church was feeling ecumenical that day or does the devil have all the best tunes? It was a most visually arresting sequence. I played it to Aslan to teach him a bit about Christianity.

While I was in Eskisehir I had my at the time Azeri girlfriend visit me. The mermaid flew to Istanbul and took a 5 hour bus journey to see me. I do feel a bit guilty as I was not committed to her. I performed my pedagogical duties as usual 7 days a week and performed duties to her too.

I was even to tutor Aslan in German. That is despite speaking it little better than a character on Allo Allo. Fortunately he is the only person in the world whose German is even worse than mine.

I did some lessons with Alia. The child had grown more self-assured. She quietly said to me ‘’pig’’. She lowered her head a little forward as she maintained eye contact and called it again ‘’pig’’. She kept her lower lip down after uttering the word – as if in defiance. She breathed it softly and several times. I did not care. I have been called far worse. Even in pukka public schools 13 year olds have told me to go forth and multiply. It was amusing and almost welcome after the horrors I have been through.

The children’s aunt came to stay. I shall call the aunt Turana.  She was a few years younger than the mum but looked 20 years younger. She was married and childfree. Turana’s midbrown locks almost brushed her shoulders and had blonde notes.  She was tallish, very glam and had had every skin treatment known to humanity. Her makeup was flawlessly done – I began to understand why bronzer is put just below the cheekbones. The optical illusion of shadow makes the person appear slimmer. That is also why models pout – draws the face downwards and make the person seem even thinner than she really is. But if I had nothing to eat I would pout too – moody bitches. Who can find sulkiness sexy?

Auntie was an academic in nearby Ankara. I considered visiting one day but did not.

I told auntie that Alia called me pig. Unsurprisingly she did not believe me. She asked her niece in loud astonishment – do you really call him pig? The child freely confessed and was reprimanded.

Elnura’s parents came to stay. At first blush I mistook the grandmother for Elnura. The grandmother did not look that much older than her. That was because grandmother did not smoke. But for being doddery she could have been the same age. The grandparents were quiet, comfy, chubby and as amicable as one can be without speaking the same language.

We watched telly together as a family. We watched the Indian film called Three idiots. We also watched Turkey play Hungary at footer.

After a few weeks we went to Istanbul. We were going for a showjumping weekend.

Aslan went with his horse. He did not ride all the way – but in the car driven by the groom with the horse trailer behind.

I went with the father in his sports car. It was a 5 hour drive through some stunning lunar landscape. The beige countryside was exceptionally arid, craggy and dramatic. As we neared Istanbul we started to see pine forests. The roads were in exceptionally good nick. Erdogan may be a tinpot wannabe tyrant but he did built spanking new infrastructure.

At last we crossed over the Bosphorous Bridge and drove on towards a huge riding complex on the European side of Istanbul. Soon we were there. There were scores of stables. Not having had much to do with horses for years I had forgotten just how big they are. Aslan’s unfortunate horse was in a stable there.

The place was luxurious and teeming with well-heeled Turks. The manager of the stables was Irish. But I did not get to meet my countryman.

That night went out for dinner. It was a splendid seafood restaurant overlooking the Bosphorous.

A secretary from the father’s was there. Let me call her Yalda. She was a remarkably nubile lady in her early 20s. She was blessed with glossy raven locks, a healthy alabaster complexion and perfectly proportioned features. Her quiet voice tinkled in flawless English. There was also a young Turkish executive from the company named Ibrahim. He was average height and build: he had light brown hair. He spoke in fluent English of getting Spanish citizenship and moving to Israel. Ibrahim explained his ancestors had come from Spain centuries ago. Then he explained he was Jewish. He is the only Turkish Jew I ever met. At that stage relations between Ankara and Tel Aviv were uncordial. He was opting to get out of Dodge while the going was good.

I chatted to Yalda and Ibrahim a lot. They both spoke excellent English whereas the dad spoke almost none. My Turkish was very poor and I could not keep up with the conversation.

I began to suspect that there was something going on between the father of the family and Yalda. Yalda sat beside him. Ibrahim on the other side of the dad. Yalda and the dad were a little close together. I noticed that each of them had a hand under the table. Were they holding hands under the table?

On the second night the father brought me and Yalda to a hotel room in Istanbul. It was spacious and most commodious. This was the room that the father was sharing with his son. I would be lodged in a separate room. Or so I thought. No, the father told me. I would share this room with the boy. My blood ran cold. That is a hanging offence in the United Kingdom. But that was the decision. Would the father be staying in another room in the hotel? Er, no, somewhere else. He did not say where.

I assumed that he went to spend the night in the arms of his secretary. Curiously, I did not ask him. The boy did not seem to be remotely surprised that his father was not spending the night in the same hotel as us. He clearly knew Yalda. Did he have any inkling of what was going on? Did he care?

In fact sharing a room with my pupil was not a problem. I would really have preferred not to have done so but there was no cause for complaint for either of us. A generation ago no one would have looked askance at this.

The next day the father came back. He was rather tired. It had been a very exhausting night. No doubt his secretary had been taking his ‘dictation’ all night long. We drove out to the stables. There was a lot of sitting around and socializing.

Aslan competed with no great success. I watched him in his white jodhpurs and black jacket ride his steed around and take the jumps. He was passable.

There was even a manege for the horsemen to practice when rain pelteth. I spent some time there watching horsemen and a very horsewomen put their mounts through their paces on the sandy floor.

The father of the family also competed. He was a very capable horseman and had a few clear rounds. But he too fell off at one point. I found it prudent not to remind him of it.

That night Aslan was dropped off at the hotel. I was brought to a nightclub with the father and Yalda was there. I was jaded and chose to get a taxi back to the hotel.  The dad and his paramour partied on till dawn.

The next day we went to a smart shopping centre on the edge of Istanbul. It had valet parking. There I met Mrs. Yuksel – the woman who had got me the job. She was lightly made up and sporting a backless white dress.

There was a possibility of a job tutoring Murad. Murad was the eldest son of an extraordinarily wealthy business family. They were so influential that Mrs. Yuksel said if she could not send them a fantastic tutor it would be best not to send anyone at all. She had insisted that I purchase more formal clothes for this interview.

Mrs. Yuksel was a high achiever and also vain. It is not just that she took pride in her appearance. She made sure I knew that her son was born in Istanbul in the American Hospital. I presume because that is expensive she underscored which hospital it was. She was justifiably pleased with her son who took a double first from Oxford and had a flourishing career at the bar.

In a restaurant I met Murad and one of the executives from the family’s corporation. I shall call it Insaat. The executive was a very tidy and slim middle aged man named Rauf. His short, neat grey hair was flawlessly sculpted and his dark blue suit was immaculate and surprisingly understated. Turks tend to be too loud in their sartorial tastes. Rauf had perfected his English in Amsterdam. He was a very sophisticated gentleman.

Murad was 18 but even with a beard he looked 14. I am pogonophobic but as the beard lent him years perhaps it was a wise move to cultivate one. He was short, slight and his bright blue eyes blinked bashfully. There was some very considerable vacuity and gormlessness about him. But he wore all labels. His shoes were those disgustingly unnaturally shiny leather ones so beloved of Turks and pimps. His clothes were all a bit too loud and appeared to have been bought that morning. His hair was just so. The boy spent far too much time in front of his mirror. Not that he was much to look at. He was not ugly but he was no lothario. I suppose he certainly made the most of what he had. There was a sulky set to the thin lips of his overly large mouth.

‘’So, George – Murad would like to improve his English’’, said Rauf.

‘’Yes, I see’’ I nodded eagerly.

‘’Murad is studying business at university. He finished Fatih College last year – the best high school in Turkey’’ Rauf added.

‘’Congratulations. And how do you like university?’’, I inquired of Murad.

‘’Is…’’ he thought for a long while as you searching deeply for le mot just, ‘’good.’’

‘’Well I am glad you are enjoying it’’, I effervesced.

Murad then asked Rauf for the translation. Rauf told him in Turkish what I had just said.

‘’Friends first’’ said Raud, ‘’Murad said you two will become friends first and then think about lessons after that.’’

I got the distinct impression that Murad was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. But he clearly got a positive impression of me. Within minutes Rauf and Omur were discussing the particulars of the contract and when I would start.

Later that day I began the long journey back to Eskisehir. The father was at the wheel and Ata was in the back. The groom had the horse in a trailer and drove a different car. I wondered why we never towed the trailer.

En route home we stopped off in Izmit. This is a small city on the Asian shore of the Sea of Marmara – so not far from Istanbul. We parked at a middle class apartment block. The plain edifice gleamed white in the moonlight. It was a warm evening as we sauntered up a few flights of stairs.

The boy explained to me we were dropping in on his grandmother.

The chubby faced old woman with a hijab on greeted us warmly. She was elated to see her son and grandson. I got the notion that she did not see them very often.

The flat was a decent two bedroom affair – sparsely furnished and with an all-white interior. It was unremarkable but there was a Koran high on a lectern and some of the Islamic calligraphy framed on the walls. These were indicative of Islamic piety – something that was conspicuously lacking in Necer’s house. There was even a photo of the grandmother on a camel. Aslan explained it was when she had been on the Haj – pilgrimage to Mecca. Her husband had been called to Janat some years afore.

We ate dinner a typical Turkish dinner. The 70 year old Grandmother finally felt sure that I was not going to molest her so she removed her headscarf. Somehow I managed to control my lust.

After a polite hour it was time to be on our way. It had been an insight to Necer’s childhood. He had grown up in a middle class family that was religiously observant. He had become a multimillionaire and embraced Occidentalism.

We drove long into the night. I fell asleep before we reached Eskisehir.

After a few days my job was over. I was paid in cash. I mean literally in readies.

We traveled to the United Kingdom.

We flew from Eskisehir to Brussels. From there we caught the Eurostar to London. I bade farewell to them at Euston and made my way to my lodgings in London.

I crashed out there – dead tired. I roused that evening to fly to Romania. Four countries in one day! Turkey, Belgium, the UK and Romania.

ISTANBUL

A few days later I jetted into Istanbul again. That evening I was met by a besuited middle aged Turkish driver. The chubby clean shaven man was well below average height. He drove me to my hotel in Yesilkoy (meaning ‘’green village’) which was very close to Ataturk Airport and also within view of the Sea of Marmara. I checked in.

The hotel was a boutique hotel with slightly old world décor cluttering the reception area. It was limpid and distinctly Turkish. The place was not that busy and the dozen coffee tables in the reception area were almost always empty as I was to discover over the next few weeks.

The receptionist was a very cheery little man in his 30s. I shall called him Rahat (‘Joy’) because he was so happy. He spoke near perfect English and was born in Bulgaria which once had a large Turkish minority. The driver said something to Rahat to translate for me. I was instructed to come back down to reception as soon as I had put my luggage in my room.

Back in reception I was to wait for my pupil: Murad. He would take me for dinner. I said to the driver via Rahat that surely he was free to go. He politely insisted on staying.

In a few minutes my baby faced 18 year old showed up. He was all shy smiles. He had a surprisingly deep voice for a youth who was about 5’7’’ and weedy. Despite his bass tone he was soft spoken. It was as though he was more nervous than I was. He was the boss. But then he was only months out of school and regarded me as his teacher. He dismissed the driver who bowed deeply and uttered something in an unmistakably obsequious tone before heading for his car. As Turkish lexi was largely incomprehensible to me, my ear became more keenly attune to its tonal implicatures.

We walked out of the hotel. I am car blind. I can hardly tell one from another. I often remember nothing about cars – not even the colour. Despite not knowing much about automobiles even I recognise a Lamborghini. But it helps that I can read the word Lamborghini.

We got into his gleaming sports car and sped off. Before long I was gripping the door handle. Every car journey was a white knuckled ride. Despite Murad’s unprepossessing exterior, once behind the wheel he was transformed into a demon. The cardboard sign with some Arabic calligraphy dangling from the rearview mirror was presumably a Koranic benediction. Could it really keep us safe from harm? I was to begin to wonder. Murad’s driving was so fast, so erratic and so suicidal that it was a miracle that he did not turn us into a shooting fireball. Was he trying to launch his way to his 77 virgins of whatever it is a pious Muslim is rewarded with in zhanat? His driving was so bad that it was good. It was not that he was without virtuosity. Far from it – he was exceptionally skilled. The trouble was that he knew it and tested his skills to the limit and sometimes I feared: beyond. He would regularly break the speed limit and execute sharp turns. We came within millimetres of crashing more times than I care to remember. He drove well – like a multimillionaire schoolboy with a sports car. Did he have a death wish? Or did he think he was immortal? I did not want to find out. How on earth did he get away with driving so recklessly and not have his licence revoked? He was the son of one of the richest men in Turkey. Given the total corruptibility of the police and the judiciary he could have gotten away with murder – for the right price. I mean that in an absolutely literal sense. His driving was so reckless that if he had killed someone it really would have been murder.

We dined in a nearby pukka restaurant. The restaurant was decorated in a tasteful Turkish style with multi-coloured cushions, dark brown wooden tables, tapestries on every wall and paintings of scenes of Turkish yore. Old women in hijabs kneaded dough in front of a clay oven. It was tasty tucker they served too. Conversation was sparse since Murad’s English was developmental. He seemed genuinely glad that I was there. I was going to tutor this untutored youth. How hard a task would it be to be the pasha’s preceptor?

One of the downsides of the hotel was that there was no gym and the hotel was out of order. It was a very pleasant and efficient hotel but this surely an embarrassment.

We then began my two month contract. I would rise and go for my matinal repast. It was a Lucullan feast in the hotel. It was typical Turkish buffet with several sorts of bread, white cheese, yellow cheese, and of course yoghurt – the Turks invented yoghurt after all. There were very low grade mechanically recovered cold meats but not pork. Eggs of different styles were available.

After this hearty fair I was in the lobby in my suit and tie. Murad would show up some time after nine in his car. He would drive me to the office.

There was an office at a construction site on the far side of the city – well to the east of the Bosphorous. It took over an hour to drive in light traffic.

Istanbul is a gigantic city of 14 million people. It is the largest city in Europe if you consider it to be in Europe at all. Though it is by far the largest city in the Turkish Republic it has not been the capital of the country since 1920. In 1920 the Turks fought what they call the War of National Salvation against the Greeks. The Greeks tried strenuously to take back the eastern shore of the Aegean Sea. After all this had been Greek territory for millennia up to the mid 15^th century. In the early 1920s there was still a considerable Greek minority living there. To forfend the capital falling to the Greeks it was decided to shift the capital to Ankara. There is has remained ever since. In fact, the Greeks never even came close to Istanbul and lost the war.

The ancient and storied City of Istanbul is bisected by the Bosphorous which is a stretch of the sea that connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmaris. From there ships sail to the Mediterranean and all around the world. The Bosphorous is an arterial route for all Black Sea countries including Russia. Traditionally to the west of the Bosphorous is Europe and to the east is considered the start of Asia. But for decades Turkey has tried to redefine the whole country as being part of Europe. Much of Istanbul is a forest of minarets, a labyrinth of alleyways and numberless faceless flats.

The office was only two storeys high and the ground area was not large. Only around 20 people worked there. It was ultra-modern and very expensively furnished. Beside it was an enormous hole in the ground. Diggers and truck were busy there night and day. This was the foundation for a gigantic tower. The colossus was to be a luxurious block of flats. They had gifted one to Jennier Lopez – then at the height of her fame. They eagerly showed me a video of her there – all dolled up and dripping in diamonds. A fake smile was just about perceptible through several inches of makeup. A banner read ‘’J Lo welcome to your new home.’’ I doubt she would ever go near it. She was paid a fat sum to accept the keys. Beside her was her toyboy – a very athletic geled hair young spiv complete with retard earrings.

The journey to work was always a near death experience. Murad purported to believe that driving in real life was like a video game. If you got killed you just lost 5 points and started again. Er… no. Best case scenario we would lose few limbs. Last time I face book stalked him he is very much alive and in possession of all his limbs.

I would be so shaken and jittery by my drive to work each morning that I would politely parry an offer of coffee. The drive had nearly given me a cardiac arrest. The last thing I needed was to speed up my heart with some incredibly potent and bitter Turkish coffee. But the one advantage of this hair raising journey each morning was that I arrived at work each day in a fantastic mood for the sheer joy of still being alive.

Upstairs in the office on the first day I was introduced to Yilmaz. He was a tallish and tubby middle aged Turk with a grizzled greying beard, bealry eyes, a receding grey hairline and a deeply laidback manner. He told me ‘’Murad is the boss.’’

It was blatant to me that Yilmaz was the one actually running the show. But the dimwit Murad was ‘’the boss.’’ They had to fool the fool into thinking that he was in charge. It was not difficult to dupe an empty headed boy of such egregious shallowness and flagrant vanity. Murad was officially in charge simply because his dad owned the company. Seldom has the hereditary principle been so risible.

A little bird later told me that the father had made Yilmaz the manager of this project precisely because he had a good rapport with Murad. In fairness I never sensed the slightest tension between them.

Murad would only rock up to work about 12 noon. He would clock off around 4 o’clock. But he was ‘’in charge.’’

I sat around the office as they got on with tasks. Turkish tea was served in biconcave cups. They poured tonnes of sugar into theirs. I cannot for the life of me understand how that boy managed to be slender when he consumed so much sugar.

How about learning some English? That is what I was there for. It was my task to get him through his first year exam at university. I deduced from his very poor grasp of the language, complete dearth of work ethic and his general imbecility that this would be no easy mission.

‘’How about ten sentences of English a day?’’ I bravely ventured.

‘’No, five’’ said Murad tersely.

I humbly accepted. This heavy burden was later to be reduced to five phrases. Then it was cut to five words. Do not push yourself! You will burn out. He was not imbued with an insatiable yearn to learn.

I was most of the time in a smallish office upstairs with Yilmaz and Murad. It was not that small considering only three people were in it. They liked to express luxury in size. The place was unnecessarily spacious when one bears in mind how few people it accommodated.

Downstairs was a large open plan office filled with perhaps two dozen desks. I never saw even half of them occupied. I came to know some of the other office staff.

Boran was one of the most likeable people I ever met in Turkey. He was a spare man in his late 30s and stood perhaps 5’11. He had dense dark brown hair – perfectly brushed but somehow this did not strike me as indicative of the perfectionism and self-adoration that I always find so nauseating. He came over as genuine, warm, clever, calm and self-aware. He spoke flawless English in a quiet and dulcet voice. He wore thick rimmed glasses, his clean shaven face was decidedly pallid. Curiously enough his name means ‘’snow.’’ His dark suits and block colour shirts were always immaculately dressed and his silken ties gleamed. Boran certainly projected a very positive image for the company.

Dilara was a leggy Turkish lady of only 27. She was svelte and fine featured. Her gleaming youthful skin had not a hint of a line on it. It was a face that spoke of endless insouciance. When I shook hands with her even a second’s contact proved the intense creaminess of her well curated flesh. Dilara’s complexion was a sallow Mediterranean glow. She had well-cared for jet black locks that hung down to her elbows. She always wore well-cut dresses that reached down to her knees and accompanied them with dangerously tall high heels. She spoke superb English with just enough of a Turkish accent to add exoticism to her allure. Dilara – she seemed to be more of a temptress than Delilah! It dashed my hopes when a few minutes into the conversation she dropped a bomb: she had married a few months earlier.

There was another Turkish woman almost a generation older than Dilara. She was like a down market version of Dilara. This older female smoked and it had lined her skin and roughened her voice.

I never saw a single woman in the office who wore a hijab. Murad’s family was fairly religious but everyone else there was a typical Istanbulu: secular and Western-oriented.

Sometimes Murad would go outside the office for a fag. I would accompany my pupil. I said that I had only smoked five cigarettes in my life.

‘’Six’’, he proffered a cigarette in his only ever attempt at mirth.

I thought it meet to meekly accept the cancer stick and smoke it in deference to my overlord.

I was allowed out on some pretext to get something in a corner shop across the road. Methinks ‘twas a sim card. In the car park I made the mortal mistake of introducing myself to the security guard. Turkey likes to have tonnes of them! I thought it mannerly and also perhaps needful. He might not let me back in if he did not know who I was as I had no means of identification on myself. Every other time I entered the office compound it was in the boss’ horseless carriage.

Some days later I was with Murad in the car. As we drove into the car park I raised my hand in acknowledgement of the security guard.

‘’George you don’t do this!’’, Murad loudly chided me with a choleric expression on his babyface. He was heaven born. Those who worked for a living were subhuman. But even he went on to tell me that it was permissible to chat with Boran. Even Murad rated Boran!

The building that the office was in was set well back from the road. On the far side of the busy road there were several residential tower blocks. In the far distance greenish hills tapered away at the outskirts of the metropolis.

The morning routine soon changed. Murad decided he would go to his gym first.

He would pick me up and drive me to the gym. He would go for an hour session with his personal trainer. I would then get out my books and laptop and study. I had some major exams coming up.

As he was doing exercise so would I. In a waiting area around the corner and out of the line of view from anyone I would do some neck rolls and stretches. I could not do proper exercise. I was in a suit and tie.

In the gym I met a stocky and lightly brown bearded Argentine personal trainer. Jesus was a very amiable man in his mid-20s. His family had shifted to Spain to escape the perennial fall of the Argentine Peso. Thence he had moved to Istanbul. I exchanged a few words in my very broken Castilian with him. We then switched to English. I asked Jesus how he felt about the election of an Argentine to the Throne of St Peter.

‘’We are so proud’’, he said with papal glory flushing his youthful face.

I would dine with Murad. He did not partake of much. He was not a big boy and he zealously guarded his waistline. He castigated me for eating too quickly. I was often ravenous.

One of the few things that Murad gave away about himself was that he went to the barber every fortnight. He had short hair! So we went to have a quarter of an inch trimmed off. What a waste of time and money and what revolting personal vanity induced this outrageous overindulgence. I made it a point of honour not to have my follicles cut more than twice a twelvemonth.

Some evenings we went to meet his friends. We went to a café in a shopping centre in Yesilkoy. It was a very ritzy place overlooking the sea. Because it was near the airport planes would fly by all the time.

They conversed animatedly in Turkish and I could only pick up the odd word. His friends were all very affluent Turkish boys in their late teens or early 20s.  They all spoke better English than he did. Sometimes they chatted me with. Murad always ignored me. I did not mind overmuch. He had nothing worthwhile to say.

One day we went to a restaurant and bumped into an African football player from Fenerbahce Football Club.  Murad and the footballer recognized each other instantly. They were obviously well acquainted. It was one of the few times I saw the Turk looking like he was in clover. The footballer was 6’3’’ strikingly handsome, well-built and possessed of a winsome smile. Murad spoke to him in a blancmange of Turkish and English. The sportsman responded and it was very obvious that he spoke precious little of either language. His francophone accent came through very decidedly in English. I then addressed him in my fairly fluent French. He responded in French and was plainly over the moon to meet someone who could speak his language.

In these café bars we would sit with Murad’s rich kid friends. They would talk about automobiles and football. In terms of their fast paced Turkish conversation – I was scarcely able to pick up fag ends.

I was bored and would look out for the planes bursting through the murk. On the skyline the lights would appear and as the plane got closer I was able to make out the livery of the airline. I would play a guessing game in a vain attempt to maintain my sanity. Would the next one be Onur Air or Pegasus or Turkish Airlines or what?

Sometimes Murad went shopping for more clothes to add to his collection of very pricey and tastelessly flashy raiment. I would stand there as he went around the shop and made inquiries of the shop assistants and he picked out a few garments. I have always found shopping to be egregiously boring. When I was not even the person being shopped for the tedium was torturous. I would like this way and that – shift a little and try to figure out what the Turkish words on the signs denoted. I noticed that the shops were always exceptionally fragrant and this olfactory relief was warmly welcome after the smog of such a gigantic city that was relatively bereft of verdure.

Murad was fed up that I was not brain dead like him. He disliked me moving around and commanded me to sit on a sofa. I did as I was bidden.

I felt sorry for some of the street children I saw. I also saw a poor man selling nuts as he stood in between two lanes on the motorway. It was near the Bosphorous Bridge and the traffic was very slow because it was rush hour. But it was still a dangerous and degrading way for him to earn his keep.

The traffic flowed mostly west to east in the forenoon and east to west towards eventide. They changed the direction of one of the lanes accordingly.

Occasionally we travelled in a chauffeur driven car. There were Turkish newspapers in the back. Murad never even glanced at them. I would open them and do my best to make head and tail of them. My Turkish was elementary level. The boy had no desire to learn about anything. I deduced that teaching him would not be a walkover.

Once Murad sent a driver over to bring me to his house. The Turkish driver as a short and slightly podgy middle aged brown skinned man. It transpired that we both spoke German. He had spent some years there. We had a very cheerful confab.

The house he dropped me off at was on a narrow street lined with large houses of several storeys each. The houses were bright colours and were surrounded by gates and sharp fences. It was patently a district where the super wealthy resided.

At a side gate I was greeted by a 6’3’’ security guard. He wore a suit and tie but he was so strong I could see his muscles bulging under his clothes. He had short, tidy gray hair and a healthy tan. He spoke very good English and instantly produced an impression of intelligence and affability. It seemed a terrible injustice that such a gifted person was in a lowly and poorly remunerated position when a complete waste of space like Murad was in an exalted due to the lottery of birth.

A few times Murad would pick me up at the hotel on Harman Sokak and drive me to his girlfriend’s house. Cansu lived in a smart low rise block of flats 5 minutes from my hotel. She would come out and sit in the back whilst I sat in the passenger seat. I was surprised by this arrangement but did not dissent.

The young lady with whom Murad stepped out was lissome, average height, perfectly formed and blessed with the sort of fresh complexion that cannot be faked. Her black hair was splendidly shiny and reached almost to her elbows. She always wore a dress that was feminine yet demure. She never wore footgear other than heels and always carried a bright coloured clutch. I never saw her carry the same one twice. She exchanged but a few words of English with me. I noticed she hardly said anything to him in Turkish either. Cansu seemed pleasant, diffident and faintly vacuous. She was the sort of mindless eye candy that this boy found unthreatening.

Cansu was plainly from a wealthy family. But they were not as scandalously rich as Murad’s family. His family was among the top ten in Turkey. Property prices in Istanbul are almost as bad as London. Working class families live in one room.

Cansu’s name means ‘’life water’’. I bethought me in Irish that is ‘’uisqu baha’’. This has been bastardised into English as ‘’whiskey’’. I thought it prudent not to share this reflection with Murad!

Turkic names so often reolve around sources of light. They bear significations such as light, moon sun, sun moon, sunlight, moonlight, light of the sun, light of the moon, river moon, moon river, sun river, river sun, new light, bright faith, star and so forth.

Luncheon with Murad and Cansu was a chore. There was sparse conversation between those two and none with me. They never touched in my presence – not so much as touching hands. Whether Cansu’s maidenhood remained inviolate I cannot say.

It later transpired that Cansu was 21. Considering that Murad was 18 this was a considerable age gap. I recall at 22 when I had a gf aged 26 thinking that she was quite a bit older than me especially as the male is usually the older party. Why was a ravishing and effortlessly elegant young lady like Cansu in a relationship with a deeply unimpressive braindead dweeb? What first attracted her to this multimillionaire? I cannot possibly conjecture! I must not be too harsh on Murad. The one thing he achieved was physical fitness. He was in very good shape. Even his worst enemy could not call him fat.

Murad sometimes went to play footer. I suggested coming along. He declined saying in front of his friends of me in English ‘’he eat man’’ as I like eating not exercise. I was even chubbier then than I am now. In fairness I would not have been able to keep up with the game. Moreover, I was 33 and he was 18.

Murad and his family were somewhat observant Muslim. Therefore he did not touch spirituous liquor. The machismo that we infidels put into taking strong waters he put into smoking. He smoked much and with gusto as if to underline his manliness. He ought to have been careful. It can stunt your growth.

As for being a dutiful Muslim – I never heard about Murad going for namaaz or anywhere near a mosque. I know that mosque attendance is never obligatory and some Muslims prefer to worship at home. His Islamic observance was not burdensome and limited itself to refraining from vice. I suspected that in his case his submission to the abstract almighty Allah was more honoured in the breach than in the observance.

The very fact that Murad could have a girlfriend showed that they were relatively liberal Muslims. He could spend time alone with her. There may have been some physical contact but presumably it stopped well short of actual fornication. Oddly enough I did not ask him nor did I subject Cansu to an examination of her hymen to determine if she was Virginia intacta.

Murad’s family were fervent supporters of Erdogan’s AK Party. They were said to bankroll his party. I do not doubt that some lucrative construction contracts came their way in return. Such is Turkey. Suchlike would never befall in a Western country!

One of Murad’s enthusiasms was Fenerbahce Football Club. It is the second best team in the Turkish Republic. Fenerbahce means ‘’lighthouse garden.’’

The deadly rival of Fenerbahce is Galatasaray. Galatsaray is usually the stronger side. Turks imbue football fandom with the same fanaticism that that have in so many areas of life. Football fans can turn violent in Turkey.

Ironically, Murad had trained as a child with the Galatasaray youth team. That was because he happened to live very close to their practice ground. Fenerbahce was on the far side of the Bosphorous.

One evening Yilmaz, Murad and I went to a match at Fenerbahce. We parked in the underground car park of the stadium.

On the dirty, broken paved streets by the stadium people hung around in knots.  There were medium rise grey tower blocks around and about. They were mostly men and many sported Fenerbahce jerseys. Some sipped beer from bottles and many smoked. The few women who were there tended to be middle aged and heavily made-up. A woman would have to be rather daring to attend a football match in Turkey even in the immediate presence of her husband. They were a blatantly working class crowd. But they had to be relatively well off working class. Those who were really poor could never afford a ticket to see the working man’s game.

We mingled with the crowd. But we must have stood out like sore thumbs. Yilmaz could perhaps blend in. I am perhaps too tall, too pale and too blue eyed. There are Turks who are totally white but not many. Moreover, my dress sense is decidedly unturkish. As for Murad – he dressed like the multi-millionaire that he was even when attired in casuals. He rolex could not but be conspicuous. The proletarians eyed us knowingly. I was given camouflage – a Fenerbahce scarf. That was just what I needed on a scorching summer’s day. But many others were similarly accoutered.

The police took security very seriously indeed. They are always armed. But I saw one officer near the police bus carrying a machinegun.

We went in a VIP gate. From there it was up by lift to a box on the terrace. The box had an anteroom with seats, a TV and a pretty young hostess serving drinks and snacks.

We went out onto the room that was open to the air. We saw the 50 000 stadium rapidly fill up. It was a match against Kayseri – a minor team from Anatolia.

There was an athletics track around the edge of the football field. There were announcements blaring in Turkish. Fenerbahce was a sports club and not just one for footer. There were announcements about things the club had won in other sports. The women’s volleyball team had won a match. They came out and walked in a victory lap around the stadium and showed off medals as they waved to a largely apathetic crowd. If only the ladies had been togged out in their volleyball gear I am sure they would have elicited a standing ovation!

A few of Murad’s young friends were there. There was a tall chap there name Demirhan – he had a pale complexion and mid brown hair. He spoke more than satisfactory English and always greeted me with particular vivacity.

The crowd were geed up. They were chanting and singing tribally. One end of the stadium would chant to the other.

The Kayseri fans were in their own little section. They were fenced off and surrounded by police for their own protection.

The names of the Fenerbahce players were announced on a big screen as images of them played. The fans chanted the surname of each man as it came on. One was a Dutchman ‘’Kuyt’’ who was a blond as a Nazi wet dream.

Finally it was time for kick off. The fans were in a tizzy of excitement.

I have always been indifferent to footer. But it was impossible not to get excited. The exhilaration was infectious. There is something mysteriously energizing about enormous gatherings.

Our team scored and we were jumping for joy and shrieking manically. It was one of first times I had seen Murad display emotion beyond moroseness. He was ecstatically punching the air.

A while later Kayseri got one back. The atmosphere was sepulchral.

In the second half our lot took the lead again. It finished 2-1.

In fact it was a moral victory to Kayseri. As the second best team in the country Fenerbahce should have thrashed them by a goal difference of at least 3.

A week later we were back in the stadium for another match. It was against a more formidable opponent – Benfica. Benfica is reputedly the most puissant team in Portugal. It was part of some European League. I have never considered the intricacies of such competitions anything better than a footling waste of time.

I was apprehensive lest Benfica win. Murad would be suicidally depressed. No doubt I would be the jinx.

It was much the same format as last time. But you could cut the tension with a knife. The home fans did not expect to win – though no one dared vocalise it.

The Fenerbahce deluded themselves with a chant about going to Amsterdam – where the final of the competition was due to be held.

In the end Fenerbahce exceeded expectations and won 2:1. So I had brought good luck!

On my days off I explored the city. I had one day off a week. I went back to the Sultanahmet district. I walked around the mosques – the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia. I went into the Egyptian Market. I took a ferry cruise up to the Black Sea.

I revisited the outside of a hotel where I had lodged ten years before. I saw the phone box wherefrom a Bavarian had called home with me beside her.

On one ferry I met two nurses – one Aussie and the other Canadian. These young ladies were working in Saudi Arabia. It must have been good money. We chatted about Anzac Day – it was coming up. It happened to fall on my day off. Did I want to take a coach for a few hours to Gallipoli and walk up the hill in the predawn cold in time for a dawn service? I must say that was beyond my patriotism. Although Irishmen had most valiantly lain down their lives for King George V there I did not go to honour them.

On the ferry the guide gave us a commentary on all the buildings we were seeing that lined the shore. One of them was Dolumbahce Palace – I had been inside it 10 years earlier. The guide spoke excellent though accented English and showed off his linguistic aptitude by breaking into French and German. The shortish chubby middle aged man was balding but had grown his mid brown hair long. He was a rather white Turk. He told me he was half Turkish and half Greek. I was stunned. I am all for love across the divide. But there was very bad blood between Greeks and Turks especially when he was born in the 1960s. More power to his parents for putting aside all that animus and marrying whom they loved. There had been anti-Greek pogroms in Turkey as recently as the 1940s. A minute Greek minority remained in Istanbul. The Metropolitan of Constantinople lives there and he is head of all Orthodox Christians. The Turks say only a Turkish citizen can fill this role. It is sad that in a city that was once overwhelmingly Greek so few Greeks remain.

On the ferry I chatted to a couple from Buckinghamshire, UK. He was a bald white man in his 40s. She was a pretty Mauritian of Indian ethnicity. She spoke brilliant English with a pronounced French accent. They were child free.

When strolling around a market I strove to shake off a hawker. He addressed me in English. I lamented in Romanian that I did not know a word of English. He spoke in excellent Romanian and told me he could explain it in that language instead. I was stunned.

Zulia came out to visit. She stayed for a few days.

My friend Paul came out. He and his mate were doing a show. I spent an evening with them and we went to a Turkish bath.

On the metro I spoke to a French couple who were tourists. He was black and she was white.

In the evening when I finished work I sometimes took a taxi into the city centre. Sometimes I went by metro.

In the nearby shopping centre there was a viewing platform overlooking the main runway of the airport.

I met an obese oldish Teuton. He quipped that he was Hermann ze German. He really was called Hermann. He had his aviation magazines, notebook and binoculars. He was a plane spotter.

Some days later I returned to the viewing platform. Hermann was gone. In his stead there were several middle aged British men from Manchester. They had all the gear and were having a lively discussion about the planes. They knew all about them. As an AZAL airliner went down the runway one of them exclaimed ‘’look at the speed of that taxi’’. They were ooing over the plane as though it were a Page Three girl in a string bikini. I had a chin wag with these chaps. They told me that had been to Guangdong in China to watch civilian airliners. They heard an irate announcement in Mandarin. It was all Greek to them. Before they knew it they were arrested. They had their plane spotting magazines and tried to explain that they were innocently looking only at civilian passenger planes – the movements of such planes are advertised and are hardly top secret. This explication saved them from the firing squad.

After a few weeks Murad started picking me up late. Pick up was supposed to be 9 o clock.

Some days it was 9:30. He would not tell me. He would simply show up later. I was paid to be available. Next day he would rock up at 10. Another day at 11. One day I was still waiting at 5 o clock. In the mean time I had nipped out for snacks. I had been waiting in the lobby all day.

The pleasant receptionist noticed the discomfort on my face when he addressed me by my Christian name. He asked if he should call me Mr –. I said yes please. In Turkish they always call people by the first name and then add ‘Mister’ or ‘Mrs.’ afterwards.

I chatted to the cleaners there. These hefty menopausal women were Turkish Bulgarians. My smattering of Russian went some way with them.

I was paid a good wage and on a weekly basis. I noticed the bank transfer fee had made a small dent in my pay packet. I did not protest. Remiss of me it was.

I had spent a few weeks in Istanbul. The big test was whether Murad was going to keep me on permanently. He had his university exams.

I got the impression that he was not happy with me. I had once put my foot on the wrong part of the car – where the carpet is not there. That hacked him off. I had waved at a security guard – an unpardonable degradation of Murad’s exalted status. I ate too much.

The summer hols were looming. Murad would estivate on the craggy coastline at Marmaris – this is one of Turkey’s most exclusive resorts. Erdogan had a holiday house there right beside Murad’s place. If I played my cards right I would be invited on holiday with Murad. The thirty-nine thousand pound question was would he give me a one year contract?

A few days later I received an email from Rauf. It delicately delivered not unexpected news. Rauf told me that unfortunately they would not be extending my contract.

I had mixed feelings about it. It had been a handsomely rewarded contract. Istanbul is an enchanting city. I did not think much of Murad. In a sense I was wasting my time – it was not stimulating to work with such an ignoramus. I was achieving nowt. I jetted home.

Aboard the plane I chatted to a swarthy white woman in her 30s. She spoke good English but with a noticeable non-native accent. I asked this petite lady where she hailed from. She parried the question for a while. Half-way into the flight she felt safe enough to state that she was Israeli. Israel and Turkey were having a diplomatic spat at the time. Something to do with the small matter of Netanyahu sending soldiers to kill unarmed Turkish civilians on a humanitarian ship in international waters. This act of piracy was not the woman’s fault and perhaps she was as horrified by it as I was.

Some weeks later I heard that Murad has passed his end of year exams. It was doubtless down to my non-teaching of him. Could it have been deus ex machina? Or perhaps daddy had crossed the university’s palm with silver?

Last time I had a good cyber stalk of Murad I found that he is in a very senior post in his family’s conglomerate. He has added an MBA to his list of qualifications that he bought. Cough. I mean, earned.

ADRIATIC CRUISE

That summer I was kicking around London. I was living with my friends in Twickenham. I was signed up with agencies for summer school work. I would arise before 7 and shower. Some days the phone would ring and ask me to go to Hampstead, Camden or wherever.

‘’Can you make it for 9 o clock?’’

‘’I will run but I might not make it.’’

‘’Ok I will tell them you might be a bit late.’’

It was fun to show at a language school somewhere in London with no preparation. Photocopied sheets would be thrust into my hand by the Director of Studies as I walked into a classroom of teenagers from Colombia, Saudi Arabia, China, Spain, Italy, Russia and elsewhere. With zilch preparation I would ad lib the lesson from these worksheets. It appealed to the showman in me. I like an audience. I would introduce myself:

‘’My name’s George. I am from Ireland. I grew up in the Middle East/ I am X years old and I live in London. I studied history and then I qualified to teach English as a foreign language. I have two sisters. I am not married. In my free time I like cycling, socializing, travel and doing stand-up comedy.’’ I would then give myself a hearty round of applause and they would all join in.

Having modeled this theophrastian self-introduction I would call upon the students to stand up come to the front and do likewise. They would emulated me in a sterling fashion.

My peripatetic teaching was agreeable in many ways. It was a barrel of laughs and no stress. There was variety and cosmopolitanism to it. The trouble was that the pay was miserable. In the evenings I would traipse the comedy clubs of London Town doing my act – my shtick being gallows humour leavened with a rabbelasian rant and a takedown of royalty and political correctness. It was Boris Johnson meets Frankie Boyle. I would seldom take to the stage with less than a bottle of wine under my belt. Needless to say the poverty pay gracelessly dished out by language schools was hardly enough to keep a man of my then unquenchable thirst in funds. On days when I did not have work I cycled around Londinium on a Boris bike. It was a happy go lucky existence. There are few more blissful places to be in the summer than good old London.

I was working temporarily in a language school just over the wall from my dear friends in Buckingham Palace.  Ironically it was up the street from where I had been at nursery. It all goes to prove that if you make a massive effort with education then you end up right back where you started. The chain smoking skinny Scouser in a leather jacket who ran the language school and I were not in sympathy. One day after an adult lesson with an Armenian, two Brazilians, a Kazakh and some others the phone rang. It was Dawn from the agency.

‘’Hello George, how you doing” she chirped in her Derbyshire accent.

‘’Most very exceedingly well thank you and how do you do?’’

‘’I am good thanks, George’’ she giggled. ‘’Anyway there is a job you might like cruising on a superyacht in the Adriatic as a tutor to two teenaged boys.’’

‘’Oh yes?’’ my interest peaked.

Soon I was sold on it. Days later I boarded the flight from Gatwick and flew to Kotor in Montenegro for the first time in my life. I was sure this Adriatic Cruise would take in the Ionian Islands as well as the eastern coast of Italy. I was to prove to be dead wrong on both counts.

Montenegro is a small country that side besides the Adriatic Sea. It border Croatia, Serbia, Albania and Kosovo. It was once part of Yugoslavia. It is not an affluent land.

The Montenegrins call their land Chorno Gora (‘’black mountain’’) which bears the same signification as the Latin name by which we call Montenegro. That very balmy summer’s evening when I landed at the airport I saw signs in Montenegro, Russian and English.

I was met at the airport by a diminutive blackbearded Montenegrin named Marko. Marko worked for the family. He was an amiable sort and spoke faultless English with an accent that it would have been impossible to trace. His lack of stature was a little surprising given that on average Montenegrins are among the tallest people in the world. But of course there is variation in a population. I took an instant liking to him and he drove me to my accommodation. It was a decent room in a modest guesthouse overlooking the Bay of Kotor.

The family would not be in Montenegro for 2 days. Therefore I had been checked into a hotel by them. I had been flown out early because they could not get me a more suitable flight. It was the high season for tourists.

I wandered around the white and beige town of Kotor. The land was exceptionally rocky and the mountains rose very steeply out of the blue bay. I was wafted by zephyrs which meant that 40 degrees did not feel so bad. There seemed to be but one narrow road winding along the indented coastline. This made for horrendous traffic jams.

There were plenty of Russian tourists. It was once of the cheapest destinations in Europe. Montenegro is s Slavonic and an Orthodox Christian land. The Russkies therefore fit in. Russia had backed Serbia in the wars in the former Yugoslavia. The Montenegrins are more Serbian than the Serbians.

I took a few dips in the briny sea. Otherwise I occupied myself my reading in my room like the bibliomane than I am.

The walled town of Kotor is pleasing but offers no outstanding sights.

In an internet café I fell into conversation with some French boys. They were playing games of darts and snooker. They were in their early 20s. I told them why I was there. A slender brown haired Frenchman inquired if I would speak Russian to my Russian family. I affirmed it. He remarked, ‘’Je crois que votre passion est les langues.’’ He was mistaken.

One evening I drifted into an alehouses seeking directions. I was sporting a T shirt from Red Molotov – it had Thatcher in the guise of Che Guevara. It was a marvelous ‘’fuck you’’ to all those leftists who sport T-shirts of the international terrorist racist homophobe who authorized mass executions and torture on an industrial scale and closed down the trades unions in Cuba. It is a scandal that imbeciles adulate this cruel oppressor.

There was a grey bearded Dubliner in his 50s there. The shortish bespectacled man inquired of the likeness on my T shirt, ‘’Is dat Maggie Tatcha?’’

‘’It is’’ I clarified.

He was aghast. He made an allusion to ‘’Occupied Ireland.’’ There is no such place. I had half a mind to tell this Anglophobic ignoramus what I thought of him and people of his ilk. We Irish are British. But I was seeking directions and did not want to go without them. I bit my tongue.

The mother called me the day before they were due to arrive. Daria spoke superb English and came across as very clever and energetic. I was later to discover that she was a lawyer.

The time had elapsed and finally the family had arrived. I was in the marina and found my way to the yacht: Solaia. It was hard to miss. At 40 metres long it was by far the biggest yacht around.

I was there in good time. The captain greeted me – he said his name war Mark. At the gangplank I greeted him most formally, ‘’Permission to come on board sir?’’

‘’Permission granted’’ he tittered at my archaism.

Mark was a middle aged man of middling height who was fairly spare. His black hair was inclining to grey. He spoke in a slightly South of England accent – not Cockney and not Received Pronunciation. He wore a polo shirt and smart shorts. He always wore that – uniform. He was down to earth, courteous, businesslike and approachable. He was not the gruff old seadog that one might have anticipated. ‘’Please do call me Mark’’ he added with a smile.

In a moment I was introduced to the mother of the family, ‘’Hello my name is Daria’’, said a very slender and pretty woman of about 40. She had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, a notably retroussé nose and light skin. Were those full lips fake? She spoke almost faultless English.

‘’This is my husband Borislav’’ she said turning to a man of about 5’4’’. I got the measure of the man. He was a little older than her and had short spiky brownish hair. He had a wide and faintly idiotic grin as well as large ears. Borislav’s English was a matter of listening more than speaking. He had been to military school as he eagerly told me several times. He had some high up position at one of Moscow’s major airports. I never understood quite what his role was.

Then I met the two boys.

Sergei had dark brown tousled hair, pale skin and smallish brown eyes. He was extrovert, of a sunny disposition and had a very carefree manner. His English was almost fluent bearing in mind he was only 14.

Alex was 10 years old and had mousey brown hair, green eyes and a slightly dark complexion. He was pleasant but timid. He spoke little English and rather let his stepbrother do the talking.

We went into the large drawing room. It was luxuriously furnished.

‘’Champagne!’’ Daria called for. A hostess in a white airtex and matching white miniskirt bowed decorously and returned with tray of flutes filled with bubbly.

Daria insisted I quaffed. It was not yet ten o’clock in the morning. I could tell I was going to enjoy this voyage.

‘’Let me explain’’ said Daria. ‘’I am Alex’s mother – he is from my first husband. We are now divorced and I am married to Borislav. Now Sergei – he is Borislav’s son from his first marriage.’’

So the two were stepbrothers – not blood brothers. That explain it. I had noted that they did not look at all similar.

Along came another couple.

‘’This is my husband’s brother and his name is Mikayil’’ said Daria.

There was a man with an alcoholic’s ruddy cheery face – he was grey haired and stood about 5’9’’. He had an impish smile, devil may care attitude, a venerable beer belly and a surprisingly quiet voice. A vicelike man shook mine.

‘’And please meet his wife Yaroslava’’ said Daria.

The lady was perhaps 25 and though pretty she was almost painfully thin. She had blue eyes, dark blonde hair and a tan that must have been topped up by regular trips to the Caribbean. She was lightsome, energetic, alert but almost monosyllabic. Her husband must have been at least 20 years older than her.

The yacht set sail – out of the Bay of Kotor. Before long we were on the open sea. We were breasting the waves. The Adriatic Sea is fairly enclosed so the waves were smallish. We saw the rocky coastline slowly fade into the horizon. The azure sky smiled splendidly over us.

Mikayil was rarely out of his cabin. What can explain his extraordinary torpor? I seldom saw him without a drink in his hand and never saw him sober. Although he was sometimes on deck attired in nothing more than his swimming trunks I never once saw him take a dip in the sea despite the conditions being idyllic.

Yaroslava spent most of the time working on that tan. It’s a hard life.

My duties were not onerous. I was to chat to the boys and improve their English generally. Sergei would talk the hind legs off a donkey. The trouble was that Alex was diffident and could not communicate well anyway. I was under strict instructions not to let on to the boys that I spoke a little of their language.

Sometimes we played chess. They were both rather good. I let them win a few times. Then they asked me to play my hardest. Though I beat them – it was not easy. I told them I had sometimes played the champion of Azerbaijan. That is true but she had beaten most of the time within 10 moves.

Later the hostess had a chance to introduce herself. She was 30 something, plain faced and had dark blonde hair.

‘’Hello my name is Amber’’ she said in a detectable Australian accent. Her voice was soft and almost expressionless. She was an unobtrusive person but on the dull side. She had been a hostess on superyachts for several years. Her duties were unglamorous. It was cleaning the whole interior of the yacht, serving meals and drinks.

Later I met the other hostess. Agnieska was a tall Polish lady in her late 20s. She had chestnut locks usually tied in a chignon. She had dark blue eyes, a retiring manner and a graceful presence.

There was a Swedish engineer on the crew. The goateed one is the only short Swede I have ever met. He had been in the Swedish Navy as a submariner. There is not a lot of room aboard one of those. His small size will have been an advantage during his 10 000 leagues under the sea.

There was a French chef. Laurent was towards the end of middle age. He was a bluff, greying and bespectacled chap who was agreeable enough and gratified that someone could speak to him in his own language. His English had been acquired working in Cheltenham. As for his culinary skills – magnifique! We had croissants freshly baked each morn.

There were two deckhands in their early 20s. One boy was British and the other an Aussie. They were likeable and vapid.

In idle moments I chatted to the crew about life on the ocean wave. The summer season was mostly spent in the Mediterranean.

The owner was a revoltingly rich American. He had a painting of all the US Presidents of the last 10 years up. All were shown together as though they were both in their presidencies at the same time. The Republicans on one side of a private members’ club and the Democrats on the other. All wore suits. There was a mini library from which we were free to borrow.

I read Andrew J Bacevich’s Washington Rules. In it this US Army officer turned historian eviscerated the military industrial complex.

I had time to watch YouTube documentaries such as Pakistan’s Double Game. It was about how President Musharaff pulled the wool over the Bush Administration’s eyes. He gave just enough cooperation against the Taliban to keep US military aid coming. But it was not enough to defeat the Taliban or provoke pro-Taliban elements into ousting Musharaff.

We dined together and made conversation. Daria was a fairly hardline Russian nationalist. She excoriated US and British policy with regard to liberating Iraq from a genocidal tyrant. She also said that if she were a Westerner she would think differently. I was impressed by her ability to put herself into someone else’s shoes.

We discussed the Falklands. Borislav said trying to be sympathetic that many Nazis had gone to Argentina. True but that does not impinge on the Falklands issue.

Daria said it was terrible that the Republic of Ireland did not permit women to kill their children. It crossed my mind that she had made her womb a crime scene. That is the norm in Russia.

Borislav listened but did not contribute to the dialogue.

Daria told me of having her car stolen at gunpoint by two men from the Caucasus. When she reported the felony to the police they said, ‘’why are you crying? At least they did not kill you or rape you?’’

Daria was a vivacious and likeable person. But she also vocalized the most rebarbative racist prejudices. ‘’Why does France let all those blacks in? They are the ones committing all the crime?’’

I wanted to edify her. But I did not wish to be thrown overboard. How do you correct the bigotry of your employer?

She told me that ethnic minority people should not be allowed to be citizens. She though Kazakhs were all right but she openly despised people from Azerbaijan and Armenia. I told them that in the Republic of Ireland our prime minister was half Indian and an out homosexual. Daria’s facial expression register her utter revulsion. Her husband laughed at her discomfiture.

We stopped off in a few towns along the Adriatic coast. They orange roofs, white walls and elegant piazzas. The Catholic churches in every seaside town boasted fine looking campanile. But these sleepy towns all blurred into each other after a while.

At the first town in Croatia a yachting agent came out to meet the yacht. She had a briefcase full of documents.

The yachting agent was a drop dead gorgeous lissome lady of perhaps 20 years of age. She wore a virginal white skirt and blouse rimmed with the aqua marine livery of the yachting company. Her mid brown hair shone all the down her narrow back. Her healthy young skin was just slightly tanned and her features were of dreamlike prettiness. As she tottered along on her dangerously tall high heels I wondered, why oh, why they company had hired her of all people? She certainly added to the luxurious image.

It turned out Yaroslava did not have the right visa. The captain said he had told the port authorities she was a member of the crew. That was how they got around it. He said that people could go to prison if it were discovered that he had lied for them.

I would rise in the morning and order breakfast. I would have scrambled eggs most of the time.

We would be anchored only a few hundred metres off the coast. Often there were a few islets close by. They would be covered in very dense pine forests and bare rocks. Sometimes there were dense waxy green bushes. They water’s surface would re-echo with the crickets’ croaking chorus. The curious Mediterranean odour of olives would greet my nose.

Alex rose very early and went out on paddle canoes. I had to go too.

Sometimes we went out on the tender. There was a big yellow banana towed behind it. The tender was driven by the deckhands. They would execute sharp turns this way and that to make us fall off. I was faintly frightened about breaking my neck.

After a while the tender would shake us off the banana. We would then have to haul ourselves on.

The boys wanted to dive off the yacht into the sea. I checked and double checked with the captain that the sea was deep enough. He had all sorts of super sophisticated sonographic equipment and assured me that the water was over 10 deep. I did not fancy ending up paralysed. That might be worse than death.

We would dive in from the 3^rd deck about 9 metres up. It was an awful lot of fun. Then swim around and climb up the ladder to do the same. My childishness was an asset. Not many men my age would take delight in such infantile pursuits.

We stopped on the Croatian island that Marco Polo had come from.

On one Croatian island we visited a restaurant half way up the hill. They had cooked a special lamb dish for half the day for us.

The family spoke English to the hefty bearded Croat father and son who ran the place. They Croats were very relieved that their general from the 1990s had just been acquitted of war crimes by the International Criminal Court.

I was given some time to wander about the town. Mikayil was in a portside bar sipping his 10^th beer of the day – it was almost luncheon. He hailed me over and demanded that I sink a beer with him. I happily obliged. I spoke my broken Russian to him and he was most pleased.

As I was on the boat Daria showed herself to be more than satisified with me. Would I consider coming to work for her as a tutor to her son in Moscow. I had an offer to return to Azerbaijan but did not tell her that. I harboured doubts about going back to Baku and the Iranian I was due to work for there had not responded to emails in weeks.

Yes, I told her. I would be delighted to come to Moscow. We haggled about the salary. I asked for 25% more than Baku was offering.

‘’It is not so small’’ she said with some discomfort. But agreed. Accommodation would be provided.

Daria and company would be going on another super yacht later in the summer. Would I like to come on that? I agreed those dates.

All this was verbally agreed with her. Nothing was put on parchment.

Then the agency contacted me. Could I go on a cruise in August in the Mediterranean off the coast of Sardinia? Another Russian family needed me.

I said yes to this other opportunity.  But I knew that this clashed with the dates I had agreed to Daria.

My policy was to say yes and keep my options open. As the SAS say – never close an option until you must.

I was to come to regret selling the same camel twice over.

The day before our cruise ended Daria paid me in cash. She paid me in banknotes. Some of them were 500 Euro notes.

All good things must come to an end. After a fortnight we ended our cruise in Split. I had farewell to them at the portside. A minibus was there to take them straight to the airport. I bade farewell to the crew.

I bent my footsteps to a downmarket hotel and checked in. They were willing to accept a 500 Euro banknote. I was glad of the change.

I ambled about the harbour side. It is a marvelous city – tranquil yet lively. I visited the must-see: Diocletian’s Palace. The Roman Emperor constructed this resplendent palace many centuries ago. Despite the vagaries of history it remains in astounding good condition.

The next morning I got a cab to the airport. I shared it was an obese Croatian-Australian woman. Her parents had moved to Oz in the 1950s.

The young taxi driver spoke good English and spoke about the wars in the ex-Yugoslavia. His one mistake was saying ‘’occupated.’’

I flew back to London via Zurich giving a wink to a black Swiss International Airlines hostess as I passed through the terminal. Her sour expression suggested that we were not about to build the bridge of nations. I took it in my stride. It may be hard to believe but it is not the only time in my life that a woman had knocked me back.

An agency run by a young Muscovite landed me a trial in Moscow. And so it came to pass that one September I flew to the city known as ‘the forty forties.’ I was to be the governor to two boys aged 8 and 5.

It was a warm afternoon when I landed in one of the Moscow airports. The man to meet me was a short podgy man in his 30s. His light blue suit was so gopping that it would make a pimp wince. I spoke Russian to this driver.

We stopped off in a supermarket. He had been instructed to purchase foodstuffs for me sufficient for three days. I chose my tucker. We came to the fish section. I said to him ‘’In general I don’t like it.’’

Then he drove me to a housing complex. There were several blocks of flats – all of them about 5 storeys high. There was also a minimarket there. The flats were all a reddish brown colour on the outside.

I was brought into a newish, spacious and sparsely furnished flat. The interior was mostly white. It was on one of the upper floors.

The driver explained that the family already had a British governor. But they were thinking of replacing him. So they had given him a holiday. This was his flat. I was given a Russian phone and told to install myself and await further instructions.

Then the driver was off.

I had a good rummage around the flat and I saw the governor’s clothes and some photos of him. He was white, handsome about 6’4’’, slim and had dark hair. There were some female clothes too in the flat. I did not suspect him of transvestitism. These garments were many sizes too small for him. I deduced that he had a girlfriend. That was super sleuthing on my part.

I had been foolish enough to put my laptop in for repair in London some days before departure. The repair man had still not fixed it and was not answering the phone when I left. So I had gone abroad without a computer. A computer is the source of so much entertainment. It is also the means by which I write. I was therefore bereft without it.

I headed out and explored the area. I went out of the gate of the complex. I turned left and walked up the road towards the supermarket where I had had my foodstuffs bought. I passed a chubby middle aged woman who was blatantly a Filipina. I greeted her in Tagalog, ‘’Komo sta? Mu booty poo.’’

It almost knocked her dead to be addressed in her own language by someone she presumed to be Russian.

For my stroll I turned back and walked down the hill – past the housing complex where I was lodging. There was a nursery down the road. On the corner there was a kebab place run by a chap from Uzbekistan.

I came onto another road. There was a good footpath beside it. I turned left onto it. There were a few trees. I saw large billboards advertising candidates for the local elections later that month.

There were huge gates of the houses of the super-rich. On the far side of the road there was green wilderness. I also saw signs to Archangelskoye Palace. It was a palace I was not to visit for several years but I did not know that then.

I went off into the wilderness. I found a holy well. I saw the Moscow River beyond/.

We were in Glukhova. The toponym relates to the Russian word for deaf ‘’glukhy’’. I wondered about the etymology of this town’s name. Could it have been an asylum for those whose ears were stopped?

At long last duty called. I was told to be ready outside my block of flats. A driver came and picked me up. We drove 5 minutes to the gates of a private housing estate. The usual black uniformed guards were there. There were high wooden walls and the road turned at 90 degree angles. Once inside the estate there were walls on both sides. For any burglar or assassin there would be nowhere to turn off and nowhere to hide. After a couple of right angle turns we came to large luxurious houses. There was plenty of space between the houses.

At last we came to a very large modern house – it was gray and tasteful. It had its own security gate with several guards in the stereotypical black uniforms. This family took security very seriously indeed to go so far as to have their own security gate within a secure compound and their own security guards.

I was ushered into the house. There was a glass conservatory at the entrance. Shoes came off and slippers on – such is the way in all homes in the erstwhile USSR. The floor was tiled.

I met the Russian nanny. She was a middle aged woman who was very slender – her cheeks were almost sunken. She was of middling height and had short black hair feckled with grey. Of course she spoke not a word of English. When I was not engaging her in

We waited in the conservatory until summoned into the house.

As soon as I entered the house proper a reddish brown Rhodesian ridgeback bitch bounded up to me. The hound barked furiously. I am an incurable cynophile but this Cerberus. I was afraid and she lunged at me as if to bite me. It was only with considerable difficulty that the nanny calmed the hellhound down. But for the nanny’s intercession I am sure that the dog would have taken a pound of flesh.

The mother was there. She was a slim blonde woman with a flat affect and faraway mien. Her height was average and she was good looking but her offhand manner was deeply unalluring.

I met the two little boys – both blonde. They both spoke English. They were energetic and agreeable in their way. The older fellow had flaxen hair and was tall for his age. The younger chap wore glasses. He had a tendency to say ‘’spock ee bock’’ when showing me how something functioned. Neither of them was one bit shy.

There was a four year old boy also blond. He was not to be my responsibility as he spoke not a phoneme of English. But oddly he was louder than his two older brothers combined.

There was also a 3 year old girl running around in her nappy. Guess what – she was blonde too but a darker blonde than the boys. Again she was not to be my charge. This fecund couple had produced 4 children in 6 years. That is quite a rate of production!

There was an open plan kitchen and drawing room. Everything was minimalist, tasteful and of the highest quality. The room was very spacious and airy. The ceilings were extraordinarily high. The walls were all white. A few plants in the corner of the room lent a natural feel to the place which otherwise have been almost austere.

I had to play with the little boys. They were rather wild and unmanageable.

Later I was summoned upstairs when they were to go to bed. I entered the large white bedroom that the two brothers shared. They were already in their pajamas and a black bearded youngish man was there – a friend of the family. He handed over some toys to them. I noticed the typical images of Orthodox saints. A variety of storybooks in Russian and English littered the room.

I was then bade go downstairs where I spoke to the mother briefly. She was watchful and almost unresponsive. It was as though she had no emotion. She was preternaturally phlegmatic. What was missing in her?

Then I was dismissed. The driver took me home.

One day I was free for almost the entire day and explored the area. From the shwarma stall on the corner I learnt the Russian word for ‘’takeaway’’ from the Central Asian chap working there.

I took a bus and the metro into town. I went to Mayakovskaya to meet Valeria. I took her to luncheon. She said she might have other work for me.

I then hastened back to Glukhovka. It was rather boring.

I shopped in the little supermarket in my housing complex. There was a 40 something man running it. He had the tight haircut, Orthodox cross necklace, machismo, muscles and bluff manner that typifies working class Russian males. I exchange a few pleasantries with him in his native language.

The driver came to take me to the house that evening. I asked what I should say if anyone asked me what I was doing in the housing complex. He then said the English words ‘’no Russian’’ and waved his hand – indicative of protesting my inability to comprehend their language. But I informed him I had already conversed in Russian in the supermarket so my cover was blown. Answer came there none.

I entered the gate of their garden. I was told to wait in the little guards’ building. I conversed with a bald, slim middle aged guard who was about 5’9’’. He said how he would like to learn English. He was smiling broadly. I knew that he had warmed to me. Russians are very sincere. I said that learning a new language took a lot of – then I racked my brains for the word – effort.

That evening I was in the house again. Once more the dog almost savaged me. But then she lay doggo on the carpet.

Later the hound sidled up to me. She was totally attitudinally different from a few minutes earlier. I indicated that I was unthreatening. I extended my left hand to pet her – left hand just in case she bit me it would not matter as much. She sniffed it, licked it and let me caress her a little. I thought we were friends.

Then I was with the boys. The mother had given them stationery sets. It included a scalpel. The older boy brandished it gleefully. I took it off him. He could accidentally kill someone with it. I handed the scalpel to his mother saying I had confiscated it. She gave it back to him!

Later I was to go to their private swimming pool with them. They had a tunnel under the garden to their pool complex which included a Finnish sauna and a Turkish sauna. The family was not stony broke! I never learnt anything about their acquirement of a few pennies.

I had a key to the pool itself. I went into the pool which was 10 m by 5 m or so. The two little lads were very strong swimmers for their ages. I made sure to stay very close just in case. I did not think that them drowning on my watch would be an ideal start to the job.

After a good swim in that lovely, warm clean pool it was time to go back. I let the door to the pool close. It locked itself. I then realized I had left the key inside there! Anyway we walked back to the house.

One time I had to go around with the littler boy. He and I were cycling around the housing estate. He wanted to climb into another garden of a house they also owned but did not occupy. I told him not to go in there. But he did anyway. I could not allow him to be there on his own so I followed him.

There was a thin wooden trestle fence. I climbed over it and it broke under my weight but I was not hurt.

There were two enormous and ferocious dogs. The barked madly. I was very worried. Turns out they knew the child and were tranquil around him which explained his insouciance but they growled fiercely at me.

Then a tall middle aged security guard came out. He took control of the dogs. He had us come into his little guard house. He and the child watched videos.

Later the boy went fishing in the pond there and chatted with the old gardener. The child gave me a spade, ‘’you will get us some worms.’’

I did as the 6 year old ordered me and dug in the patch he had indicated. I was thoroughly bored.

I only spent a few days with these children. They were good natured but tiresome.

I met the father on one occasion. He was 5’8’’ lean and fit. He was much more vivacious than his wife. He was clean shaven and in his 40s – his brown hair was speckled with grey. The dad and I chatted a little in my halting Russian.

After a few days it was time to leave. I am a reflector and I bethought to myself that whilst the salary was not to be sneezed at the job seemed perfectly ghastly. I did not want to work with little kids especially these really wild ones.

After my valediction to the mother one evening I headed towards the gate of their house. The security guards called me over to their little house. They had something for me. I was to sign for the envelope that I was to receive and date it. I wrote the date in Russian and asked, ‘’did I spell September correctly?’’

‘’More or less’’ one of them simpered.

Inside was cash: pounds sterling. Twas my payment for those days.

Next day I was driven to the airport. It felt good to be back in Blighty.

A few days later I got a missive. I would not be offered a job with the family. Had they so offered me one I surely would have declined it.

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.

__________________________

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

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

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.

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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.

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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.

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

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.

One summer I was sustaining myself in London with casual work in language schools. When I say casual I mean that I was scarcely awake during the lessons. I saw an advertisement for a tutor to go to Shenyang, China for a month and tutor a boy who hoped to go to Eton. I answered the ad.

Days later I was interviewed by a ginger haired Old Etonian named Raff. He was a likeable sort and as thin as a whippet. It turned out we had some mutual acquaintances though this half Italian chap was a few years older than me and had been in a different house. We agreed a few particulars regarding the proposed short term job. He filled me in on the brief. The boy’s English name was Julius. Chinese people often choose English names because Anglophones sometimes find Chinese names unpronounceable. His parents owned a university. He was currently in prep school in the United Kingdom. He already spoke English. The parents wanted to improve him in that and other subjects.

I was issued with my visa and went to Heathrow one blazing summer’s evening. In the queue I chatted to a podgy old white British man who was going on holiday to Dalian. China is a ghastly place and I could not for the life of me imagine why anyone would go there were it not for the sake of amassing some filthy lucre. I had been to the People’s Republic of China a couple of years before but that is another story.

I was flying on China Eastern Airlines for the first time in my life. I was flying business class. The flight passed quickly because the seat turned into a bed. The air steward even dressed it with a sheet.

Chinese airlines definitely discriminate on looks. The Chinese believe in pretty privilege. They are ageist towards air hostesses. Hence their cabin crew are easy on the eye. Is that good for business? What do you think? The West is too PC to face the truth: sex sells. Men tend to be attracted to younger females. There is such a thing as biology.

I landed in Shanghai and I was exhausted. I walked down the corridors to the VIP lounge. This was a misnomer. It the business class lounge. It was not luxurious but it was at least calm, uncrowded and provided some free tucker. I dozed as best I could in an upright chair.

Later I had a flight to Shenyang. It is a large city in Manchuria – north-east China. That evening I walked out into the meeting area of Shenyang Airport.

I saw a middle aged man and a young lady holding a sign bearing the words ‘George William.’ They had my middle name and not my surname. But I figured this must mean me. There are not too many people in deepest darkest China with these names.

The young lady was beaming and introduced herself as Alice. Her English was nearly perfect. The man was her father and he only spoke Mandarin. I knew a few pleasantries in the language and I deployed them. The father was a balding well-built man of 6’1’’ so he was almost gigantic for a Chinese of his generation. He seemed deeply placid and faraway.

Alice was spare and had very clear and youthful skin. Her dark eyes were not hooded and her features were very even. She was very nubile but I noticed that she let the hair in her armpits grow freely which I found very off-putting.

Into the car – we drove down the nearly deserted motorway and past a police checkpoint. Soon we were in the city. It had the bog standard Chinese tower blocks – all enormous monsters. On the way I spoke with Alice.

‘’I am studying in Paris at the moment’’ she chirped, ‘’I want to learn French. I am Julius’ sister.’’ She said.

‘’I speak French’’, I said.

‘’Yes, I know. We saw your CV’’ said Alice merrily, ‘’my dad is most impressed with your education because he owns a university.’’

I estimated her to be aged about 20. It emerged that the family had four children. Four! They were all born under the One Child Policy. This policy did not prohibit additional children. It merely said that those who had them were required to pay a fine. If that was paid then there was no disgrace or disapproval. Only very wealthy families could pay the fine. It was a matter if great prestige to have so many children.

‘’I got two big brothers’’, said Alice, ‘’but they both study far away’’ she added with a smile. I never met the big siblings.

We then drove into a compound with small houses only two or three storeys tall. This was very unusual for the middle of a Chinese city. It also gave an indication of just how affluent they were. Very few urban dwellers can afford to reside in a house.

The car drew up at an old style Chinese house – the handiwork on the exterior was intricate. Was this one of the few survivors from before the Cultural Revolution? There were even little white dragons on the balustrade of the stairs that led up to the front door.

We stepped into the house. At this point we all removed out shoon as is the custom on Far Cathay. The interior was mostly dark wood and a highly polished wooden floor. The furniture was all classical Chinese. Almost every surface was covered in chinoiserie as one might expect. I recognized the statue of Confucius that is seen in so many Chinese households. There was also a hearth but not blazing therein – it was the wrong time of year for that. They told me it got down to minus 20 degrees celsisus here in the bleak midwinter.

It was rather late and Julius was asleep. The house was not large. I was staying in a bedroom on the same corridor as the parents, Julius and Alice.

Next morning I met them all over breakfast.

‘’Good morning Julius, I am George’’, I piped.

‘’Yes, I know’’ he said almost aggressively. He shook hands and avoided eye contact out of disdain not bashfulness. He was a distinctly surly and saturnine sort.

Julius parried my few attempts at conversation.

An average height and slender middle aged woman came along – she wore her hair in a bob and had a worried look about her.

I stood up and shook her hand as I greeted her in Chinese. She was the mother as I had deduced. She spoke minimal English and used her daughter as an interpreter.

There was little chit chat at the table. The father was busily feeding his face and looking away. Occasionally he punctuated the silence with a very loud eructation. I pretended not to notice. The family did not bat an eyelid. What the father was doing was entirely permissible according Chinese table manners. When in Rome do as the Romans do. I wished to avail myself of this. Wouldn’t it be a rare delight just for once to do an ear splittingly loud burp at the table? But I just could not bring myself to.

The mother exhorted me to eat more. I have never been slim. The last thing I needed was encourage to fatten myself up.

Then it was upstairs for lessons in his parents’ bedroom there were desks there. Julius was bright and very hard working. The boy was a very high achiever but that was not surprising bearing in mind that he had had one on one lessons every day of the holidays for years.

‘’You have only been at prep school in the UK for a year. How did you get so good at English?’’ I gushed.

‘’I used to have a teacher here – a Filipino woman. She came here every day for years after I finished my classes at Chinese school’’ he said seriously.

The child had a wide lexis and almost never made a grammatical mistake. He comprehended everything that I said to him and I did not slow down the speed at which I spoke for him. His writing was just as excellent at his spoken English. But his Chinese accent was very pronounced. I tried to work a little on correcting that but he took very badly to me drilling him on the pronunciation of certain sounds.

Julius had large epicanthic folds like his father and he had a dark complexion for someone of his ethnicity. Julius was about average height for a child of his age.

We did English, verbal reasoning, non -verbal reasoning, French, interview practice and Maths. I was woeful at non-verbal reasoning which is all about number patterns and the rotation of shapes. These were all multiple choice questions. But what he did not know is that I had the answers in the back of the book. I would check the answers and put a very light almost imperceptible pencil mark below the correct answer. This is who I could tell if he was right of wrong. 9 times out of 10 he was correct.

Sometimes I did lessons with Julius in a nearby building. A short and slim epicene old man came along – he was not wearing a shirt. The man chatted calmly with Julius who clearly knew the man well. The old man was his uncle he explained.

In break Julius and I played chess. He was a formidable player. He took the game extremely seriously. I invoked the Corinthian spirit at first and let him win. But once I realized how fantastic he was at the game I decided to give him a run for his money. I played my very hardest. But he still beat me! We played roughly forty times and I won twice. We had two draws.

When he was losing he took it very poorly indeed. He would slam his chess piece down so hard that the others would fall off. He was ferociously competitive. I began to comprehend why he was so diligent about his studies. He approached every lesson with a sense of mission.

I should have been the one sulking. I was an adult being thrashed at chess by a 10 year old. It is a Maths game and I am woeful at maths.

‘’You are outstanding at chess’’, I complimented him.

‘’Yes, I know. I had a lot of chess coaching.’’

I would do a few hours of tutoring with Julius up until luncheon. At luncheon the mother would stand by the table and look on anxiously with her hands clasped together again urge me to eat more. It was mostly rice and other stodgy food. Surprisingly they were all a healthy weight.

In the afternoon Julius did the Chinese Language and maths (in Chinese) with another tutor. Then his music teacher would come and teach him the piano.

On one occasion Julius said, ‘’I am going to walk my dog.’’

But there was no canid there. He explained it was a virtual dog on a computer game. How pathetic is that?

After a few days I was aware of a slight medical problem. I had to vouchsafe this to the family despite it being embarrassing. I stated that I needed to go to the lavatory too frequently. Alice said she would buy me something from the pharmacy. Quite unembarrassedly she asked me the necessary question, ‘’is it pee pee or poo poo?’’

I answered that it was the former. Whatever the pharmacy gave me worked.

In my free time I walked around the compound. There were about 50 buildings there. There was even a small shop selling a few comestibles and domestic items.

There was a barrier gate. I was able to walk in and out. The guards recognized me. I was the only white there. I walked up and down the busy street and to the park. I walked to the bridge that spanned the huge river that divided the city into two.

In a shop on the city street I saw a white middle aged woman. She was tallish, slender and had dark blonde hair and spoke to her teenaged son. I overheard that it was Russian. We were not so far from the border.

I discussed Manchuria with Julius. It turns out that he was Manchu on his mother’s side. But his mother could not speak the language.

Alice told me that the mother had worked for the intelligence services long ago. They had caught many spies in the Dalian Peninsula because it is close to Japan.

In preparing the boy for his Eton interview I thought it apt that he should know something about the history of the school. Therefore I told him about King Henry VI. I consider myself a history buff. But what I had not known was that he ran away to Scotland for a few years.

We ran through the mock interview several times. Then we reversed roles. I showed him how not to do it. I would act painfully timid. Sometimes I would be brash and dismissive. Sometimes I would come across as insufferably conceited and full of braggadocio.

The internet did not always work. This was a time for me to pen stories. When the internet worked I treated myself to listening to pieces by Hungarian composers.

I read translations of classical Chinese tales – they were translated by a Jewish-American named Shapiro. He had spent time in China in the mid- 20^th century and become the interpreter of Chairman Mao Zedong. He was very different from Ben Shapiro whose surname he shares.

One sunny summer’s evening I was told that after lessons I would go with the boy to the university where he sometimes played tennis. The driver took us in their Rolls Royce. They are incredibly spacious and comfortable cars and such a smooth ride. I scarcely felt that we were moving. Even the aroma inside them is a pleasure.

The land around the city was very flat. The level fields stretched to the skyline. Here and there a few low rise buildings squatted.

We drove past the security gate into the university. Some young black men played football on a pitch by the gate. Julius explained there were some African students at his dad’s university and they stayed over the summer.

The campus was all but deserted. There were numerous low rise buildings: halls of residence and lecture halls. The buildings were all modern, nondescript and bland as can be. The place was all about instrumental rationality – there was no character of beauty to it. We came to some tennis courts in the middle of the campus.

A police car came and delivered a supermarket trolley full of tennis balls. There were a few police officers who idled around near the tennis court. They watched the courts but not intensely.

There were two tennis coaches. I sat on a bench as they put the boy through his paces in terms of tennis drills. It was all in Mandarin of course so I could not comprehend a word of what was being said. The two men coaching him were both aged about 40 and were lithe and svelte

The Chinese Flag snapped at the flagstaff in the slight breeze. The light grew crepuscular. Then I heard the Chinese National Anthem blare out from a speaker. They stopped the tennis practice and stood to attention as did the police. I knew it was only mannerly to emulate them. One of the police officers lowered the flag with great ceremony. Dusk was drawing on.

The tennis practice resumed once the flag had been lowered.

Once we went into a gigantic gym building. There was a row of full size tennis courts. They played on those.

Sometimes after a sweaty game of tennis Julius and the family would go straight to a very smart restaurant without showering or changing. I did not understand it. Ladies would be there tastefully madeup with their hair just styled and sporting their most glamorous evening dresses.

After a few evenings of pointlessly accompanying him to tennis I sat watching them on a bench. The coach said out of nowhere, ‘’your tutor will play with you now.’’ This had to be translated by Julius of course.

I was nonplussed. I had not played tennis in over 20 years. I was always terrible at the sport. But I took up the racket with gusto and was determined to give a good account of myself.

I ran around the court hitting the ball back to him. He did not find it too easy to get the better of me. But then I was more than a foot taller than him.

This minuet went on for a good ten minutes. When suddenly I felt a very sharp pain in my right calf. Had someone thrown a metal ball at it? I cried out in pain. I could not put any weight on that leg. I hopped over to the bench and sat down.

They came over to me and asked what happened?

‘’I pulled a muscle I think’’ I said wincing.

Eventually I hopped over to the car. I began to worry that this might take out my other leg as too much weight was going on the left leg.

I realized later the thing to do was to lie down on my back on the ground and put the affected leg in the air or balance the ankle on the bench. That would minimize blood flow to the affected muscle.

We drove home. As long as no weight was on that muscle I was not in pain.

With great difficulty I made it into the house and up the stairs.

I had to crawl to the loo and the shower. I made it up and down stairs in pain by sitting and shuffling my buttocks from one step to the next.

This was not a serious injury and there was no question of going to the doctor. But it put paid to any idea of going to Beijing on my day off. There was a palace to see in Shenyang.  I was unable to do that.

Later there was talk of going swimming with him.

‘’My mother thinks you will drown’’ said the child.

The family thought I did not give enough attention to the boy. We were due to fly back together in early September. I would miss my birthday in London.

As the family was dissatisfied with me they ended it a little early. I did not care at all.

My leg had partly recovered by the time I left. But that muscle still hurts from time to time.

I just made the connection in Shanghai.

The flight to London. I was plied with red wine. The air steward recharged my glass unbidden. I slept soundly.

I made it to London but my suitcase did not. It was delivered a week later.

I managed to have a birthday knees up after all.

My time in China was disenjoyable.

Neil Hamilton

His own man?

Showman?

Questions for cash?

The greatest prime minister we never had.

National treasure

Hero

Saviour

Genius of Brexit

Neil Hamilton is one of the most famous or perhaps infamous ex-MPs of modern times. Though he was a passionate parliamentarian it is a curious twist of fate that he had achieved far greater sway once he lost his seat. Barrister, university lecturer, journalist, campaigner, MP, Assembly Member, teacher, quiz show contestant, talk show guest, actor, interviewer, controversialist, contarian, transvestite, bon vivant, author, media factotum extraordinaire and all round national treasure – Neil is truly one of a kind. Ebullient, amiable, affable, gallant, garrulous, telegenic, bankrupt, bankable, intelligent, elegant, avaricious, dapper, debonair, sanguine, bonhomous, irrepressible, innovative, opinionated, outspoken, unbreakable, querulous, quixotic, resilient, unflappable, enervating, disputatious, shameless, faithful, always immaculately attired and seldom captious – Neil is a man of many parts. I have long been adazzle by his gifts and his chequered story. How can one possibly do justice to such a multitalented man whose life has had such triumphs and such travails? There has scarcely be a dull moment.

Notwithstanding being brutalized by the left wing gutter press for years, Neil never once lost his composure. He defied the insults and rose above them. He never resorts to vulgarities. Throughout his travails, ever bore himself with a dignity that it would profit others to study.

Given the slings and arrows of outrageous reportage that Neil suffered it is inexplicable that he never resorted to contumely or Anglo-Saxonisms. He is a man not given to wild emotion.

A man of prodigious gifts and endless energy yet he never achieved the high ministerial office to which he aspired. He was too incautious, farouche and perhaps unembarrassable for his own good. As one ex-Tory MP said to me of Neil, ‘’he had no sense of danger’’. Neil is certainly no Westminster cardboard cut-out.

For 20 years Neil was one of Britain’s most colourful and instantly recognizable characters. That is all the more surprising given that he is undemonstrative. He is not visually arresting. Neither unusually tall nor short – Neil is not obese nor skinny. His dress sense is a little old fashioned. Yet somehow he garnered endless media attention – much of it unsought and even unwanted.

Tatton was the constituency that Neil graced with his presence from 1983 to 1997. It would be fair to say that he is not universally adored in his former Cheshire stomping ground. He later brought levity and controversy to the once staid National Assembly for Wales. He now enjoys an uncharacteristically quiet retirement in rural Wiltshire

Neil’s political career was dogged by allegations of cash for questions that refused to go away. He made some powerful enemies. A meretricious Egyptian billionaire Mohammed Fayed was a deadly foe of his. The Guardian newspaper was hellbent on bringing Neil down. Most of Fleet Street was extremely hostile to Neil in the 1990s. A lesser man would have cracked under the strain. Seeing vicious headlines about his splashed across the front pages of several newspaper day after day was more than enough to destroy the average person. But Neil is so much more than a mere normal man.

The 1997 election was a seismic shift from Conservative to Labour. But during Labour’s landslide election one seat attracted more media coverage than any other. That was Tatton where Neil stood and lost.

There was a time in the late 90s and early Noughties when Neil Hamilton was a household name. You could not turn on your telly without seeing Neil and Christine.

Background

Mostyn Neil Hamilton was born on 9 March 1949 in the United Kingdom. He has always been known by his middle name: Neil. Mostyn is a place in Wales and perhaps significantly this name is de-emphasised like Neil’s Welsh heritage.

It was in 4 Trelyn, Lane, Fleur de-Lis that Neil was born. The house was that of Neil’s paternal aunt. Fleur de-Lis that boasts being Neil’s birthplace. It is in the district of Bedwellty in Monmouthshire. It is not far from the small town of Blackwood. Monmouthshire a county that has passed back and forth between Wales and England. It is the most anglicized part of Wales. The illegitimate son of Charles II was styled the Duke of Monmouth: he of the ill-fated 1685 Rebellion. But apart from that Monmouth and Monmouthshire are names one seldom hears.

Some doubted that Monmouth is Welsh at all. The Welsh Guards once advertised for recruits saying they must be from Wales or Monmouthshire impliedly saying that Monmouthshire is not in Wales. When Neil was eleven they moved to Ammanford, Carmarthen. Neil never particularly stressed his Welsh identity. He was always a committed unionist.

Bedwellty has now been assigned to the County of Gwent.

Neil was born is very close to Abertillery: a rock solid Labour constituency that he was to contest 15 years later. His birthplace is also close to other places that are legendary for their socialist fervor: Islwyn and Ebbw Vale. The latter being the seat of Welsh Labour’s most famous son Nye Bevan and later the seat of the sometime leader of the Labour Party: Michael Foot. Bedwellty became part of the Islwyn constituency that was later represented by Neil Kinnock who was leader the Labour Party from 1983-92. Kinnock was known as the Welsh windbag for his verbose and tedious oratory. He and Neil Hamilton were not in sympathy. When Kinnock was sent upstairs to the House of Lords he styled himself Baron Kinnock of Bedwellty.

The appeal of Labour to those in coalmining communities is not hard to understand. Before Labour was founded as the Labour Representation Committee in 1894 conditions for most people in South Wales were grim indeed. It was one of the most poverty-stricken regions of the United Kingdom. Most people left school at 12. Men toiled for decades in horrific conditions underground for poverty pay. Coal mining was extraordinarily dangerous. Shafts collapsed and sometimes there were gas explosions. Dozens were killed every years and many were injured. Many of the injured could not afford treatment. There was no disability benefit. Workhouses still existed. The aristocrats who owned the coalmines were filthy rich despite not doing a day’s work. It all seemed grossly unjust. Labour promised to make life better for the great majority of people who were poor. There was an awful lot of avoidable suffering and Labour wanted to alleviate this. The Conservatives and Liberals offered no such solutions. Their MPs were mostly upper class or middle class. By contrast Labour MPs of that generation were usually identifiably working class. By the time Neil was born Labour was building the welfare state. It had made life significantly better for the majority of people. Back then 65% of people called themselves working class. Class identity was strong. People aligned behind political parties often on a class basis.

Disraeli’s dictum is that the Church of England is the Tory Party at prayer. This was never accurate but there was a grain of truth to it. Note that for centuries the Anglican Church in Wales was known as the Church of England. This irked many as disrespectful to Wales.  It is now called the Church in Wales not the Church of Wales. By the time of Neil’s birth most Welsh people were Nonconformists of some stripe or other: Baptists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Congregationalists or even like David Lloyd George – Disciples of Christ. Very few working class Welsh people were Church of England. Being an active Nonconformist correlated with voting for Labour, the Liberals or even Plaid Cymru (the Party of Wales). The Church of England was said by Disraeli to be the Tory Party at prayer. This was inaccurate but contained a grain of truth.

The Hamilton’s lived in Wales where coalmining was the main industry. Neil’s father was the chief engineer for a mining company. Both his grandfathers had been down the mines. Though conditions in the pits were often ghastly it was relative handsomely remunerated. It was danger money.

The surname Hamilton relates to a town in the Scots Lowlands: Hamilton. There is indeed a Duke of Hamilton. There is a surname ‘Hamill’ as well.

The Britain that Neil grew up in was very different from today. In 1949 under 1% of the population was non-white. In Wales it was more like 0.1% and in Carmarthen even less than that. Back then being Irish was considered to be ethnically diverse. Most people had never eaten rice other than in rice pudding. Indian and Chinese restaurants were all but unknown. The Second World War was still a very recent memory. Almost all items were still rationed. The British Empire was extant and was assumed to have long way yet to run. There was National Service. This meant that young men had to do two years in the army, Royal Navy, Royal Marines or RAF. There were exemptions for conscientious objectors, the disabled, parliamentary candidates and doctors. Doctors could perform their service by providing medical care in the colonies. Before the Suez Crisis of 1956, the British Empire was assumed to have a long way yet to run. Men only a few years older than Neil did National Service but it was phased out in 1963 so Neil did not have to do it.

Labour had won a sweeping victory in 1945. Labour’s Attorney-general Sir Hartley Shawcross said, ‘’we are the masters now and not just for now but for a very long time to come.’’ It was widely forecast that the Conservatives would be out of office for a generation. It was to general astonishment that the Tories won office again in 1951. That was only by fluke since Labour won more votes but the vagaries of the first past the post system awarded more seats to the Conservative and Unionist Party.

In Neil’s childhood the Cold War was at its height. Capitalism was seriously questioned. There was thought to be a strong chance that communism would triumph.

The 1950s was a time of austerity at first. The United Kingdom was decidedly bland compared to today. It was only just recovering from the war. But rationing was being phased out the UK entered a sustained economic boom. Unemployment was very low, inflation was low and consumer goods were becoming ever more affordable. Strikes almost never occurred. Cars and televisions came within reach for the middle class. The working class had disposable incomes like never before. To people who remembered the Great Depression and the Second World War, the 1950s seemed splendid. The Prime Minister Harold Macmillan told people ‘’you’ve never had it so good.’’ Supermac was right. Yet relative poverty still existed. Foreign holidays were the preserve of the few, nay, the very few. Most Britons had never been on a plane. The remotest villages still did not have electricity in the 1950s. Most people still kept their houses warm in winter with coal and logs crackling on the hearth. Central heating was not the norm until the 1960s.

Despite the economy growing, 1950s Britain was monochromatic compared to today. Many Britishers thought that there was a better life to be had in sunnier climes. They had the automatic right to immigrate to Commonwealth countries such as Australia and South Africa. There was even the assisted passage scheme. The UK Government even sent orphans to Australia. Why was Britain trying to get rid of its people as it brought in people from the ‘New Commonwealth’ of Jamaica, Trinidad, Grenada, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Tanzania and Kenya? The Commonwealth was very much the frame of reference. Few Britons thought of themselves as being European.

Unemployment was so low in fact that there was a paucity of workers in some regions and in certain sectors of the economy. This caused the Conservative Government to invite immigration from the Commonwealth and indeed colonies which back then still existed. Her Majesty’s Government specifically asked people from Caribbean countries and South Asia to move to the United Kingdom to work. One of those Conservative cabinet ministers who invited doctors and nurses from the West Indies to come and work in the UK was a certain John Enoch Powell!

Neil had grandparents living in Portsmouth.

Neil grew up in one of the most overwhelmingly pro-Labour areas of the UK. Neil was a born dissident. He loathed the idea that the state would control everything. Growing up in a small town run by a smug, corrupt and self-serving Labour council he saw the Conservatives as representing liberty. At the age of 15 Neil joined the Conservative and Unionist Party. It was a highly unusual move. It proves he is broadminded and even has moral courage. Labour had just come into office under Harold Wilson as Prime Minister. But was already a convinced anti-socialist. Neil has always been notable for his utter fealty to the House of Windsor.

Although Neil is Welsh he was brought up in an Anglophone family. He later learnt some Welsh though as he says himself he can only make ‘’a fair stab’’ at speaking the language. When he was at school Welsh was hardly ever taught. His education was conducted exclusively through the medium of English.

Something of Neil’s character may have come from him growing up middle class in a very working class town. His family was much better off than many of their neighbours. He regularly went to England to visit relatives. This emphasized in him the oneness of the United Kingdom. Therefore his Conservatism and his Unionism were not swimming against the tide quite as much as one may have imagined.

Growing up in a small town can induce the small town mentality. But it can also do the opposite. Neil is not timid and embraces cosmopolitanism.

As soon as Neil opened his mouth it was plain that he was given to ‘yappin’ to use the Cymro-English colloquialism. He was to make his life by talking.

At school Neil did well academically. However, he was no sportsman. His eccentricities did not make him popular. He was unafraid and paid a price for his outspokenness.  Despite attending a state school he did not acquire a Welsh accent but spoke Received Pronunciation. The only state educated Welshman who speaks with that accent from Neil’s generation is a Swansea grammar school boy – Michael Howard. Lord Howard was a Tory Home Secretary and later Leader of Her Majesty’s Most Loyal Opposition.

Neil passed his 11+. In those days children sat this exam in English and Maths. The top 20% went to grammar school and had some chance of going to university. In a grammar school pupils were taught subjects such as the sciences, ancient languages, modern languages and humanities subjects. They would sit Ordinary levels (O levels). They were the equivalent of GCSEs but were harder than ‘A’ levels are now. Then pupils could sit A levels aged 18. A levels were extremely challenging. Even a D grade was hard to get.

In 1963 only 4% of people went to university. But universities were expanding rapidly in the 1960s.

Those who did not pass the 11+ (80% of the population) went to a secondary modern where they would do some English and Maths and learn trades like woodwork, metalwork, sewing, cookery and suchlike before leaving school aged 16. Most people in the 1960s left school without any qualifications at all. There were plenty of jobs that did not require qualifications such as being a factory worker, farm labourer, navvy, janitor, joiner, shipbuilder, construction worker, miner, cleaner, shop assistant and so on. The UK still had a lot of mines, factories and shipyards in those days.

Though Wales was made about rugby, Neil was no rugger bugger. Nor indeed was he great shakes at any sport. He was often found with his nose in a book.

Amman Valley Grammar School was there Neil was educated. He did his O levels and A levels there.

University

University College Wales, Aberystwyth had the inestimable honour of educating Neil Hamilton. He is surely Aberystwyth’s most illustrious graduate. There he read economics and politics.

Many undergraduates professed the cloying and stultifying socialism of the Welsh section of the Labour Party. There were also blood red commies. Some of them adulated the most prolific mass murderers of all time such as Mao Zedong and Stalin. It was all in the name of compassion of course. For some leftists these communist tyrants were messianic.

The 1960s was a time of change. 60s teenagers were ‘’children of the revolution’’ as the song said. It was the era of the counterculture, the sexual revolution, flower power, hippies and the anti-war movement. Some couples started to live together before marriage. Unwed pregnancy was no longer quite as scandalous as it had been a decade earlier. Times they were a-changing, as Bob Dylan sang. But even then the counterculture was perhaps as not strongly felt in rural Wales as it was in Swinging London. Through all this upheaval Neil made a name for himself as a young fogey. Some young men grew their hair down to their shoulders and wore shaggy beards but Neil was always short back and sides and was always clean-shaven. He has always been delightfully contra mundum.

Neil was a baby boomer. Those born in the late 1940s are said to be a very optimistic generation. That is because from their birth life got better and better for decades. It was only when such people neared the age of 30 that the Western World started to encounter serious problems and stagnation.

By the 1960s the UK had emerged from the shadow of the Second World War. It appeared to be a time of rampant consumerism. Car ownership quadrupled in the decade. Items that had once been the preserve of only the middle class had become affordable for working class people – telephones and televisions.

The Vietnam Conflict war raging. The Cold War as at its height. There was an ideological clash in Britain too between left and right. Labour was officially on the side of the Free World in the Cold War. But there was a significant faction within Labour that did not support the Free World and felt more than a little sympathy for communist tyrannies. Many communists had joined the Labour Party. They were Trotskyites, Stalinists and Maoists. These comrades thought that the free market was evil, capitalism must be smashed and the Cold War was the West’s fault. Labour was forever enfeebling Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

The prospect of nuclear war hung over the world like a sword of Damocles. The Cuban Missile Crisis had been but a few years before in 1963. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament organized ban the bomb marches. Quite a few Labour Party members wanted the United Kingdom to engage in unilateral nuclear disarmament and leave the UK vulnerable to a nuclear Holocaust without any means to defend itself.

Perhaps the defining characteristic of late 1960s radicalism was its vandalism. It wanted to tear down. Radical enmity towards Western civilization was all the more shocking because of the totalitarians that it looked to. Such nihilism horrified even Labour moderates.

When Neil went up to university there was a Labour Government. A short, soft-spoken, pensive, podgy, pipe-smoking Yorkshireman named Harold Wilson was Prime Minister. Though Labour had won a landslide majority in 1966 it became deeply unpopular just one year later when the Pound Sterling was severely devalued. The United Kingdom was withdrawing from South Arabia (Yemen). There were sanctions on Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) because of its Unilateral Declaration of Independence. Britain had twice been rejected in its bid to join the European Economic Community. There were protests and rising tensions in Northern Ireland.

The Conservative and Unionist Party was led by the uncharismatic bachelor Edward Heath. Heath’s uptight manner, uninspiring personality, wooden oratory and emotional unintelligence led one Tory image maker to say ‘’we have to try to turn Ted into a human being.’’ It proved to be mission impossible. Edward Heath was square in face and square in personality.

While Neil was at university, in the summer of 1969, Prince Charles was invested as Prince of Wales in a magnificent ceremony in Caernarvon Castle. The Secretary of State for Wales, George Thomas MP, had spoken some of the ceremony in Welsh. Thomas George Thomas went by his middle name ‘George’ but was jocularly known as ‘’Tommy Twice’’. George Thomas was later to go on to be Speaker of the House of Commons and was ennobled as Lord Tonypandy – taking the name of his quondam South Wales constituency that was not far from Neil’s natal place. As Lord Tonypandy was a passionate royalist and a committed euroscpetic he was one of the few Labour politicians whom Neil held in high regard.

The investiture of the Prince of Wales was an occasion for Her Britannic Majesty to come to Wales. That was something that did not happen all that often. In the 1960s celebrity culture was only just starting. The House of Windsor was still unquestioningly exalted by almost everyone in the United Kingdom. The 20 year old Prince Charles was held in high esteem.  All the Welsh notables attended eminent persons from across the Commonwealth of Nations were there.

Her Majesty Queen had dubbed her firstborn son Prince of Wales. There had been no Prince of Wales for decades before that. The investiture simply strengthened Neil’s monarchist convictions. There was a handful of racist Anglophobic ultra-nationalist headbangers in Wales who objected to the prince. They tried to ruin the wonderful day for all decent people. But His Royal Highness Prince Charles went on a five day tour of the Principality and was very rapturously received by his mother’s adoring subjects. It seemed to confirm just how popular the monarchy was.

The same separatist bigots in Wales had been trying to wreck the solemnity of God Save the Queen when it was sung at Cardiff Arms Park before rugby matches by jeering through it. It was grossly insulting to the average Welshman who was a fervent British patriot. Coming so soon after the Second World War it was also spitting on the grave of Welshmen who had valiantly laid down their lives for the United Kingdom. These shameful tantrums by separatists in Wales underscored to Neil how distasteful, small-minded and spiteful separatism is. He has always been a firm unionist.

Some of the separatists in Wales turned violent and called themselves the Free Wales Army (FWA). Fortunately they did not manage to kill a single person.

Neil has always punctured the pretensions of these anti-democratic separatists who professed to speak for Wales.

Back then some youngsters affected grunge. But not Neil. He often wore a smart tweed jacket or blazer even on the weekend and he began sport bowties. It is a confection that never left him. He has always been an aesthete. Who has ever see him dress down?

Neil took a degree in 1970.

He was also a mad monarchist.

He later took an MA in the economics and politics in 1975.

Neil was a well-known member of the Federation of Conservative Students (FCS). He joined in 1968 and left in 1974. He was elected to represent FCS. In this capacity he went to Italy to attend a conference of Movimiento Sociale Italiano (MSI). MSI was largely regarded as a continuation of the Fascist Party. Some joked that MSI stood for Mussolini Sei Immortale (‘’Mussolini you are immortal’’). This error of judgement did not harm Neil’s career overmuch. Conservative abhor fascism as a racist and totalitarian species of socialism. Fascism is about social engineering and the abolition of liberty. It is a creed that is profoundly anti-conservative.

In the 1960s there was a spirited debate surrounding the European Economic Community (EEC). The EEC was the precursor to the European Union (EU). The EEC was often known was the ‘common market’ to make it seem less threatening. Young and hip people tended to be Europhiles. Neil perhaps typically decided to be a Eurosceptic. He was in the Anti-Common Market League (ACML). Many in that organisations believe that the Commonwealth of Nations was still a force in the world. If the United Kingdom acceded to the EEC it would be abandoning the Commonwealth. ACML warned of a European Parliament, British law been subordinate to European law, the European Court of Justice overriding Her Majesty’s courts, the European Commission functioning in effect as a cabinet and the advent of a European single currency. The predictions of the ACML were dismissed as deranged jeremiads. But ACML turned out to be a Cassandra.

Always independent minded and never attune to the zeitgeist, Neil called for large scale privatization. This was very audacious at the height of Butskellism. Butskellism comes from the names of the two post war Chancellors of the Exchequer Richard Austen (‘’Rab’’_ Butler who was a Conservative and Hugh Gaitskell who was a Labour man. Butskellism suggested that there was a consensus – a mélange of socialism and capitalism. The mixed economy appeared to be the Aristotelean mean. Harold Macmillan had argued for this via media since the 1930s and later published a book on it The Middle Way. Few dared question such shibboleths at the time. In a sense Neil was a decade ahead of his party’s thinking. He was a Thatcherite before even Thatcher herself! He had no truck with the flabby compromises of Butskellism. Neil never does anything by half measures.

In the early 1970s France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg and West Germany were all more prosperous than the UK. Remember in those days Germany was divided into East and West. The argument ran that these countries were all members of the EEC. If the United Kingdom were to join then it too could share in this. Italy was in the EEC but lagged behind. Denmark and the Republic of Ireland were also in accession talks with Brussels. Could joining the EEC bring the Northern Ireland conflict to an end? As it turns out there was fat chance of that.

In 1973 the United Kingdom joined the European Economic Community. Neil was adamantly against. In 1975 a referendum under the Labour Government of Harold Wilson ratified the British Government’s decision post-factum. Neil then bowed to the will of the people and said that the EEC had achieved his acceptance. Decades later Europhiles were not so democratic when a referendum did not go their way.

The British Conservative Monday Club was very much on the right of the Tory Party.  Its foes – and they were legion – called it racist and far right. The Monday Club had that name because of the Monday in 1961 in which Harold Macmillan had addressed the South African Parliament. Macmillan’s oration in Cape Town was known as the ‘winds of change’ speech. In it he said there was a wind of change blowing through Africa and adjustments needed to be made in view of this. ‘Like it or not the growth of nationalism is a political fact.’ Macmillan’s message was that the white minority in South Africa could no longer keep power to the exclusion of the 80%+ of the populace who were of other races. Macmillan was delivering a message on behalf of the Commonwealth of Nations. The multiracial Commonwealth was growing louder in its denunciations of South Africa’s apartheid system of racial discrimination. Macmillan’s speech had not been cleared in advance with the South African Government. The Prime Minister of South Africa Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd was present in the chamber when Macmillan delivered his address. Verwoerd was called upon to respond. The Dutch-born politician was aghast and professed himself almost speechless and what he considered to be an astoundingly breach of protocol and an unwarranted intrusion into South Africa’s domestic affairs. The Monday Club was founded in opposition to Macmillan’s policy. It argued that majority rule was premature in Rhodesia (now named Zimbabwe) and South Africa. It thought that Tory policy had been generally limp wristed for decades and needed to become far firmer.

The Monday Club said that apartheid should be supported and that the United Kingdom should recognise the illegal white minority regime in Rhodesia as a legitimate government. The Monday Club called for funding for voluntary repatriation of our Commonwealth cousins. It said that non-white British citizens should be offered money to ‘go home.’ In fairness the law provided such funding right up until well into the years of Tony Blair’s administration. Very few ethnic minority Britons took up the offer. The Monday Club was vociferously anti-socialist. It also demanded the annihilation of the IRA. As the majority of people wanted the death penalty to be restored the Monday Club said it was democratic and logical that the supreme sanction be brought back. At best it was Toryism on steroids. Others called it crypto-fascist.

There was much polemic against the Monday Club. People inveighed against it as being an apologist for the white supremacist regime in Pretoria. To be fair, there was a measure of veracity in that accusation.

Neil noted the hypocrisy and emptiness of this self-regarding moralizing about South Africa. Virtually every country in Africa was undemocratic. Yet only one was singled out for a chorus of execration. And that was for manifestly racist reasons. It was because the South African Government was white. People put Nelson Mandela on a pedestal. Who was the Mandela of Zaire or Ethiopia or Chad or Uganda or a host of other slaughterhouse states all across the continent? No political prisoner would last 28 months incarceration in another African country let alone 28 years. This tu quoque argument did not convince many.

Neil contested the chairmanship of FCS but was defeated by David Davis. Davis was then at Warwick University studying Business. He went on to be a prominent Tory leadership contender and cabinet minister.

Seeking gainful employment, Neil found work as a teacher at St John’s College in Southsea in 1973. That was near his grandparents.  While teaching he read for the bar. In 1978 Neil found a new job at Hatfield Polytechnic in Hertfordshire. It is now called the University of Hertfordshire. Neil continued to teach there part-time as a struggling junior barrister. He gave up teaching in July 1982 and concentrated fully on the bar.

At Cambridge, Neil founded the Eldon League. It was named in honour of the notoriously reactionary early 19^th century Lord Chancellor – the Earl of Eldon. Born plain ‘John Scott’, Lord Eldon was the son of a highly successful Newcastle coal merchant. He then matriculated at University College, Oxford. He was a Tory ultra. He said that representative government was the opposite of what the United Kingdom had. Eldon was never happier than when awarding political dissidents 14 years transportation to Australia with penal servitude or indeed sentencing malfeasants to hang. He vigorously defended slavery and said that grand larceny should be punished by death even in the case of children. He is ridiculed in Shelley’s Masque of Anarchy ‘Eldon big ears had on.’ Astonishingly he has statuary honour in his old Oxford college. By a curious coincidence this is also Shelley’s college (University College, Oxford) and he is also honoured with a fine marble statue.

The Eldon League was a decidedly unserious right wing drinking club. They held picnics and garden parties. The Eldonians would spray each other with champagne and engage in suchlike jolly japes. They celebrated such crucial events as the King of Swaziland’s birthday. It attracted a quaint and faintly fruitcake crowd. They published a jocular manifesto demanding that plastic be outlawed and internal combustion engines be abandoned. Insofar as possible the only used train and horse drawn carriages as their conveyances when travelling to and from Eldonian events. It was seen as being against the entire 20^th century. Its member dressed up in anachronistic garb. Neil styled himself by the characteristically antiquated title of Imperial Prior. The Eldon League was a menagerie of eccentrics. But in it, for once, Neil did not seem like an odd fish.

Neil’s atavism was perhaps not quite as unusual as it might seem. In the 1970s a show aired on television called Good Old Days. In the show people went to the theatre togged out in Edwardian clobber. They were treated to pre-First World music hall acts. Some of the elderly theatregoers will have been children in the Edwardian era. In the 1970s Britain was on the skids. The empire had been dissolved. Inflation eroded incomes, there was rising unemployment, rising crime and sinking national self-belief.  The country was palsied by strikes. There had been the three day weeks because coal was in such short supply that for a couple of months workplaces could only be provided with three days’ worth of electricity each week. There seemed to be no end to the cycle of stagnation and turmoil. The Ulster Conflict was raging with no end in sight. In Caledonia and in Cymru separatist sentiment had metastisised. Entry into the EEC had been deeply divisive.  The United Kingdom was the sick man of Europe. It seemed apt that Britain treat itself to one last dose of nostalgia for its zenith.

Whilst he was an undergraduate Neil was an active Conservative. At a young Conservative conference he met a lady of his age named Christine Holman. Miss Holman was a doctor’s daughter who was then studying sociology at the University of York. A romance blossomed. They have been inseparable ever since. Their motto is – we do things together.

Unlike Neil, Christine had grown up in one of the most fiercely Conservative places in the realm: rural Hampshire. She was a doctor’s daughter and spoke RP as one might expect someone to do who belonged to the southern English upper middle class.

While at York, Christine made some friends for life. They were Harvey Proctor and Michael Brown – about whom more later.

Christine worked as a secretary for a number of Conservative MPs. For a while she worked for Sir Gerald Nabarro. He was known for extravagant handlebar moustache and his stentorian voice with which he boomed out his outrageously racist beliefs: ‘’how would you like your daughter to marry a big buck n****** with the prospect of coffee coloured grandchildren?’’  Standing 6’4’’ and well-built, Nabarro was a former army physical fitness instructor and was unfailingly perfectly turned out in tailor made Saville Row suits. He had the most extraordinary presence. Sir Gerald and had become a self-made millionaire as a timber merchant. Gerald Nabarro’s voice was said to have been the loudest in the British army. And that’s really saying something! His saloon bar prejudices did his political career a power of good in the West Midlands.  That was Enoch Powell country. He love the monarchy and despised undergraduates. The permissive society was a particular bugbear of his.

Gerald Nabbaro was once had up in court on suspicion of dangerous driving. He was acquitted on the basis that it was not him but his secretary who was driving. Nabarro’s revolting racialism did not add lustre to the Tory diadem. In mitigation one might plead that he was a man of his era. Such rebarbative views were not uncommon in the 1960s. Moreover, the Latin word for black was more of a conversational word than a racial slur at the time.

Nabarro’s racist screeds are perhaps even more surprising considering that he belonged to a much persecuted ethnic minority himself. He was Jewish. But that Christine chose to work for him out of all the Conservative MPs shows poor judgement on her part. Was it not at the very least ethically suboptimal to work for a man who expectorated such detestable racial invective? How did his racist outbursts make the beleaguered black community feel? How did his loathing of mixed race children make them feel? Surely his racist diatribe aggravated racial animus, playground bullying and even heavy violence against non-white people in the United Kingdom.

In 1974 Neil was selected as a Prospective Conservative Parliamentary Candidate. He stood in Abertillery. This seat was in the mining area of South Wales. Of the 650 odd seats in the United Kingdom this was Labour’s safest. The result may be guessed. It was a dry run for a marginal seat next time.

Upon graduation Neil taught history for a while. He then decided that he wished to be called to the bar.

Neil went up to Cambridge to read law. Is college was Corpus Christi. As he already had a degree he was able to take a truncated programme. He did the two year course and received and LL.M. Even Neil’s worst enemy does not doubt his intellect.

While at Cambridge, Neil was active in the Cambridge Union. That is the debating society of Cambridge University.

In 1977 Neil was at the Tory Conference when it was addressed by a 16 year old Yorkshire schoolboy named William Hague. Ambitious young Tories were chanting ‘’bastard, bastard’’ because they were emerald with envy. What a flying start this boy had. Who could ever compete with that – addressing the conference aged only 16! Hague was to go on to be leader of the party and Foreign Secretary.

After 1976 the United Kingdom was led – or rather misled – by a Labour Prime Minister named James Callaghan. ‘Sunny Jim’ as his few fans called him was an amiable and ineffectual figure presiding over what one newspaper called ‘mounting chaos.’ There was strike after strike and seemingly endless inflation. James Callaghan came across as a kindly but pathetic grandfather. The public was thoroughly fed up after the Winter of Discontent – the strikes in late 1978 into early 1979. Notoriously as the gravediggers’ union took ‘industrial action’ for several weeks we could not even bury the dead.

As a wag noted, Callaghan was an Englishman with an Irish name who sat for a Welsh seat. Neil Hamilton is a Welshman with a Scottish name who sat for an English seat.

In 1979 Neil was selected as the Conservative candidate for Bradford North. It was a Labour seat but a marginal one. Bradford did not have a large Pakistani community at the time. British-Pakistanis tend heavily towards Labour. As the Labour Government was reviled for its lassitude, incompetence and decrepitude there was a very considerable chance that Neil could win in Bradford North. But in God’s Own County it a significant handicap that he was not a Yorkshireman. Yorkshire folk tend to regard those born outside the white rose county as an inferior breed. As he joked, ‘’I fought Bradford North and Bradford North fought back.’’

Called to the bar in 1979, Neil began his practice desultorily.

When he came down from Cambridge, Neil read for the bar. He was duly called to the bar. He practised in property law and taxation law. It was a lucrative area of practice.

In the 1980s there was some Thatcherite oomph. Inflation was falling. Consumerism was on the rise. The economy was growing at least in southern England – the Tory heartland. In the rest of the UK there was rising unemployment. It was the decade of big hair and small government. In 1982 the United Kingdom defeated Argentine aggression against the Falklands.

In the early 1980s Neil was the European and Parliamentary Director of the Institute of Directors.

In 1982 Argentina launched an illegal and unprovoked invasion of the Falkland Islands. That was despite almost everyone in the Crown Dependency wishing to remain British. Her Majesty’s Armed Forces duly liberated them. Neil was strongly of the belief that it was right to fight for freedom. He cannot be called a chauvinist or militarist. Some left wingers such as Tam Dalzell said that the Falklanders should be handed over to the fascist junta.

On 12 March 1983 Neil got some very good news. He was adopted as the prospective parliamentary candidate for Tatton. It was one of the safest Conservative constituencies in the realm. Neil’s luck was redoubled when two months later there was an early election.

Christine was the secretary of Michael Grylls MP for Chertsey at the time. You can guess which party he was in!

Into politics

Neil was always sartorially retro. Dressing as though he were born two generations earlier perhaps expressed a yearning for Britain’s imperial zenith. He never quite coincided with people of his age and region. Neil liked to wear three piece suits and had a taste for tweed. He often sported millinery long after it was fashionable.

In 1983 Tatton became vacant. This was a rock solid Conservative constituency in Cheshire. Neil had himself selected. His predecessor as the Tory MP was a most distinguished financial journalist. Tatton was a seat that seemed to be impossible to lose. The seat had previously been called Knutsford after another large town within its bounds. It has been in Conservative hands for decades.

In those days a Tory candidate other 30 without a wife would be looked askance at. If a man over the age of 30 had not taken to wife was he a womanizer? Or even worse, was he what they would then have called ‘queer’? 95% of Tory MPs being male back then and same sex marriage was not thought of. Neil was able to assure Tatton Tories that he was affianced to a young lady of the most unimpeachable Conservative credentials. She had been secretary to the most ferociously right wing Member of the Commons: Sir Gerald Nabarro.

Neil was so confident of winning Tatton that five days before polling day he found time to get married to Mary Christine Holman. Like Neil, Christine is always known by her middle name. The couple married in Cornwall. The happy couple was joined in holy matrimony by the Reverend Father David Johnson. Neil had known David when they were up at Cambridge together. David had been President of the Cambridge Union Society. Johnson was an overdressed, acerbic, vertically challenged, foul mouthed, alcoholic of pronounced racist views and homosexual habits. Fr. Johnson had known Neil at Cambridge. The couple chose not to have children.

Neil was enamoured of the Prime Minister. To him Mrs. Thatcher was Gloriana. He never once criticized her.

1983 was a bumper year for the Conservative Party. With Maggie Thatcher as Prime Minister and Britain buoyed up after victory in the Falklands and Labour in hoc to the loony left the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Neil romped home in Tatton. Finally his childhood dream was realized. It must have made for quite a honeymoon!

Neil and Christine bought a house in Tatton to show their commitment to the seat. Neil had to show his face at every bun fight in the constituency: village fetes, Christmas carol services, Remembrance Day wreath laying and suchlike.

No sooner had Neil’s political career begun than he nearly ended it. It was a pattern of unwisdom that we was due to repeat. Neil went on a controversial visit to Berlin in 1983. Thay was just a few months after he was elected to Parliament. Some schoolboy high jinks occurred. That is putting the kindest possible interpretation on it. Some said that japes might be excusable in an adolescent but in a politician they were unforgivable.

Later a TV documentary was broadcast in 1984 entitled Maggie’s Militant Tendency on a programme called Panorama. It focused on Neil’s contentious visit to what was then West Germany. The programme also revealed Neil’s address to the MSI in 1972. It described his time in the Eldon League and the Monday Club. The programme documented his friendship with George Kennedy Young. Kennedy Young was once Director of Britain’s external intelligence agency: MI6. Some viewed him as far right. He was Chair of the Society for Individual Freedom – a strange position for a spy.

It said that there were some Conservative MPs who were Nazis. It was a leftist media plot to smear the party and pretend that the Tories were infiltrated by anti-democratic elements in the same way that Labour was. The programme alleged that Neil Hamilton had given a straight arm salute in Berlin while fooling around in 1983. Neil was on the trip with Gerald Howarth MP and an activist named Philip Pedley. Pedley had once been Chair of the National Young Conservatives. Neil said his reputation had been besmirched by the BBC. Socialist scribblers on Fleet Street took up the story. They were very delighted to traduce Conservative MPs.

Neil later wrote about the programme, ‘’It was an extremely damaging libel and I was extremely concerned about its impact on my career.’’ That is unsurprising. Perhaps this is when his black hair turned grey.

To some Tories, the BBC programme appeared to confirm their worst suspicions about Auntie. Even a moderate Tory like Chris Patten said that BBC stood for the Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation. Conservatives were convinced that there was a pinko-liberal infestation in the BBC. At the time of Suez, Sir Anthony Eden said that commies at the BBC had tried to mess up his broadcast by shining lights in his eyes as he spoke live on air.

The MPs who were defamed chose to take legal action. Their libel action succeeded and they were paid damages. Neil subsequently stated that he had made a Nazi salute whilst raising his left fingers to his upper lip to represent a Hitler moustache when he was in Germany merely to ridicule National Socialism. He was cognizant that this constituted an offence under the laws of the Federal Republic of Germany. The imputation that his gesture was expressive of Nazism was preposterous. Neil is certainly no fan of Hitler. Hitler was an anti-smoker and Neil is an indefatigable advocate of smokers’ rights. Tarnishing his reputation as a Nazi was egregiously low and dishonest even by the standards of the BBC.

The libel action was bankrolled by Sir James Goldsmith. Goldsmith was the father of Lord Zac the Conservative politician. In the 1980s Sir James was a stalwart Conservative. He was a self-made billionaire though he had not been born poor:  Sir James was an Old Etonian and his father was a well to do Franco-British hotelier. He recognized in Neil a man of prodigious talent and the uttermost probity. That was why he happily contributed to the fund to clear Neil’s name.

The Spectator columnist Taki also funded Neil’s libel action. Taki Theodorcopalous is an American-educated Greek shipping millionaire of pronounced right wing proclivities. Taki had some fellow feeling of those in legal trouble. In the 1980s he served a few months in prison for accidentally bringing a small quantity of cocaine with him into Heathrow Airport. That could happen to anyone!

David Davis was then a director of the sugar company Tate and Lyle. Incidentally that was where Davis got to know an ex- Scots Guards officer named Iain Duncan Smith who later became an ill-starred leader of the Conservative Party and then a cabinet minister. Davis was a rival of Neil’s in Conservative politics from the 1970s. Nonetheless, Davis and Neil had a good rapport. Davis managed to convince his company to donate to the claimant’s fund. Thus Tate and Lyle became another funder of Neil’s defamation action.

Lord Harris of High Cross also donated around GBP 100 000 to fund Neil’s libel action.

Neil said in his libel case that he was like a Mike Yarwood figure in FCS. Yarwood was then very well known for his impersonations. Neil has a gift for mimicry and often took off politicians and well-known actors. He was known for his impersonations of Enoch Powell, General de Gaulle, Edward Heath, Harold Wilson and the actor Frankie Howerd.  Neil cheerily recalled that he had appeared in blackface in 1982 to ridicule the Ugandan tyrant Idi Amin. He had even dressed up in clericals while doing an impersonation of Canon James own while sailing down the Cam in Cambridge. Neil said he had plenty of respectable character witnesses but chief among them would be Norman St John Stevas. St John Stevas was then a Tory MP and he was the only ever person to be President of both the Cambridge Union and the Oxford Union. St John Stevas was gay but whilst an MP he did not feel able to come out. Had he done so it would probably have been terminal for his career.

The Sunday Times offered Neil a chance to give his side of the story. He said that when he gave the sieg heil salute he was simply engaging in a bit of tomfoolery. He noted that Julian Lewis was there and Lewis is Jewish and indeed several of his relatives were killed in the Holocaust. Lewis recognized what Neil was doing was harmless buffoonery.

The liberal action against the BBC went to trial. Neil was due to be cross-examined by the BBC’s counsel. However, on 21 October 1986 the Director-General of the BBC, Alasdair Milne, decided that the BBC would give in. Milne explained that the Governors of the BBC had ordered him to do so. The BBC paid the legal costs of the claimants which amounted to hundreds of thousands of Pounds. The BBC also paid Neil Hamilton and Gerald Howarth GBP 20 000 apiece. Howarth was the MP for Aldershot at the time. That sum was more than an MP’s annual salary at the time. On 27 October 1985 the BBC broadcast another edition of Panorama in which the show apologized unstintingly for the false statements it had made traducing the two men.

Some said that the BBC had had its arm twisted by politicians and that witnesses had been threatened. The BBC Board of Governors had wanted the case settled and told the BBC Board of Management to do just that. Many in the BBC doubted the wisdom of caving in. The BBC’s barristers had not had an opportunity to even begin their defence in court when the BBC surrendered.

The National Young Conservatives (NYC) suggested that there had been some behind the scenes pressure. The Chairman of NYC Richard Fuller said it was very odd that the BBC had capitulated as the trial was proceeding pleasingly for them.

Malcolm McAlpine had access to the BBC Governors. Some speculated that he had a hand in the BBC’s curious decision. Malcolm McAlpine was a cousin of Lord Alistair McAlpine. Lord McAlpine was a multimillionaire and treasurer of the Conservative Party. He was a doyen of the right and the Eurosceptic wing of the party. He was therefore a fan of Neil. Indeed in 1992 right wing Tories gathered at Lord McAlpine’s house to celebrate the fact that a Tory wet and Europhile Chris Patten had lost his seat at Bath. The Liberal Democrats had covered Bath with posters saying ‘Let’s flatten Patten’ and they did. The price of failure for Patten was not too bad. He was made Governor-General of Hong Kong and was later elected Chancellor of Oxford University.

Regarding the BBC affair, there were claims that witnesses had been intimidated. There is no suggestion that Neil was involved in this either directly or indirectly. A BBC memorandum said that 17 witnesses had been made to change their testimony. Some of those who were due to testify were Conservatives and were revolted by what they saw at Berlin. Nevertheless, they suddenly claimed not to have seen anything untoward.

Gerald Howarth and Neil Hamilton thought that the case against Philip Pedley would be pursued. Pedley would not accept the BBC’s offer of accord and satisfaction. Pedley also had some wealthy backers to fund his claim. Richard Fuller vowed to come to his aid.

Jeffrey Archer was then the Deputy Chairman of the Tory Party. The millionaire novelist considered it unwise for Pedley to fight on. The Tory Party had settled the matter. It was risky to continue to battle in the courts. If Pedley lost then it would look very bad for the party. Pedley could not afford the libel action on his own. Without Fuller’s financial support he would be obliged to settle the case. Archer told Fuller it was foolhardy to fund Pedley’s case. But Fuller resisted pressure to withdraw his financial support from his friend.

The Labour Party said that Conservative Central Office (CCO) had orchestrated a cover up and used undue influence to sway the BBC. Labour wanted to question the Chairman of the Conservative and Unionist Party about the affair: Norman Tebbit.

A Labour politician named Dale Campbell-Savours said he had evidence in a letter from Pedley to John Selwyn Gummer MP. Gummer was a former Party Chairman and was later a cabinet minister under Major. The letter supposedly showed that Tory Central Office had contacted witnesses to persuade them to alter their testimony to the advantage of the claimant.

Norman Tebbit acknowledged that one witness had contacted Tory Central Office but said this was merely because he wanted advice but that CCO had declined to give any as that might seem unethical. Tebbit said that the socialist Campbell-Savours was misusing parliamentary privilege to make false allegations knowingly which otherwise would have been defamatory. Tebbit walked out of the House of Commons chamber without making a further comment.

On 25 October the newspaper reported more evidence of unethical communications with witnesses. Neil then withdrew his action against Pedley. Pedley said that he would not back down. There were still people calling for a full enquiry.

Norman Tebbit made statements about the case but not in the House of Commons chamber. To mislead the House is a resigning matter. Neil said that Tebbit was refusing to address the House on the issue because Tebbit’s statements were misleading. Neil urged the Party Chairman to speak about the matter on the floor of the House. Not everyone in the party was sympathetic to Neil. Some said he had brought it into disrepute.

The Hogan Memorandum was an internal BBC memo which named witnesses who had altered their stories. The Independent newspaper said that there was a recording of a statement by a Conservative witness to the incident. The witness was worried by CCO’s insistence that the Berlin incident had not occurred. CCO was keen that no one substantiate the allegations against Tory MPs.

Mr. Campbell Savours claimed that the Hogan Memorandum proved that the BBC had been threatened. He sent it to Sir Michael Havers who was the Attorney-General and of course a Tory. Havers is the father of the actor Nigel Havers.

The Labour parliamentarian Campbell-Savours said that CCO had striven to meddle with witnesses. It was alleged that CCO had tried to tone down statements made by David Mitchell. Campbell Savours then sent a transcript to the Attorney-General.

Neil had made several statements in the media about his contested visit to Berlin. Some Conservative Party members were supposedly told by CCO to claim that they had not seen Neil goose stepping. Some of the witnesses had initially made such an accusation but had changed their testimony. The theory goes that there was a whip at their back to do so. They were told that it would be deeply unhelpful to the party if they did not retract their earlier statements and if there were no retraction then their careers in the party would come to a juddering halt.  Neil wrote to the Chairman of the Conservative Party in January 1984 stating that he had not goose stepped or performed Nazi salutes ever anywhere.

Gerald Howarth and Neil Hamilton had brought a libel action against Philip Pedley. They then discontinued the action on the basis that it was exorbitantly expensive, horrifically time consuming and stressful and that this was out of all proportion to the apology that they could possibly obtain from Pedley. On 3 December 1986 Pedley said he would not accept the terms of settlement offered by the claimants. He wanted to case to go to trial.

The judge was Mr. Justice Simon Brown. He ruled that Howarth and Neil were not allowed to claim that Pedley’s statements were libelous and they were ordered to pay his costs.

Mr. Pedley was jubilant. He acted as though it were a vindication and said he retracted not one iota of what he had said. He reiterated his claim that he had never suggested that Howarth and Neil Hamilton were National Socialists but rather that their antics gravely undermined the Conservative Party. As a staunch Conservative he was aghast to see two Tory MPs bringing the party into disrepute with their immature looning. The Young Conservative report dismissed Neil’s behaviour as no more than ‘’eccentricity.’’ Pedley reaffirmed his earlier accusations against the men.

Pedley said that members of the YC Committee had been subjected to poison pen letters and verbal abuse after their names were published in Bulldog which was the newspaper of the Young National Front (a white supremacist party). Pedley claimed that he and others had suffered harassment from private security companies. He was implying that wealthy people had paid for this.

Soon after being elected to Parliament, Neil was made an officer of the backbench committee on trade and industry. The Chairman was a formidable Tory MP named Michael Grylls.

In 1984 there were dozens of coalmines all across the realm. But many of them had exhausted their supply of economically viable coal. Some of them were digging up mud. The UK was importing cheaper coal from Czechoslovakia (a country that is now two). North Sea oil was providing much of the United Kingdom’s energy needs as was imported oil and nuclear energy. The government decided to close down uneconomic coal pits and let the others prosper. Leftists believe that coal mines without any coal should remain open. All miners were public sector employees and therefore paid by the taxpayer. Left wingers argued that the poorest people should pay relatively well-paid miners to dig up mud. Every penny wasted on this was a penny robbed from the NHS and other urgent matters.

In 1984 the Miners’ Strike began. The National Union of Mineworkers’ (NUM) leader was Arthur Scargill. Scargill had been a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB) when Stalin was the communist supremo of the world. Scargill was a denier of and a defender of countless communist atrocities all across the globe. He wanted to visit this reign of terror on the United Kingdom. Scargill was one of many unrepentant communists who joined the Labour Party in their bid to abolish democracy and replace it with a totalitarian state. Scargill’s dream was to open concentration camps for political dissidents in the UK but it never came true. Scargill declared a national strike without even holding a ballot of NUM.

There were 180 000 miners in the UK at the time of the Miners’ Strike. Not all miners were members of the NUM. Even then not all NUM miners went on strike because there had been no national ballot. NUM wanted to hold people to ransom.

Mrs. Thatcher had seen this strike coming. The NUM had brought down Heath’s Conservative Government in 1974. Ten years on Thatcher was adamant that she would not allow the NUM to subvert the will of the people again.

The NUM resorted to intimidation. They committed violent crime against the police. They even murdered one man for going to work. The NUM was open about its real aim. It was not about saving jobs. It was about overthrowing the elected government as Scargill said time and time again. Though Scargill was never an MP he was a far more puissant figure on the left than even the leader of the Labour Party.

Coal is also the most polluting fuel. That did not stop leftists who pretend to care about the environment advocating for coal.

Neil was four square behind the government on this one. He believed that Britain must not bend the knee to the bully boy tactics of the NUM.

Labour did not throw its weight behind the strike because there was no national ballot. The far left fulminated that Neil Kinnock was a Judas for not giving unstinting support to their attempt to bring down democracy. Some extremists such as Tony Benn and Jeremy Corbyn endorsed the NUM’s anti-democratic campaign.

In the end the cause of freedom prevailed. Scargill led his acolytes to an ignominious defeat. There are now only 2 000 coal miners left.

In April 1986 Neil was one of 10 MPs (all of them Conservatives) to vote against Her Majesty’s Government on a bill which meant deeper European integration.

In the 1980s Neil came to know the late George Choudhury-Best who was a Conservative activist in London. Choudhury-Best was an Anglo-India who had shifted from the subcontinent to what he termed the ‘mother country’ some years after India suffered independence. Choudhury-Best disenjoyed Indian independence intensely. He was keenly alive to the manifold benisons that British superintendence had conferred upon the Subcontinent. Choudhury-Best recognized India as Britain’s nursling and was aghast at premature independence and all its concomitant horrors. He was appalled that the rampantly corrupt Congress Party was ruining the country with socialist policies that impeded its economy while becoming a Soviet ally. Communist governments had taken over West Bengal and Kerala. Independence had led to Partition and the murder of over a million people. None of these cataclysms would have befallen India if India had remained beneath Britannia’s benevolent shield for a few more decades.

Neil was not scared of making contentious remarks. In 1987 Frank Dobson the Labour MP and future Health Secretary made a speech about amputees. Neil quipped, ‘’he does not have a leg to stand on.’’ The left wing extremist and IRA supporter Jeremy Corbyn made a speech about the need to increase the state pension. Neil shot back, ‘’some of his IRA friends could be used to get rid of pensioners by shooting them.’’ In fairness, the IRA did kill a lot of pensioners.

Corbyn is the most extreme leftist ever elected to Westminster. He has been on the side of every enemy Britain has had since 1945. Corbyn is a publicist for most of the tyrannies around the world. Comrade Corbyn is an outspoken advocate of oppression and cruelty. He is a champagne socialist. His desire to help those in pauperism does not mean he donates a penny of his own. He is exceedingly generous but only with other people’s money instead. He still owns his house like the selfish capitalist he is.

In the 1980s Enoch Powell was still in Parliament. He was no longer a Tory but sat as an Ulster Unionist representing Down South – as in the southern part of County Down. Neil was an impassioned admirer of Powell. Neil says that he is not a racialist but that Powell was correct inasmuch as unchecked immigration has led to many fraught incidents.

For the left, Powell was a pantomime villain. Socialists students displayed placards bearing the legend ‘’disembowel Enoch Powell’’ when he came to address universities. Compassionate aren’t they these leftists? But Powell’s friends say he was not gargoyle.

Neil was an ardent Thatcherite. Despite his unswerving loyalty he was not rewarded with preferment.

Neil joined the No Turning Back Group. This was a ginger group of Thatcherites. It was founded by Michael Brown MP who turned out to be gay. Brown was in the closet in the 1980s. Other prominent MPs were members of the No Turning Back Group such as Alan Duncan, Peter Lilley, Gerald Howarth and Michael Portillo.

Conservative policy in the 1980s was to phase out leaded petrol. It degraded the environment and had a deleterious effect on the brain. It was linked to a heightened risk of criminality. Neil was dead against ending leaded petrol. He said that it had not been demonstrated that leaded petrol was in any way harmful to people or to the environment. That was an astonishing claim in view of scientific peer reviewed articles proving what leaded petrol does. He noted that it would hurt the economy if leaded petrol was forbidden. It was trademark Neil – swimming against the tide. He is an anti-environmentalist.

In 1985 Neil started to work for Ian Greer Associations. One of the main corporate clients was US Tobacco. Neil was ever the staunch libertarian. Michael Brown worked on this project with him.

As a politician Neil was always his own man. He was resolutely libertarian. In the 1980s a type of tobacco called Skoal Bandits was legally available in the UK. Some demanded it be prohibited because it was said to be very carcinogenic.

Edwina Currie and David Mellor were junior health ministers at the time. They were inclined to prohibit Skoal Bandits.

The House of Commons Select Committee on Standards produced a report concluding that Brown and Neil Hamilton had lobbied minister with a view to persuading them to allow Skoal Bandits. It noted that neither man declared an interest – that he had a financial interest in allowing Skoal Bandits. Neil admitted that he had not declared an interest.

Neil was almost alone in arguing that Skoal Bandits should remain legal because people have the right to take risks if they please. Furthermore, as we have seen with drugs – prohibition never works. Nevertheless, Skoal Bandits were outlawed.

While in the House of Commons, Neil proved himself to be a fearless advocate for liberty.  He was unwavering in defence of the right to smoke and indeed to do as one so pleases with one’s own body. He was the only MP out of 650 to vote against the government’s legislation banning the sale of human organs.

In 1986 Neil was made Parliamentary Private Secretary (PPS) to David Mitchell MP. This was a stepping stone to being a minister.

In November 1989 Neil won the Spectator magazine’s prize for being parliamentary wit of the year. With trademark drollery and self-effacement Neil joked that he believed it for being ‘’parliamentary twit of the year.’ Self-deprecation is one of Neil’s many endearing traits.

While in the House of Commons, Neil spoke up for the Western Goals Institute. Andrew V R Smith was then the head of the Western Goals Institute (WGI). Smith, like Neil, had been in the Monday Club. Reverend Martin Smith (an Ulster Unionist) was also a member. So were several Conservative parliamentarians: Sir Patrick Wall, Nicholas Winterton and Bill Walker. Neil was on the parliamentary advisory board of the WGI.

WGI was committed to the maintenance and furtherance of Western influence in all parts of the globe. Some its members were unabashed about advocating coups d’etats in other countries. It had fraternal links with Latin American juntas that did not win many prizes for human rights. WGI’s ‘muscular’ foreign policy had some saying that mercenaries ought to be hired to effectuate regime change in a manner congenial to British neo-imperialism.

WGI displayed questionable taste when in 1992 it invited Jean-Marie Le Pen to address them. Le Pen was then the leader of le Fronte National which his daughter Marine now heads. Le Pen was almost universally seen as a racist. Jean-Marie Le Pen was a perennial presidential candidate and in 2002 even came runner-up.

WGI also wanted Alessandra Mussolini to speak to them. Miss Mussolini is the granddaughter of Benito Mussolini. She also speaks up for her grandfather’s reputation. She was then a deputy in the Italian Parliament and a member of the European Parliament. She had also made a name for herself posing for ‘hard’ nude photos. La Mussolini spent much of her time in Brussels and Strasbourg singing hymns of praise to Il Duce. Both Le Pen and Mussolini were to speak to fringe meetings of the Tory Conference!  Alessandra Mussolini is a medical doctor but CCO suspected that her oration would not be solely restricted to health policy. An unapologetic apologist for fascism was not exactly the sort of person the Conservative Party considered to be an ideal conference speaker.

Sir Norman Fowler was then Chairman of the Conservative Party. He was incensed at the invitations – he considered fascism to be foul and was deeply worried at how it would ruin the party’s reputation. Fowler emphasized that the Conservative Party was not linked to the WGI. Both Le Pen and Mussolini were banned from entering the country so the meetings did not occur.

In the 1980s South Africa still had the apartheid (apartness) system. This segregated people of different races. The white minority comprised no more than 16% of the population of the Republic of South Africa. Whites virtually monopolized political power. They also owned 87% of the land. By law a white could not sell this land to a non-white person. The Bantustans reserved for black people were largely infertile and devoid of mineral resources. Such structured racial inequality appalled most of the world. Black people were not permitted to be citizens of South Africa. The South African Government used heavy violence to maintain control. The torture of those suspected of trying to overthrow the government was not uncommon. In the 1960s and 1970s there had been two fairly large scale massacres of unarmed black people by the South African Police.

South Africa refused to play sports against non-white players. Therefore South Africa was subject to a sporting boycott. The Springboks did not get to play foreign teams from 1970 till the early 1990s.

Most countries refused to trade with South Africa. The United Kingdom persisted in doing business with South Africa. Neil was one of those Conservatives who was adamantly opposed to sanctions against South Africa. He said he deplored apartheid but this was an internal matter. The United Kingdom happily did business with many far more tyrannical regimes and somehow that was not propping up oppression. In Zimbabwe, the Mugabe regime murdered several thousand people because they belonged to the Ndebele tribe. But the world turned Nelson’s eye to that one because the perpetrator was black. No one called for sanctions on Zimbabwe despite its regime slaughtering far more people than South Africa did. John Major even had the Queen give Mugabe an honorary knighthood!

In 1990 Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa. It looked like apartheid might be abolished. Some people launched a desperate last ditch effort to preserve the racist system. Mandela later went on to be President of South Africa.

The anti-apartheid movement’s mantra was ‘’disinvest’’. Neil was dead against sanctions in South Africa. His argument was that apartheid was a domestic matter with which the United Kingdom must not interfere. Funnily enough governments that demanded sanctions on South Africa were usually the loudest in denouncing ‘’interference’’ and ‘’neo-colonialism’’ when anyone criticized their often appalling human rights records. Neil said that a moral principle had to be non-selective if it was to be moral at all. It was nonsense to impose sanctions against South Africa if the UK did not do so to black nationalist regimes north of the Limpopo which were often far more hideous than the apartheid government.

Margaret Thatcher had been against sanctions on South Africa on the ground that this would simply further impoverish black people who were already suffering pauperism. Moreover, there was no guarantee that sanctions would lead to political reform. A far smaller country, Cuba, had toughed out sanctions for far longer and its oppressive regime remained intact.

One of the reasons that Neil cited for being opposed to sanctions on South Africa was that this would increase unemployment in the UK. The MPs who demanded that the UK ban all trade with South Africa were usually the same ones who harped on the most about how evil unemployment was. But there they were demanding that their constituents be rendered jobless.

Neil also noted that South Africa was a reliable Cold War ally and the war could turn hot at any moment. The Treaty of Vereeniging which ended the Second South African War in 1902 stated that native affairs (i.e. the rights of black people) was the exclusive competence of the South African Government and the UK was not to interfere in this policy area.

Neil may have been a model for the late Rik Mayall’s character Alan B’stard. B’stard is a conniving self-serving Tory MP of fervently pro-apartheid views, raging vanity who has a sexually insatiable blonde wife. I wonder who that could be? Alan B’stard also drinks champagne and will only drink it if it is South African. This in an era of the anti-apartheid boycott of South African goods. Some say that B’stard was based on a composite of Tory MPs.

Neil worked for Strategy Network International (SNI). This company was founded with the aim of lobbying against sanctions on South Africa and Namibia which was the under South African control. In SNI Neil met Derek Laud. SNI wanted the United Kingdom to break UN Resolution 435 calling for genuine independence for Namibia. Laud and Neil had a mutual friend – Michael Brown MP. Neil was paid GBP 8 000 per annum for his consultancy. That was a very considerable sum considering that the fees for Eton were GBP 10 000 at the time.

SNI managed to have Neil very well treated. He was flown business class to South Africa and put up in five star hotels.

Lady Margaret Thatcher visited the Hamilton’s not so humble abode on at least one occasion.

In July 1990 the Prime Minister appointed Neil as a whip. It was a time of intense controversy over the Community Charge which was commonly called the poll tax. Neil had been fervent in his support for the unpopular measure. This earned him Mrs. T’s gratitude.

In 1990 Thatcher introduced the Community Charge across England and Wales. It was dubbed the Poll Tax. It had been brought into Scotland the year before when the rates were up for review. The Government was horrified that Labour councils had been wasting public money on PC propaganda and nuclear free zones. Mrs. T believed that hardworking people should not have their money squandered on loony left nonsense.

The Community Charge was widely reviled. It was a flat tax payable to one’s local authority. Pensioners and those on benefits paid a lower amount and students were exempt. For the wealthy, the Community Charge was a tax cut. Neil was a firm advocate of the Community Charge. But it was so exceptionally unpopular that Conservative support in the opinion polls dropped to levels not seen again till the dark days of Liz Truss. In Scotland people complained bitterly that the tax was tried out on them before South Britain. This was held to be confirmatory of Scotland’s second class status.

It was easy to evade the Community Charge by taking oneself off the electoral register. Poorer people (mostly Labour voters) were inclined to do so. In which case the Tories would win forever. But Labour ought to like the tax – it had the word community in the name.

Some Conservatives began to think that the Iron Lady was a liability and not an asset. Tory Wets had long wanted to be shot of her. Mrs. T. was adamantine that there would be no compromise on the Community Charge. Full steam ahead with it! The brains behind it was the Honourable William (now Lord) Waldegrave. He was spoken about as PM material. But he lost his seat in 1997 and ended up being sent back to school – to Eton as Provost (i.e. live in head of the board of governors).

In November 1990 Michael Heseltine challenged Thatcher for the leadership of the party and thus the prime ministership. The Chief Whip told Neil that as a whip it behoved him to maintain the strictest neutrality. Neil disregarded this instruction. Whatever he learnt about Heseltine’s campaign he passed on to the Thatcher camp. Neil said to the Prime Minister that she ought to interview each of the Cabinet individually. He thought that they would lack the courage to tell her that they wanted her to resign. However, Neil was wrong and several of them told Thatcher to stand down.

Despite several Cabinet ministers urging Thatcher to step down as PM, Neil pleaded with her to stay on. In a meeting of backbench Tories, Peter Lilley said that Thatcher had had her day. Neil interrupted Lilley and expressed his disdain for Lilley as a faint heart.

On 21 November 1990 Neil and other Thatcherite fanatics met the PM for one last time at Number 10 Downing Street. Thatcher resigned the next day. In the subsequent Tory leadership election there were three candidates.

Michael Heseltine was a Europhile Tory wet who had resigned from the Cabinet in 1986 over the Westland Helicopter Affair. Heseltine pretended it was a principle resignation. In fact the miscalculated thinking the Tories would lose the 1987 election and be could become party leader. This man of raging vanity and vaulting ambition never made it to the top of the greasy pole. He came close though: being Deputy Prime Minister from 1995 to 1997. Heseltine was the son of a Welsh factory owner. He had been to Shrewbsury, Oxford and the Welsh Guards. He was scorned for wearing his Guards tie for more days than he was in the Guards: sixty.

Then there as Douglas Hurd who was also a One Nation Tory and a Europhile but had been loyal to Thatcher. Hurd had been Captain of School at Eton before going up to King’s College, Cambridge and working in the Foreign Office. Hurd played down his poshness saying his pater had only been a tenant farmer. But as the son and grandson of Tory MPs he was a bit too much of a toff.

Lastly there was John Major. Major was seen as a Eurosceptic and a Thatcherite. He also came from a working class background unlike the others. That was perceived to be electorally advantageous. The other candidates were too posh.

Neil cast his ballot for Major. He believed that Major would continue Thatcher’s legacy. Neil was to be bitterly disillusioned.

In 1990 after Thatcher fell it was a pity for Neil was perfervid in support of his Monetarist policies. However, it also presented an opportunity. She had steadfastly refused to promote him from the backbenches.

John Major became Prime Minister. Soon Neil gained promotion. He was made an under parliamentary secretary for corporate affairs in 1992. He then became Minister for Deregulation and Corporate Affairs. This was a brief he relished because was a true believer in the mission. This was a junior ministership. Under each Cabinet minister there are three or four junior ministers. A Cabinet Minister usually has the title Secretary of State. Junior ministers are styled ‘Minister of State’. The next step for Neil would be promotion into the cabinet.

The hot topic was the Treaty of Maastricht. This treaty signed in the Netherlands was to turn the European Economic Community into the European Union. Neil was deeply skeptical about it. He believed that European integration had gone as far as it should. Like Thatcher he believed that the EEC was imposing too much regulation and degrading national sovereignty. He feared that if the EEC became the EU this would aggravate these tendencies. Denmark held a referendum on Maastricht. The Danes voted No in June 1992. Then Denmark held a second referendum and the result was affirmative.

Although Neil had deep misgivings about Maastricht he remained faithful to the Major Administration. Some other Conservative ministers resigned in opposition to Maastricht. Neil beseeched them not to do so.

Neil was sent to meetings of the Council of Ministers of the European Union. He became deeply disillusioned with the European Union (EU). He came to think it was unreformable and hell-bent to removing all national sovereignty.

In the 1990s Neil became involved with a parliamentary lobbyist named Ian Greer. Greer brought a new more pro-active style to lobbying. Mr. Greer was homosexual and Neil was not prejudiced against Greer because of his orientation. This was an era in which homosexuality was still deeply disapproved of by many Tories. No Tory MP came out as gay until Alan Duncan did in 2001. Duncan, the MP for Rutland and Melton, incidentally was another friend of Neil’s.

Harvey Proctor was also a friend of Neil’s. Proctor was a Conservative MP who got into trouble when he had an encounter with a rentboy whom he believed was 21 but turned out to be 17. It was an innocent mistake and could happen to anyone.

On his solicitor’s advice Proctor pleaded guilty to an offence in relation to this. He got a suspended sentence. There is no suggestion that Neil was involved in Mr. Proctor’s encounter with the ill-judged rentboy encounter or was even aware of it. Proctor subsequently left politics and ran a gentlemen’s outfitters. He had always been a shirt lifter!

In 1992 Neil happened to be in Harvey Proctor’s shirt shop when two men assaulted Proctor for homophobic reasons. Neil valiantly came to the defence of his friend. He suffered a broken nose for his pains. The two assailants were later jailed for their attack.

It was in the 1990s that Neil came to know Derek Laud. Laud was a Conservative activist. Unusually for a Tory at the time he was black and born in the United Kingdom to Jamaican immigrant parents and flamboyantly gay. Derek Laud grew up in a family with little money. He joined the Monday Club which was often accused of being anti-black. Laud is also gay. He was selected as a Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for the 1997 election. However, he withdrew when allegations of unethical conduct were made against him. This did not stop him being made Joint Master of the new Forest Foxhounds . He was later a Big Brother star. But he was so loathed by his competitor who called himself ‘Science’ – who was also black – that Science said ‘’Laud is the first black person ever who actually makes me want to join the BNP.’’

Laud had written speeches for Thatcher and also for Alan Clark MP. That was despite Clark having said of the Ugandan Asians in 1973, ‘’they must be told ‘you cannot come here because you are not white.’ ’’ Laud was a friend of David Cameron’s. Years later he became so horrified with the ineptitude of Theresa May that he joined the Lib Dems and even stood for them in Cameron’s old seat of Witney, Oxfordshire.

Neil knew an Egyptian tycoon named Mohammed Fayed. Mr. Fayed was best known for owning Britain’s flagship department store: Harrod’s. Fayed was a fraud who could not even tell the truth about his name. The man from Alexandria styled himself Al Fayed – misusing the nobiliary particule. He also gave several contradictory answers about his year of birth. It was proven that he ordered a break-in to a safety deposit box owned by a business rival named Tiny Roland. Fayed had been a Conservative donor. However, he became embittered when his application for British citizenship was refused.

Fayed had grown up in Alexandria as the son of a schoolteacher. They family was higher status than you might expect because most Egyptians were illiterate at the time. Fayed was a very small businessman until the early 1950s. By some miracle he managed to marry a Miss Khasshoggi. She was from a very affluent and well-connected Saudi Arabian family. Admittedly this is because the Saudis became as rich as Crassus. His well got wife opened many doors for him. Before you can say ‘’bribery’’ he had fat contracts in Saudi Arabia. He later served as the honorary consul for one of the most dishonourable dictators in the world – Papa Doc Duvalier of Haiti.

Mr. Fayed craved the one thing he never deserved: respectability. He laboured under the misapprehension that gentlemanliness could be bought. But common decency is not a commodity for sale.It was as though Fayed sought to exemplify Oscar Wilde’s dictum – he knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Mohammed Fayed was an oleaginous social climber. There was more than a touch of Melmotte from The Way we live now by Anthony Trollope. He purchased the former home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor in Paris. This, Fayed reasoned, brought him closer to the royal family. Then Fayed became the major financial donor to the Royal Windsor Horse Show. This again was a bid to buy some kudos. His donation obliged Her Gracious Majesty to deign to meet him.

Mr. Fayed was of the Mohammedan persuasion. He never pretended to be a pious Muslim. If hirsuteness is indicative of Islamic observance it is notable that Fayed was always clean-shaven. He was partial to spirituous liquor but not to orisons nor did he profess to be a Koranic scholar. There was little anti-Muslim prejudice in the United Kingdom before 9/11. The average Briton knew precious little about Muslims or Islam. Fayed did not try that old chestnut – that he was a victim of anti-Muslim animus. Nor did he say he was hard done by on account of his nationality or ethnicity.

On October 1994 the Guardian newspaper ran a story saying that Tim Smith MP and Neil Hamilton MP had been paid cash by Mr. Fayed for asking questions in Parliament.

Fayed alleged that he had paid Neil and another MP in cash to ask questions in the House of Commons. The shopkeeper said that sometimes cash was handed to the MPs in envelopes and on other occasions money was paid to Ian Greer and was then passed on to the MPs in question. Another Tory MP such as Tim Smith admitted that this was true and on 19 October 1994 he stood down from his ministerial post. Mr. Smith also stated that he would leave Parliament at the next general election. Tim Smith was an Old Harrovian who sat for Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire. Notably, Smith was the one who defeated Tony Blair in Blair’s first attempt to enter Parliament: the 1982 by election.

Neil vehemently denied ever taking cash to ask questions. The then Deputy Prime Minister Michael Heseltine questioned Neil about the issue. Neil categorically denied ever having any financial relationship with Fayed. Mohammed Fayed boasted ‘’you hire an MP like you hire a taxi.’’ He was so rancorous about being refused British citizenship by a Tory Government that he decided to embarrass the Conservative Party as much as he possibly could. He became a passionate Labour supporter despite not being able to vote. It was solely out of spite – he wanted to give the Tories one in the eye. If Fayed wanted to exact vengeance he certainly succeeded.

Neil initiated libel proceedings against those who had accused him of taking cash for questions. John Major said to Neil that the whirlwind of negative publicity around this was harming the government. He told Neil to resign or he would be dismissed.  On 26 October 1994 Neil was prevailed upon to resign from his government post. Relentless negative publicity about him was damaging the government. The attacks on Neil’s honour continued unabated.

The libel action was against the Guardian newspaper. Ian Greer was Neil’s co-plaintiff in the case. In 1996 the Defamation Act amended the Bill of Rights 1989. This permitted utterances made in Parliament to be questioned in court.

The day before the case was due to be heard the two co-plaintiffs settled saying that they could not afford to pursue the action and there was a conflict of interests. The Guardian then triumphantly published a headline about Neil dubbing him ‘’a liar and a cheat.’’ They were sure that Neil would never sue. Alan Rusbridger was then the editor of the newspaper. He crowed about how the two has capitulated.

On 1 October 1996 – the day that the libel trial would have commenced – Alan Rusbridger and Neil went head to head on Newsnight – a nightly current affairs show on the BBC.

Many scurrilous stories about Neil appeared in the Guardian. The Guardian is of course the sewer of choice for leftist ordure.

To some it appeared that Neil had been a victim of the left wing gutter press. Tories were accustomed to being monstered by scurrilous and scabrous dishonest pinko-liberal hacks.

Sir Gordon Downey was the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards. He began an investigation into the allegations against Neil. The investigation came to a conclusion in 1997. Neil said that were the report to be critical of him then he would stand down from Parliament.

Edwina Currie gave evidence to the enquiry. Miss Currie was a fellow Tory but had been a nemesis of Neil’s for many years. She said that when she showed Neil photos of the cancers caused by tobacco this did not sway him at all. Neil said he judged the issue on the merits and not on emotive images. He was perfectly aware that smoking can kill but that people ought to be permitted to make their own decisions regarding health and lifestyle. Neil and Michael Brown MP had been paid GBP 6 000 each and been provided with free hotel stays and lavish dinners by Skoal Bandits in return for seeking to keep their product lawful. In 1989 Kenneth Clarke, the Secretary of State for Health, signed an order banning Skoal Bandits. This was despite Clarke being a lifelong smoker and indeed working as a consultant for British American Tobacco.

Currie’s concern for health was odd. She said that cervical cancer was caused by crisps and northerners. She opined that good Christian people do not catch AIDS. She later resigned in a dispute over salmonella. It was a storm in an egg cup.

What no one knew at the time was that the married Edwina Currie was then having an affair with the also married John Major. They are both so repulsive I do not know which one of them should be more ashamed. In the early 1990s Major was to launch his ill-starred back to basics campaign. His crusade for personal morality came to grief when it was revealed that several Tory MPs had a predeliction for adultery. Had Mrs. Currie revealed than that she was penetrated by Major in the 1980s then it could easily have brought him down as Prime Minister.

Throughout this time Neil was being savaged in the newspapers every single day. Lunchtime O’Booze and Glenda Slagg type columnists always had him in their sights. This unrelenting media campaign depicted Neil as Mr. Sleaze.

Sir Gordon Downey’s report reached damning conclusions about Neil. Downey said that the evidence against Neil in the cash for questions affair was convincing.  It found that Neil had misled Michael Heseltine who was then the President of the Board of Trade and later the Deputy Prime Minister. Neil said that he did not have any financial ties to Ian Greer. Whereas in fact Neil had been paid by Greer on two occasions in 1988 and 1989 and these two sums had added up to GBP 10 000. In fairness this had been five years before Heseltine posed the question to him. In Neil’s mind this was ancient history and it was true in 1994 that he had no financial relationship with Greer at that time.

Neil and his goodwife had stayed in the Ritz Hotel in Paris and in Mr. Fayed’s Scottish castle gratis. Neil had not declared these in the register of members’ interests. Downey found that this was ethically below par and in breach of the Nolan Standards in Public Life.

Michael Brown was in a spot of bother. He had long before acknowledged being paid GBP 8 000 by US Tobacco and not cited it in the Register of Members Interests as he was legally obliged to do. But in the 1990s it emerged that the 40 something MP had been on a Caribbean holiday with a 20 year old man and shared a double bed with him. The gay age of consent was 21 at the time. What Brown was doing was technically illegal. He was not prosecuted. John Major said that homosexuality was no longer a resigning matter. Brown was not ‘out’ at the time. But when the news broke he publicly stated that he was gay.

Michael Brown also lost his seat in the 1997 election. Downey said that if Neil and Tim Smith had still been in Parliament after the election then they should have both been suspended for a long period of time.

Neil fiercely defended himself. He said the report was shoddy and based on hearsay. He accused it of bias. It was not a judicial inquiry, did not have a presumption of innocence and did not require the criminal standard of proof.

Tim Smith said he agreed with the conclusions of the report and sought no further role in public life.

Fayed was a deeply unsavoury character. His wastrel son Dodi Fayed was a fully qualified professional playboy. Dodi was engaged to an American model in 1997 when he began a liaison with the recently divorced Princess Diana. When the Ishmaelite businessman heard that his son had begun an intimate relationship with the princess he was jubilant. This was the establishment validation that he had yearned for with such flagrant indignity. Dodi dropped his fiancée like a hot potato and sent her a few million Pounds to encourage her to go away and shut up.

Dodi’s relationship with Diana lasted all of three weeks. They were together for about 10 of these 21 days. Nonetheless Fayed claimed without any evidence at all that the two were engaged and that Diana was pregnant by Dodi. Several investigations have disconfirmed these outlandish statements. Neil was up against a man with a proven record for outrageous falsity and utter ruthlessness.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had accepted a free weekend in the Paris Ritz Hotel which Fayed owned. They acknowledged that this was true. It emerged that Mrs. Hamilton had even taken postage stamps for free from the hotel.

The Hamilton’s submitted to an exhaustive Revenue and Customs investigation of their finances and tax affairs. They came out of it smelling of roses.

In the June of 1995 Jon Major made a shock announcement. He resigned as leader of the party. But he had not resigned as PM. It was a back me or sack me move. He was fed up to the back teeth of all the carping. His resignation triggered a leadership contest in the Conservative Party. It was hoped by many on the right of the party that Michael Portillo who was Secretary of State for Defence would contest the leadership. Some Portillistas set up a campaign HQ and even installed extra telephone lines. But he did not stand and instead remained in the Cabinet and asked people to vote for Major. John Redwood resigned as Secretary of State for Wales and he stood against Major. Neil remained enamoured of Portillo despite Portillo letting him down in 1995. Indeed in 2001 when Portillo sought the Tory leadership he lost out on getting into the ballot of ordinary party members by one vote. Neil then expressed his sympathy for Portillo and said it was a pity that Portillo had not won.

Neil was bitterly disappointed with Major’s spinelessness and Europhilia. Under Major there was a sense that direction had been lost. He had no vision for the country. He was also as accident prone as can be. Neil lent his full support to Redwood. Redwood was seen to be too right wing. With a D.Phil from Oxford he was clearly and alpha mind but he was distinctly lacking in emotional intelligence. One journalist said that Redwood came across as a space alien in human form. His supporters were accused of being swivel eyed loons and foam flecked fanatics. Tony Marlow in his striped blazer came in for particular execration.

In the end Major won the votes of about 75% of Tory MPs. But he was not to survive as leader of the party for two more years.

In the mid-1990s the Tory Party was mired in allegations of sleaze. The press was extremely hostile to the party. Neil was savaged by the gutter press.

The Guardian is the United Kingdom’s main left wing broadsheet newspaper. The Guardian excoriated Neil as ‘a liar and a cheat’ in a screaming headline. The left wing media had successfully depicted him as Mr. Sleaze. It was a perception that was very difficult to correct because of the Semmelweis Reflex. Once people get a notion in their minds it is all but impossible to disabuse them of this misapprehension even if one presents a mountain of the most irrefragable evidence.

In 1996 Neil and he co-claimant withdrew their libel action. They were panned for this in the press.

Conservative Central Office lent on Neil not to stand in the 1997 election. They said that even if he was innocent he was attracting enormous amounts of hostile press coverage. This was preventing the Conservative message getting out. They asked him if he would please announce that he would not seek re-election for the good of the party. Neil adamantly refused to do so. He was innocent and he would let his constituents vindicate him.

Tatton was the fourth safest Conservative seat in the UK. Neil had won in 1992 by 16 000 votes. His position seemed unassailable in spite of the extremely negative reportage on him in most of the press. But being misportrayed by the media for several years was taking a toll on Neil’s standing in the constituency.

The Parliamentary Standard Commissioner investigated Neil. Neil’s withdrawal of his libel action seemed to some to be confirmatory of his guilt. Some Tory MPs begged him to step aside but he would not budge. In those days CCO had no say whatsoever over whom a local Conservative Association picked as its candidate. Neil is perhaps the single greatest reason why CCO now has the legal power to block local Conservative associations from selecting candidates whom CCO finds uncongenial.

There was much unease in Tatton Conservative Association. Nevertheless, the majority of Tatton Tories stuck with Neil. They believed him to be the victim of a leftist smear campaign. His chief accuser was a pathological liar. Never trust a man who cannot even tell the truth about his own name of year of birth.

In April 1997 it was time for the Tatton Conservative Association to choose their candidate for the upcoming election. 182 Conservatives voted for Neil to be their candidate. 35 voted against him. There were 100 abstentions. That was not the ringing endorsement he wanted. Only 55% of Conservatives in the constituency had voted for him.

There were two other Conservative MPs who were dogged by sleaze allegations. They were Piers Merchant and Allan Stewart. Stewart sat for a seat in Scotland. Merchant had been the President of the Durham Union and by 1997 was the MP for Beckenham in Kent. The married middle aged Tory was having an affair with a 17 year old nightclub hostess named Anna Cox. An ICM poll for the Observer newspaper showed that Merchant and Stewart were both fairly popular in their seats in but that Neil’s popularity had evaporated. But many in Tatton viewed Neil as a slimeball.

For 3 years Neil had braved brutal headlines almost every single day. It proves how indomitable he is that he stood up to such bile from the media.

Jonathan Aitken – the Conservative MP for Thanet – was also facing allegations of taking unethical payments from Mohammed Fayed. At the time the scandal broke he was Chief Secretary to the Treasury. He was spoken of as a future Prime Minister. A 6’4’’ lean marathon runner with chiseled features – he looked like a leader. He had impeccable establishment credentials – he was the son of a Canadian peer who was a war hero; he was the nephew of a newspaper magnate, Aitken also had an Eton and Oxford education behind him.  He had been a Fleet Street journalist and a war correspondent in Vietnam. He had once been the toast of the media for defending the free press and even being willing to risk prison for doing so. Jonathan Aitken was an Anglican lay preacher.  He had even been the boyfriend of Thatcher’s only daughter – Carol. Aitken dumped Carol because he was two-timing her: unbeknownst to Carol he was also going out with a Yugoslavian blonde named Lolicia. Aitken proposed to Lolicia and jilted Carol. People later asked Mrs. Thatcher why should would never give this talented young backbench MP a government post. Margaret Thatcher would never promote Aitken despite the blandishments of his many admirers. Why? He made Carol cry.

He had midwifed arms deals with Saudi Arabia which had netted him millions. Some felt that his eagerness to sell weapons to a cruel Islamist tyranny flew in the face of his much vaunted Christian faith. Saudi Arabia did not allow Christian worship. Anyone caught with a Bible or conducting prayer meetings would spend years in a fetid dungeon. The Saudi Government promoted anti-Christian forces in Sudan and the Philippines. How could a Christian defend such a regime? It seemed that Aitken had no conscience. He had a moral standard. His arms deal commission fee was a very high moral standard. Somehow money salved his qualms. His sexual infidelity did not sit well with his pharisaical posturing either.

A documentary called Jonathan of Arabia suggested that he had pimped for Arab princelings. The relentless press attacks in Aitken led to him eventually agreeing to resign. His presence in Cabinet was at the very least a distraction from the government’s message.

Aitken insisted he had not done so and he had paid for his stay in the Paris Ritz which was then owned by the Egyptian grocer. Mr. Aitken claimed his daughter and his Yugoslav wife Lolicia were with him Paris at the material time.  Aitken unwisely took out a libel action against the Guardian newspaper. Aitken pressured his teenage daughter into perjurious statements to help him out of a tight corner. In the end Guardian journalists were able to obtain records that proved that Mrs. Aitken and her daughter had lodged in a hotel in Switzerland on the night in question and thus could not possibly have been in Paris.

Jonathan Aitken swore on the Holy Bible before testifying in court. As he was a self-professed Christian who often preached in the Church of England it is particularly horrifying that he profaned the Christian faith by perjuring himself when he had sworn on the Good Book to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. His statements in court were proven to be false.

The Guardian later celebrated Aitken’s downfall. The headline was He lied and lied and lied.

Luke Harding is the Guardian scribbler who make Aitken his quarry over several years. He published a deeply disobliging biography of the Conservative cabinet minister. Aitken had the unenviable distinction of being the first politician to have a biography of him published titled The Liar.

Aitken was later sent down for perjury. His memoir Pride and Perjury is a riveting read and gives a sense of what the era was like for doom-stricken Tories. Aitken had always been a practicing Anglican. He really found Jesus anew in prison. When he came out he went to Oxford forty years after taking his first degree. Aitken was later ordained a Church of England priest.

In 1997 the election was called. The BBC journalist Martin Bell stood against Neil. Bell was then famous for his reportage from Yugoslavia in the midst of its wars. He had been shot whilst finishing a broadcast. This had made him a public hero. Bell was seen as the voice of reason and unpolitical. The media coverage of Martin Bell’s campaign was entirely favourable. His campaign was helped by the presence of his outstandingly nubile blonde daughter. Bell insisted on wearing a white suit throughout the campaign as if it were indicative of his purity. There was a media circus around him. Labour and the Lib Dems knew they had little chance of taking Tatton even though the press was almost universally negative towards Neil. But Labour and the Lib Dems knew that the Tories could lose the seat. Labour and the Lib Dems therefore withdrew their candidates. This gave Bell a clear run.

Had Labour and the Lib Dems not withdrawn their candidates then Neil would very likely have retained the seat albeit narrowly. Conversely, had Bell not stood but Labour and the Lib Dems fielded candidates then again it is highly probable that Neil would still have saved his seat but again not by a large margin.

Bell stood as the anti-corruption candidate. Neil disliked this label intensely and said it was deeply disingenuous. He wanted to ask Bell a question on camera. Neil sought out his challenger. Bell and Neil met each other on Knutsford Common and had a famous exchange filmed by the TV cameras. Neil’s insouciance was incredible. Neil said that by Martin Bell calling himself ‘anti-corruption’ this unmistakably implied that Neil was corrupt. Christine harangued Martin Bell. This transformed her from an unknown into a celebrity. Neil was remarkably restrained and courteous. Bell said he was independent and not anti-corruption. He extended the presumption of innocence to Neil. Neil then welcomed Bell as an independent candidate.

Labour possibly committed a grave blunder in withdrawing its candidate in Tatton. For Labour, Neil was a gift that kept on giving. As long as Neil was an MP the newspapers would be full of the headline ‘’Tory sleaze.’’ But if he was booted out of Parliament then he would no longer be so closely associated with the party. Strangely, Neil was worth more to Labour in Parliament than out of it. It was actually in Labour’s interests for Neil to win his seat. Depriving the Conservatives of one more seat was of negligible importance in an election where Labour was predicted to win and did win a staggering majority.

Bill Roach was a local celebrity from his role in the long running soap opera Coronation Street. He turned up to campaign for Neil. Neil still had friends in high places.

In the wee hours of 2 May the result was announced by the returning officer. Neil’s massive majority had been overturned. Bell beat him by a staggering 11 000 votes. It was a swing of an unprecedented 48%. Martin Bell won an unprecedented 60% of the vote. No one in Tatton had ever won by that much. There were three ‘independent conservatives’ who also stood as well as the usual collection of loonies who stand in high profile seats.

Martin Bell was Britain’s first independent MP in decades. Neil remained ever defiant. He swore he would be back in Parliament one day.

Bell served one term as MP for Tatton. He vowed he would not seek a second one. In 2001 he stood in Brentwood and Ongar against another Conservative. Bell said this was because the local Conservative Association had been taken over by a religious cult. It was staggering that he stood against a Conservative again when there were many pathological liars on the Labour benches – mainly Tony Blair. This time Bell was unsuccessful.

On 3 July 1997 the Downey report was published. It said that Neil had taken cash for questions. It specifically said that Neil had even been paid in brown paper envelopes. The Independent newspaper reported on it extensively. It suggested that the new Tory supremo William Hague expel Neil from his party if the Tories were ever to expunge the disgrace that clung to them.

The Downey Report savaged Michael Grylls and Michael Brown. Michael Grylls was an ex Royal Marines officer and then the MP for Chertsey and the father of Bear Grylls who is now Chief Scout.

The issue of Neil Hamilton remained divisive for several years in the constituency. In 1999 George Osborne sought to be selected as the Conservative candidate for the seat. The 28 year old Osborne was the heir to a wallpaper fortune. He had been educated at St Paul’s and Oxford. After a stint as a struggling political journalist he had worked for Tory Central Office. He found it prudent not to voice an opinion on Neil Hamilton. Some association members remained devoted to Neil. There were others who reviled him. Osborne went on to be elected in 2001. He later served as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Out of Parliament

John Major resigned as leader of the Conservative Party immediately after the electoral defeat. He stayed on in a caretaker capacity until such time as a replacement could be elected. William Hague was duly elected leader in June 1997. Hague was one of the youngest Tory MPs aged only 35. He was also the former Secretary of State for Wales. Hague was then dating a civil servant in the Welsh Office: Ffion. These days this would be considered deeply inappropriate. His Welsh connection did not endear him to Neil Hamilton.

Hague believed that the party badly needed to move on from the scandal-struck Major years. He implored Neil not to attend the 1997 conference. The Conservatives needed him there like they needed a hole in the head. Neil bowed to Hague’s entreaty and agreed not to show his face at the party conference.

On 9 May 1997 – five days after he lost his seat – Neil was on Have I Got News for You. Angus Deayton was the host of the penal game show. Deayton wore a white suit for the only ever time – it was redolent of Martin Bell’s white suit that he famously sported in the Tatton election. The Hamilton’s were paid their fee in brown paper envelopes. Neil hit back, ‘’I’ve found its much better making political jokes than being one.’’

Neil chose not to return to practice at the bar. He was sick of what he called ‘’a constipated profession’’ and said he would not be able to contain himself when dealing with judges – he would tell members of the bench what he really thought of them. What Neil and Christine did have was an awful lot of publicity. They started to monetize this.

In 1999 the Oxford University Conservative Association (OUCA) invited Neil and Christine to be guests of honour at their termly dinner. OUCA was well known for holding ‘OUCA-holic’ events. The President of the Association was an eccentric alcoholic high camp homosexual of reactionary leanings named Steven Philip Doody. The boozy dinner went well enough. They then repaired to Steven’s set of rooms in Balliol College, Oxford for the after party. They were all well-oiled!

The Oxford Student newspaper published an article on the after party in Balliol. The headlined proclaimed ‘OUCA lurch to Reich wing.’

The after party involved choruses of songs in questionable taste such as a song to the melody of ‘Dashing through the snow’. The lyrics go: ‘dashing through the Reich/ In a black Mercedes benz/ killing lots of kikes/ rat a tat at at/ Mow ze buggers down/ Oh what fun it is to be/ ze SS in ze town/ Oh lebensraum/ lebensraum…’ This revolting song joking about the Holocaust was not considered ideal publicity for the new and inclusive Conservative Party. No one has said that Neil or Christine ever participated in singing these anti-Semitic songs or even knew the lyrics.

Christine by her own admission goes for anything in trousers. There was a law undergraduate from Christ Church named Will Goodhand. Christine and Will got along very well indeed! They snogged. On seeing this some Oxonians said, ‘’do it again for the camera.’’ The canoodling couple happily obliged. At the time Will was 19 and Christine was 50. So she was a bit young by Will’s standards!

The photo was sold to the Sun newspaper for several thousand pounds. That was a very tidy sum in 1999. Bear in mind undergraduate fees were GBP 1 000 per annum back then.

‘A minging Tory snog’ was the headline splashed across the front page of the Sun. Will Goodhand was seeing snogging Chirstine Hamilton.

The Hamiltons said those who had stooped so low as to sell this photo to the Sun ought to be ‘osctracised.’ Mrs. Hamilton commented that ‘’if he thinks that was a snog then he has a lot to learn.’’

Will Goodhand went along with the Sun and posed for photos with a Page Three girl. The article said he took her on a date punting and to dinner. The latter part is not true but they paid for Will to dine on his own. Will was later an unsuccessful Conservative parliamentary candidate and a semi-successful radio DJ.

On 16 January 1997 Mohammed Fayed went on the Channel 4 documentary Dispatches. Fayed said that Neil had been given cash payments totally GBP 110 000 over several years and had been given Harrod’s gift vouchers free of charge as well as being allowed to stay at the Paris Ritz for free on a long weekend in 1987. All this was in payment for Neil asking questions for Fayed in the House of Commons. Neil always admitted that he had stayed in the Paris Ritz Hotel at Fayed’s expense but insisted that there was no impropriety involved in accepting the free hospitality.

In 1999 Martin Bell MP went to address the Oxford Union. His predecessor as the MP for Tatton decided to surprise Mr. Bell. Neil is a life member of the Cambridge Union. There is reciprocity of membership or one might even say mutuality between the Oxford Union and the Cambridge Union. Neil and Christine attended the meeting and sat in the front row much to Bell’s chagrin. He was egregiously discombobulated to see them there. At the Union Neil’s old chum Fr David Johnson entertained him royally. The late Fr Johnson was then on the Standing Committee of the Oxford Union. He was its oldest ever member aged 45.

On 31 July 1998 Neil’s libel action was given a court listing. Though Neil was a barrister himself he chose not to defend himself. Defamation was not his area of law. He had many supporters who contributed most liberally to his legal fighting fund.

Neil still had friends in high places. Lord Harris of High Cross donated to Neil Hamilton’s libel action fund as he had done in 1984. Taki contributed to his legal costs as did Lord Harris of High Cross. The Earl of Portsmouth also contributed. Gerald Howarth MP contributed as did Gyles Brandreth (former Tory MP for Chester and television show presenter), the right wing curmudgeon journalist Simon Heffer, Lord Bell and Peter Clarke. There were only 165 Tory MPs left in 1997 and 40 of them contributed to the fighting fund. That was a staggering level of support given the wall to wall vitriol against Neil in the popular press. Over GBP 410 000 was raised. Libel is an astonishingly expensive business. A single day in court with a junior barrister will set you back at least several thousand pounds.

Defamation cases can be heard by a judge or by a jury. If the parties cannot agree which way the case will be tried then the judge shall determine which means of trying the case will be serve the interests of justice. The trouble with a jury is that Neil’s name had been dragged through the mire for years before the case opened. Therefore many jurors may have been prejudiced against him. The press had been traducing him and it would be very hard for jurors to put this out of their minds.

If Neil won the case his reputation would be restored, he would win hundreds of thousands of pounds in compensation and he could get his seat back. Neil and Christine were bullish about their chances of winning. That is suggestive of innocence. Why would they stake everything on it if they were culpable?

In November 1999 the trial began. The judge had to ascertain that the jury was not biased. Fayed owned Fulham Football Club. He asked if there were any Fulham supporters on the jury. To public amusement it emerged that none of them were Fulham fans.

In the case Fayed was asked why he called himself Al Fayed when his surname was actually ‘Fayed’. ‘’Call me Al Capone if you liked’’ he quipped to gales of laughter.

Fayed repeated his claim in court that Neil had been paid cash in brown paper envelopes sometimes these were handed to Neil by Fayed’s staff and sometime the payments were made via Ian Greer.  Neil repeated his denial that he had ever accepted an ob from Fayed, either directly or via an intermediary but said it was true that he had stayed in Fayed’s hotel for free. The counsel for Neil said that Fayed’s false statements had ruined Neil’s good name.

Fayed hired the foremost QC of the day: George Carman. Mohammed Fayed was in the witness box against Neil. The case lasted 6 weeks. Jonathan Aitken is another former Conservative MP who was hit with sleaze allegations. Aitken described being cross-examined by Carman as being ‘’carmanised.’’ Carman is the only barrister whose name became a verb! He was a fearsome advocate. Carman had had his old university friend Jeremy Thorpe sensationally acquitted of conspiracy to murder in 1979. Thorpe was the erstwhile leader of the Liberal Party.

Neil and Christine were both cross-examined by the fearsome George Carman QC. Carman QC asked Neil if he had been corrupt in 1989 when he asked Mobil Oil for GBP 10 000 to table an amendment on a finance bill. Neil was then on the House of Commons Select Committee on Finance.

George Carman QC the continued to cross examine Neil. Neil would usually gave lengthy answers that to some gave an impression of chicanery. Carman would then snort contumeliously, ‘’you finished?’’ Surprisingly the judge did not reprimand Carman for such ungentlemanly conduct. But Neil’s loquacity appeared to be his undoing. It seemed to have a negative impact on the jury’s view of him.

There was some sympathy for Fayed so soon after his son’s death. The public, particularly in London, was still egregiously anti-Conservative. This may have prejudiced the jury.

On 21 December 1999 the jury found for Fayed on the basis of justification. His utterances regarding Neil were held to be substantially veracious. Neil was branded corrupt.

Neil and his wife came out of the Royal Courts of Justice. They appeared as though they were gazing into hell. He had bet the bank on winning the case and restoring his reputation and political career. Now he was doomed. Down into the abyss he would have to go. Some people would have been driven to suicide by this calamity.

Neil appealed and lost. He sought leave to appeal again this time to the House of the Lords which at the time functioned as the Supreme Court. Leave was denied.

On 27 May 2001 Neil declared bankruptcy. This was because he was unable to pay his legal fees and Fayed’s costs. These amounted to a staggering GBP 3 million. Being a bankrupt this forfended practicing at the bar or being an MP. Neil vowed that Fayed would not get a penny. All his earnings went to his goodwife because she was not bankrupt. He was discharged from bankruptcy three years later.

On 30 March 2000 Neil went on Da Ali G Show which was then brand new. It was hosted by Sacha Baron-Cohen in his persona of Ali G – a racially ambivalent shell suit wearing educationally subnormal rude boy, capo of the West Staines Massive who poses as a petty drug dealer but in fact comes from a boringly bourgeois background. In it Ali G proffers a cannabis cigarette to Neil which he happily smoked.

In a later edition of Da Ali G Show the guest was Mohammed Fayed. In it Ali G asked the Egyptian shopkeeper what he would say to Neil Hamilton if Neil were there. Fayed replied, ‘’Nothing. To me he is nothing.’’ Ali G then claimed that Neil had said he had seen Fayed wearing women’s lingerie. Fayed denied it and said ‘’he is the one who is doing that. He is very well known for that.’’ Ironically Neil did appear in ladies undergarments years later as part of a theatrical production. That was the Rocky Horror Show where he wore high heels and a basque.

There were still some political groups who were keen to hear from Neil. The Springbok Club invited Neil to address them. The club was for South Africans resident in the Home Counties. They displayed the apartheid era South African colours. Mr. Hamilton said he was pleased to speak in front of the ‘’true flag of South Africa.’’ Leftists took it as an endorsement of racialism.

After 2001 the Hamilton’s had to rebuild their financial position. They appeared on numerous quiz shows. They were on celebrity ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?’ to raise money for charity. When they underperformed Christine was visibly distressed at having let down needy people.

The couple appeared on posh nosh and other shows.

Neil and Christine traveled to the Republic of Ireland because they were invited on The Late, Late Show. The show was the most popular chat show on Radio Telefis Eireann (RTE) which is the Irish Republic’s principal channel. On RTE they were interviewed by the late Gay Byrne. Gabriel ‘Gay’ Bryne was Ireland’s foremost presenter for decades. Before going on air the couple had addressed the Law Society of University College Dublin (UCD). There were plenty UCD law undergraduates in the studio audience and they afforded the Hamilton’s a very hearty welcome.

Neil wrote an enthralling booked titled Great Political Eccentrics. He also penned another engrossing tome called Politics’ Strangest Characters. Did Neil write whereof he knew? He has never been accused of normality.

The Hamilton’s sold their Cheshire home for GBP 1.25 million. That was a very tidy sum at the time more like GBP 3 million in the values of 2023.

Upon selling their Cheshire domicile the Hamilton’s shifted to Hullavington, Wiltshire in October 2004.

In When Louis Met the Hamilton’s, Neil said that he and Christine were ‘’professional objects of curiosity.’’ Some said they were a circus act.

While on When Louis Met the Hamilton’s, Neil is show exercising in Hyde Park. As he said himself he was not bad for a 51 year old man. He has never been fat.

In some shows Neil seemed himself. He was confident and garrulous as usual. On other shows he appeared to be stiff and inhibited. No all media suited him.

MacIntyre is a show fronted by an eponymous Dubliner. Mr. MacIntyre had Neil on his show when he was helping the police. They winkled out wanted criminals by sending them letters saying they had won a competition and were due to be awarded a prize. As Neil was so often seen on game shows his presence lent this cover story some credibility.

Christine acquired herself a richly deserved reputation for being an outrageous flirt. No man was safe! Women of Britain: lock up your sons! And fathers and grandfathers. In spite of her pantherine sexuality, in fairness to her, no one has ever suggested that her behaviour has gone beyond mere coquetry.

Christine and Neil often appeared in pantomimes. It turned out that they had an exceptional gift for acting. They became a stable of quiz shows. They were on the Weakest Link hosted by Anne Robinson and on Ready Steady Cook. Neil competed on a celebrity edition of Mastermind on 26 December 2004. In 2005 Neil went on 18 Stone of Idiot and he danced in a Perspex box while the morbidly obese comedian Johnny Vegas and someone else poured buckets of fish over him. The price of political failure was not too high!

The couple appeared on Loose Women. Neil said the secret of his marriage’s success was ‘’I find we get on very well if I do exactly as I am told.’’

The Guardian dubbed Neil ‘’an all-purpose Z list celebrity.’’ He was perceived as an unpolitical figure. But the Noughties he was famous for being famous. He may never has asked cash for questions. By 2000 he was being questioned for cash.

Christine Hamilton went on Have I got news for you? The satirical news quiz show. The host mercilessly lampooned the Hamilton’s. It paid their fee in brown paper envelopes. This was an allusion to how Fayed claimed he had paid Neil.

Louis Theroux then did a show called ‘when Louis met’ and he usually encountered extraordinary freaks. Louis Theroux is the British born son of the celebrated American travel writer Paul Theorux. Louis is a skinny, bespectacled, so self-assured that he is soft-spoken and unassuming chap who was educated at Westminster and Oxford. He is a man over whom women swoon.  In 2000 he did one with Neil and Christine Hamilton.

Neil blazed a trail. He was the very first ex-politician to become a star of reality TV. Since then others have sought to reinvent themselves as media figures.

In 2003 Nadine Milroy-Sloan, the false accuser, was awarded a three year prison sentence. It was a disgracefully light sentence bearing in mind the far longer sentence that would have been given to Neil had he been wrongfully convicted. She was found guilty of perverting the course of justice.

Max Clifford who had represented Miss Milroy-Sloan paid Neil a sum of money in compensation. Part of the agreement was that the figure be kept secret.

Milroy-Sloan was a habitual liar. In 2014 she was again imprisoned for falsely accusing her ex-boyfriend of threatening her with a sword.

In the summer of 2000 Neil and Christine Hamilton was falsely accused of the rape of a woman. On 10 August 2001 the couple was arrested pursuant to a rape investigation.

Christine said that this accusation was ‘’lies on stilts’’. Indeed the couple had probative evidence that they were miles away from the scene of the alleged crime at the material time. They were dining with Derek Laud who corroborated their alibi. When the investigation started the couple were being filmed for When Louis met the Hamilton’s which was part of a series wherein Louis Theroux met interesting freaks At first Louis was entirely unaware of the rape allegation. In the back of a Range Rover Neil said that they had a story for Louis and most people would charge him extra for it but that they were giving it to Louis for free when Neil dropped a bombshell saying that they had been false accused of rape.

 The Sunday Times wrote ‘’they deserve less sympathy than most’’ but acknowledged that the couple had been blackguarded. Christine read the article aloud on the reality TV show When Louis met the Hamilton’s.

Their calumniator was subsequently awarded a three year prison sentence. The publicist who did most to disseminate these utterly bogus claims was Max Clifford. Clifford was a Labour donor who later went to prison for sex crimes.

Neil and Christine went into writing.

 Great British political eccentrics is a very readable book by Neil. He is a soi-disant eccentric. In it he featured Nabbaro, Screaming Lord Sutch, Roy Jenkins and others. Neil had little sympathy for Lord Roy Jenkins whom he lampooned. Lord Jenkins of Hillhead was a Welsh Labourite who sat for an English seat. He was the Home Secretary who shepherded through a piece of legislation that has killed over ten million British children. He later split from Labour to found the Social Democratic Party (SDP). His splitting the anti-Tory vote handed the entire 1980s to the Conservative Party. Thanks Roy! He later became Chancellor of Oxford University.

Neil later wrote a thoroughly engrossing tome called Politics’ Strangest Characters. In this book he mused on the curious case of Treibitsch Lincoln. The weird and wonderful Lincoln was born into a Jewish family in Hungary. After studying at the Royal Hungarian Academic of Dramatic art he moved to the United Kingdom. He managed to have himself selected as a Liberal candidate in 1910 and was returned to Parliament. He sat there only between January and December 1910. 1910 is the only year bar 1974 in which the United Kingdom held two general elections. Lincoln’s story grew ever more bizarre. He ended up in Tibet in the 1940s where he died – possibly poisoned by German agents.

Christine published a tome titled the bumper book of Great British battleaxes.

Neil appeared in numerous shows. They have acted in pantomimes.

In 2002 the Hamilton’s resigned from the Conservative and Unionist Party after 35 years of stalwart service. They joined the United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP). Nigel Farage was then one of the most prominent UKIP Members of the European Parliament. Farage recalled luncheon with the Hamilton’s. He claimed that half way through he felt a hand on his knee. It was Christine! She was a notorious man eater. It is a fate that befell even me. She ruffled my hair and twittered ‘’oh what a lovely boy you are.’’

Christine forged a media career in her own right. She has been a columnist and a television reviewer. She has been on countless talk shows. She was a star turn in I’m a celebrity get me out of here wherein she was exiled to the Australian jungle for a few weeks.

In 2003 the Hamilton’s were invited to address the sixth form of Oundle School. Their car broke down and they were unable to make it. The school wanted them so badly that it arranged another occasion for them to speak. In his oration Neil said that there was a certain level below which support for the Conservatives would not go. Rock bottom was about 30%. He made disobliging remarks about Conservative leaders – Hague and Iain Duncan Smith IDS. IDS was such a lamentable choice for leader that people joked his initials stood for ‘’in deep shit.’’

Ironically Neil had far more influence outside Parliament than he had inside it.

UKIP was keen that a household name stand for Parliament. Neil and Christine declined to do so. They said ‘’we’ve done politics.’’ They needed to earn some money and buy themselves a decent house. This they eventually succeeded in doing. They purchased a home in Wiltshire.

In 2004 Neil and Christine attended an event in Oxford to commemorate the 60^th anniversary of D Day. The fete was held in the, alas and alack, now defunct pub called the Far from the Madding Crowd on Friar’s Entry. It was organized by Rev Fr David Johnson. Present were fifty persons including the Canadian High Commissioner (‘’call me Mel’’) and the morbidly obese and bearded Luxembourgish Ambassador straight from central casting.

Neil is never short of an opinion. He said he exalts David Lloyd George as the first Welshman to rise to the office of Prime Minister and one who made the political weather for a generation. That is despite Neil disagreeing with Lloyd George’s collectivist policies which paved the way for socialism.

Tony Blair attracts particular hostility and disdain from Neil. He scorns Blair’s so called ethical foreign policy and believe that Iraq War was calamitous.

In 2006 the Hamilton’s released a song for the Football World Cup. It was titled ‘England are Jolly Dee’. That was notwithstanding neither of them caring a fig about the sport and Neil is not actually English. Nor were either of them remotely musical. Full marks for effort!

In 2008 Neil and Christine founded Vixen Consultants Limited. This dealt with their media appearance. It trades under the name of Vixen Consultants. Neil is company secretary.

By the 2010s the Hamilton’s star was waning. The days of the 1990s when they had wall to wall coverage (whether wanted or unwanted) were over. They were all but unknown to the junior generation. It was at this point that Neil decided to throw his hat into the political ring once more.

In September 2011 Neil went to UKIP’s autumn conference. Nigel Farage was then leading the party. Farage endorsed him to stand for election to the National Executive Committee of the party. Neil was elected on 1 November 2011. He then served as deputy chairman of UKIP. Neil later became campaign director in April 2014. In May 2014 he sought to be elected in Wandsworth London Borough Council. He stood for St Mary’s ward. There were 9 candidates and Neil came a distant 8^th. London is not fertile soil for UKIP. The British capital is one of the most ardently Europhile areas in the country.

Arron Banks was the main UKIP financial backer. In private emails he dubbed Neil ‘’a corrupt old Tory’’

In 2014 Neil provoked wrath once again when he said that decent BNP voters were turning to UKIP. The British National Party as recently as the 1990s was an openly white supremacist party which sought to deprive non-white Britons of their British citizenship and expel them. It had denied the Holocaust and stoked odium against Muslims. Some say there is no such thing as a decent BNP voter. But it is an objective statement of fact that quite a few people who formerly voted BNP then cast their ballots for UKIP.

On 5 May 2016 Neil stood to be a member of what was then styled the National Assembly for Wales. UKIP was riding high because of the Brexit referendum. Neil was elected as a list Member of the Senedd (MS) for Mid and West Wales. Senedd is the Welsh word for ‘parliament’. He soon became the leader of the UKIP faction in the Welsh Assembly. The Welsh Assembly was subsequently renamed the Welsh Parliament in 2020. 7 UKIP MS’s were elected to the Welsh Assembly in 2016. All of them came in via the regional list system. UKIP never had anyone elected to Cardiff for a constituency.

Just five days after being elected to the Welsh Assembly, Neil was elected leader of UKIP in the assembly. He ousted Nathan Gill. Farage was the leader of the party and criticized the move. UKIP should not be fighting UKIP. Neil said Farage should not interfere in an internal Welsh matter and said that Farage was throwing a tantrum. Neil reminded the public that Farage was a Member of the European Parliament for South-East England and had never even stood for election in Wales.

In that legislature Neil continued to vocalise his forthright views. He said he was immensely gratified to be serving in the Land of my fathers – calling to mind the Welsh patriotic song. He was the only MS not to reside in the principality. Bigots tried to exploit this to portray him as somehow an alien and unfit to represent a region of Wales.

Nathan Gill was so dischuffed at being ousted by Neil that Gill left UKIP. He sat as an independent.

Neil made a barnstorming maiden speech in the Welsh Assembly. He also dubbed Kirsty Williams and Leanne Wood ‘’concubines’’ and said they were in a harem. Feminists were not best pleased. The talentless ex-social worker Leanne Wood was a Plaid Cymru MS and later became leader of the party. Stroppy, far left, eurofanatic, politically correct, anti-monarchist, bigoted and viciously intolerant – la Wood was not exactly Neil’s cup of cha.

A loony leftist MS named Eluned Morgan said that Brexit would hurt the poorest most. Neil Hamilton unkindly blurted out ‘’suicide’s an option.’’ The Presiding Officer called upon Neil to say sorry. He declined to do so, ‘’what is there to apologise for? What was unparliamentary about the remark?’’ In the end he said, ‘’I apologise for whatever remark I am supposed to have made.’’

Neil courted controversy in 2018 by speaking up for the late Enoch Powell. Powell had been the Conservative MP for Wolverhampton South-West and later an Ulster Unionist MP for Down South. Powell was notorious for his 1968 Rivers of Blood oration in which he said that non-white immigration was an existential threat to the United Kingdom. Powell was defended by Neil and said that Powell was no ghoul. Neil said that while large scale racial violence that Powell had forecast had not transpired, Powell was correct inasmuch as social change had been wrought by mass immigration and it was unwanted by most of the UK populace. Neil said that Powell was right to speak up for ordinary people when the elite chose to disregard these well-founded concerns.

Leanne Wood then denounced Neil saying that he was keeping racism alive. A Labour assemblyman said that Neil’s remarks were outrageous.

In 2019 Neil stood in a by-election in Newport West. He came third and polled a respectable 8.6%. Newport West had been a Labour seat for a century.

In 2020 the BLM movement began to demand that some statutes be taken down in Wales when the statute was a likeness of someone who had been involved in the slave trade. BLM wanted a statue of Mr. Pickton removed from Cardiff City Hall and Pickton Street renamed. They also sought the removal of another statue in Carmarthen. To Neil’s eternal credit he refused to be morally blackmailed by the racism industry.

Neil vociferously argued that the statue ought to remain in situ and that Pickton Street retain its name. He denounced BLM as Marxist and said it aimed at the erasure of Wales’ heritage. BLM proposed to put a statue of George Floyd in room of Pickton. Floyd was murdered by the police in the USA. Neil accused Floyd of being a drug peddler.

Unfortunately there is a rising tide of far left bigots demanding the abolition of British national pride. Neil set his face like flint against these socialists seditionists.

In 2020 Freddy Vachha, the UKIP leader, was forced out. Neil became acting leader of UKIP. He later became its substantive leader.

In 2021 Neil was the only UKIP representative other than local councilors.

In 2021 in the election to the Welsh Parliament, Neil chose not to seek re-election in Mid and West Wales. Instead he stood in South Wales East. It was possible a mistake. He was top of UKIP’s regional list.

BBC Wales held a main leaders’ debate. However. They did not invite the UKIP leader on saying that it was a minor party. Neil was invited to speak in a minor leaders’ debate alongside the leaders of the Green Party and Reform UK.

Neil stood in Islwyn. This was the onetime Labour leader Neil Kinnock’s former bailiwick. But Hamilton performed worse than the other Neil! He polled only 507 votes – coming 6^th.

All UKIP politicians failed to be elected to the Welsh Parliament.

In 2018 Neil was himself pushed out as UKIP leader in the Welsh Assembly. He was supplanted by Caroline Jones.

In 2018 the then leader of UKIP Gerard Batten said that a vote would be held to elect the UKIP leader in Wales. Whoever won would lead the party’s delegation in the Welsh Assembly and would be the Cymric voice of the party. Gareth Bennett MS, Miss Jones and Neil Hamilton all contested it. Bennett won. Nonetheless, Hamilton said he respected Bennett and would cooperate with him.

On 12 September 2020 Neil was elected leader of the UK Independence Party. He won 498 votes out of 631. That meant 79% of the total vote. He defeated John Poynton. Membership had collapsed. Most talented and ambitious UKIPers had decamped to the newly founded Brexit Party (now called Reform UK). That included the sometime leader of UKIP – Nigel Farage.

When Neil took over UKIP was in poor shape. The membership had fallen off a cliff. Its finances were shocking. As Brexit had happened it seemed that UKIP had lost its raison d’etre. People were bored rigid of the EU issue. But Neil insisted that the Tory Brexit had been half-hearted at best. In spite of Neil’s most valiant efforts, UKIP is largely a one man band. It has trouble garnering much media attention. Neil does his level best to keep the UKIP show on the road. But the membership is elderly, donations are paltry and public opinion is shifting towards seeking readmission to the EU. In truth the party shall probably not long survive him.

In 2021 Neil was ‘liberated’ in his own words from the Welsh Parliament.

In 2022 he attended the memorial service of Fr. David Johnson.

When Brexit came Neil believed that the United Kingdom had benefitted precious little therefrom. He wanted a hard Brexit and argued that the United Kingdom has not used its Brexit freedoms fully. Nonetheless, he was impressed by Boris Johnson’s drive and ambition. Neil has thought aloud about rejoining the Conservative Party but concluded, ‘’I am a bit long in the tooth to do that.’’

The UKIP position on Ukraine is that Ukraine must free itself from Russian aggression and tyranny. The United Kingdom must back Kyiv to the hilt.

Neil expressed his disagreement with reparations for slavery. He said it is ludicrous. He also disagrees with taking down statues of those who trafficked in slaves. This would lead to the razing of all Roman architecture.

By 2022 Christine had had enough of being in the media spotlight. She voiced her desire to leave all that behind and to finally regain some privacy. A quarter of a century as a public figure has been more than enough.

One of the happiest and most marvelous things Neil has achieved and the thing that has sustained him through many disasters, is his marriage. Adversity appears only to have drawn the couple closer when it would have sundered many other marriages. It is surely one of the most resoundingly successful celebrity marriages of the present day. The Hamilton’s have plenty of sworn enemies. But even their most implacable foes have never accused the Hamilton’s of being unfaithful to the marital bed. What extraordinary serendipity that these star crossed lovers should have met so young

Did Neil ask cash for questions? He has never wavered in his denials in over 29 years. Perhaps finally he ought to be believed.

A peerage for this political titan is long overdue.

Neil Hamilton

His own man?

Showman?

Questions for cash?

The greatest prime minister we never had.

National treasure

Hero

Saviour

Genius of Brexit

Neil Hamilton is one of the most famous or perhaps infamous ex-MPs of modern times. Though he was a passionate parliamentarian it is a curious twist of fate that he had achieved far greater sway once he lost his seat. Barrister, university lecturer, journalist, campaigner, MP, Assembly Member, teacher, quiz show contestant, talk show guest, actor, interviewer, controversialist, contarian, transvestite, bon vivant, author, media factotum extraordinaire and all round national treasure – Neil is truly one of a kind. Ebullient, amiable, affable, gallant, garrulous, telegenic, bankrupt, bankable, intelligent, elegant, avaricious, dapper, debonair, sanguine, bonhomous, irrepressible, innovative, opinionated, outspoken, unbreakable, querulous, quixotic, resilient, unflappable, enervating, disputatious, shameless, faithful, always immaculately attired and seldom captious – Neil is a man of many parts. I have long been adazzle by his gifts and his chequered story. How can one possibly do justice to such a multitalented man whose life has had such triumphs and such travails? There has scarcely be a dull moment.

Notwithstanding being brutalized by the left wing gutter press for years, Neil never once lost his composure. He defied the insults and rose above them. He never resorts to vulgarities. Throughout his travails, ever bore himself with a dignity that it would profit others to study.

Given the slings and arrows of outrageous reportage that Neil suffered it is inexplicable that he never resorted to contumely or Anglo-Saxonisms. He is a man not given to wild emotion.

A man of prodigious gifts and endless energy yet he never achieved the high ministerial office to which he aspired. He was too incautious, farouche and perhaps unembarrassable for his own good. As one ex-Tory MP said to me of Neil, ‘’he had no sense of danger’’. Neil is certainly no Westminster cardboard cut-out.

For 20 years Neil was one of Britain’s most colourful and instantly recognizable characters. That is all the more surprising given that he is undemonstrative. He is not visually arresting. Neither unusually tall nor short – Neil is not obese nor skinny. His dress sense is a little old fashioned. Yet somehow he garnered endless media attention – much of it unsought and even unwanted.

Tatton was the constituency that Neil graced with his presence from 1983 to 1997. It would be fair to say that he is not universally adored in his former Cheshire stomping ground. He later brought levity and controversy to the once staid National Assembly for Wales. He now enjoys an uncharacteristically quiet retirement in rural Wiltshire

Neil’s political career was dogged by allegations of cash for questions that refused to go away. He made some powerful enemies. A meretricious Egyptian billionaire Mohammed Fayed was a deadly foe of his. The Guardian newspaper was hellbent on bringing Neil down. Most of Fleet Street was extremely hostile to Neil in the 1990s. A lesser man would have cracked under the strain. Seeing vicious headlines about his splashed across the front pages of several newspaper day after day was more than enough to destroy the average person. But Neil is so much more than a mere normal man.

The 1997 election was a seismic shift from Conservative to Labour. But during Labour’s landslide election one seat attracted more media coverage than any other. That was Tatton where Neil stood and lost.

There was a time in the late 90s and early Noughties when Neil Hamilton was a household name. You could not turn on your telly without seeing Neil and Christine.

Background

Mostyn Neil Hamilton was born on 9 March 1949 in the United Kingdom. He has always been known by his middle name: Neil. Mostyn is a place in Wales and perhaps significantly this name is de-emphasised like Neil’s Welsh heritage.

It was in 4 Trelyn, Lane, Fleur de-Lis that Neil was born. The house was that of Neil’s paternal aunt. Fleur de-Lis that boasts being Neil’s birthplace. It is in the district of Bedwellty in Monmouthshire. It is not far from the small town of Blackwood. Monmouthshire a county that has passed back and forth between Wales and England. It is the most anglicized part of Wales. The illegitimate son of Charles II was styled the Duke of Monmouth: he of the ill-fated 1685 Rebellion. But apart from that Monmouth and Monmouthshire are names one seldom hears.

Some doubted that Monmouth is Welsh at all. The Welsh Guards once advertised for recruits saying they must be from Wales or Monmouthshire impliedly saying that Monmouthshire is not in Wales. When Neil was eleven they moved to Ammanford, Carmarthen. Neil never particularly stressed his Welsh identity. He was always a committed unionist.

Bedwellty has now been assigned to the County of Gwent.

Neil was born is very close to Abertillery: a rock solid Labour constituency that he was to contest 15 years later. His birthplace is also close to other places that are legendary for their socialist fervor: Islwyn and Ebbw Vale. The latter being the seat of Welsh Labour’s most famous son Nye Bevan and later the seat of the sometime leader of the Labour Party: Michael Foot. Bedwellty became part of the Islwyn constituency that was later represented by Neil Kinnock who was leader the Labour Party from 1983-92. Kinnock was known as the Welsh windbag for his verbose and tedious oratory. He and Neil Hamilton were not in sympathy. When Kinnock was sent upstairs to the House of Lords he styled himself Baron Kinnock of Bedwellty.

The appeal of Labour to those in coalmining communities is not hard to understand. Before Labour was founded as the Labour Representation Committee in 1894 conditions for most people in South Wales were grim indeed. It was one of the most poverty-stricken regions of the United Kingdom. Most people left school at 12. Men toiled for decades in horrific conditions underground for poverty pay. Coal mining was extraordinarily dangerous. Shafts collapsed and sometimes there were gas explosions. Dozens were killed every years and many were injured. Many of the injured could not afford treatment. There was no disability benefit. Workhouses still existed. The aristocrats who owned the coalmines were filthy rich despite not doing a day’s work. It all seemed grossly unjust. Labour promised to make life better for the great majority of people who were poor. There was an awful lot of avoidable suffering and Labour wanted to alleviate this. The Conservatives and Liberals offered no such solutions. Their MPs were mostly upper class or middle class. By contrast Labour MPs of that generation were usually identifiably working class. By the time Neil was born Labour was building the welfare state. It had made life significantly better for the majority of people. Back then 65% of people called themselves working class. Class identity was strong. People aligned behind political parties often on a class basis.

Disraeli’s dictum is that the Church of England is the Tory Party at prayer. This was never accurate but there was a grain of truth to it. Note that for centuries the Anglican Church in Wales was known as the Church of England. This irked many as disrespectful to Wales.  It is now called the Church in Wales not the Church of Wales. By the time of Neil’s birth most Welsh people were Nonconformists of some stripe or other: Baptists, Presbyterians, Methodists, Congregationalists or even like David Lloyd George – Disciples of Christ. Very few working class Welsh people were Church of England. Being an active Nonconformist correlated with voting for Labour, the Liberals or even Plaid Cymru (the Party of Wales). The Church of England was said by Disraeli to be the Tory Party at prayer. This was inaccurate but contained a grain of truth.

The Hamilton’s lived in Wales where coalmining was the main industry. Neil’s father was the chief engineer for a mining company. Both his grandfathers had been down the mines. Though conditions in the pits were often ghastly it was relative handsomely remunerated. It was danger money.

The surname Hamilton relates to a town in the Scots Lowlands: Hamilton. There is indeed a Duke of Hamilton. There is a surname ‘Hamill’ as well.

The Britain that Neil grew up in was very different from today. In 1949 under 1% of the population was non-white. In Wales it was more like 0.1% and in Carmarthen even less than that. Back then being Irish was considered to be ethnically diverse. Most people had never eaten rice other than in rice pudding. Indian and Chinese restaurants were all but unknown. The Second World War was still a very recent memory. Almost all items were still rationed. The British Empire was extant and was assumed to have long way yet to run. There was National Service. This meant that young men had to do two years in the army, Royal Navy, Royal Marines or RAF. There were exemptions for conscientious objectors, the disabled, parliamentary candidates and doctors. Doctors could perform their service by providing medical care in the colonies. Before the Suez Crisis of 1956, the British Empire was assumed to have a long way yet to run. Men only a few years older than Neil did National Service but it was phased out in 1963 so Neil did not have to do it.

Labour had won a sweeping victory in 1945. Labour’s Attorney-general Sir Hartley Shawcross said, ‘’we are the masters now and not just for now but for a very long time to come.’’ It was widely forecast that the Conservatives would be out of office for a generation. It was to general astonishment that the Tories won office again in 1951. That was only by fluke since Labour won more votes but the vagaries of the first past the post system awarded more seats to the Conservative and Unionist Party.

In Neil’s childhood the Cold War was at its height. Capitalism was seriously questioned. There was thought to be a strong chance that communism would triumph.

The 1950s was a time of austerity at first. The United Kingdom was decidedly bland compared to today. It was only just recovering from the war. But rationing was being phased out the UK entered a sustained economic boom. Unemployment was very low, inflation was low and consumer goods were becoming ever more affordable. Strikes almost never occurred. Cars and televisions came within reach for the middle class. The working class had disposable incomes like never before. To people who remembered the Great Depression and the Second World War, the 1950s seemed splendid. The Prime Minister Harold Macmillan told people ‘’you’ve never had it so good.’’ Supermac was right. Yet relative poverty still existed. Foreign holidays were the preserve of the few, nay, the very few. Most Britons had never been on a plane. The remotest villages still did not have electricity in the 1950s. Most people still kept their houses warm in winter with coal and logs crackling on the hearth. Central heating was not the norm until the 1960s.

Despite the economy growing, 1950s Britain was monochromatic compared to today. Many Britishers thought that there was a better life to be had in sunnier climes. They had the automatic right to immigrate to Commonwealth countries such as Australia and South Africa. There was even the assisted passage scheme. The UK Government even sent orphans to Australia. Why was Britain trying to get rid of its people as it brought in people from the ‘New Commonwealth’ of Jamaica, Trinidad, Grenada, India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Tanzania and Kenya? The Commonwealth was very much the frame of reference. Few Britons thought of themselves as being European.

Unemployment was so low in fact that there was a paucity of workers in some regions and in certain sectors of the economy. This caused the Conservative Government to invite immigration from the Commonwealth and indeed colonies which back then still existed. Her Majesty’s Government specifically asked people from Caribbean countries and South Asia to move to the United Kingdom to work. One of those Conservative cabinet ministers who invited doctors and nurses from the West Indies to come and work in the UK was a certain John Enoch Powell!

Neil had grandparents living in Portsmouth.

Neil grew up in one of the most overwhelmingly pro-Labour areas of the UK. Neil was a born dissident. He loathed the idea that the state would control everything. Growing up in a small town run by a smug, corrupt and self-serving Labour council he saw the Conservatives as representing liberty. At the age of 15 Neil joined the Conservative and Unionist Party. It was a highly unusual move. It proves he is broadminded and even has moral courage. Labour had just come into office under Harold Wilson as Prime Minister. But was already a convinced anti-socialist. Neil has always been notable for his utter fealty to the House of Windsor.

Although Neil is Welsh he was brought up in an Anglophone family. He later learnt some Welsh though as he says himself he can only make ‘’a fair stab’’ at speaking the language. When he was at school Welsh was hardly ever taught. His education was conducted exclusively through the medium of English.

Something of Neil’s character may have come from him growing up middle class in a very working class town. His family was much better off than many of their neighbours. He regularly went to England to visit relatives. This emphasized in him the oneness of the United Kingdom. Therefore his Conservatism and his Unionism were not swimming against the tide quite as much as one may have imagined.

Growing up in a small town can induce the small town mentality. But it can also do the opposite. Neil is not timid and embraces cosmopolitanism.

As soon as Neil opened his mouth it was plain that he was given to ‘yappin’ to use the Cymro-English colloquialism. He was to make his life by talking.

At school Neil did well academically. However, he was no sportsman. His eccentricities did not make him popular. He was unafraid and paid a price for his outspokenness.  Despite attending a state school he did not acquire a Welsh accent but spoke Received Pronunciation. The only state educated Welshman who speaks with that accent from Neil’s generation is a Swansea grammar school boy – Michael Howard. Lord Howard was a Tory Home Secretary and later Leader of Her Majesty’s Most Loyal Opposition.

Neil passed his 11+. In those days children sat this exam in English and Maths. The top 20% went to grammar school and had some chance of going to university. In a grammar school pupils were taught subjects such as the sciences, ancient languages, modern languages and humanities subjects. They would sit Ordinary levels (O levels). They were the equivalent of GCSEs but were harder than ‘A’ levels are now. Then pupils could sit A levels aged 18. A levels were extremely challenging. Even a D grade was hard to get.

In 1963 only 4% of people went to university. But universities were expanding rapidly in the 1960s.

Those who did not pass the 11+ (80% of the population) went to a secondary modern where they would do some English and Maths and learn trades like woodwork, metalwork, sewing, cookery and suchlike before leaving school aged 16. Most people in the 1960s left school without any qualifications at all. There were plenty of jobs that did not require qualifications such as being a factory worker, farm labourer, navvy, janitor, joiner, shipbuilder, construction worker, miner, cleaner, shop assistant and so on. The UK still had a lot of mines, factories and shipyards in those days.

Though Wales was made about rugby, Neil was no rugger bugger. Nor indeed was he great shakes at any sport. He was often found with his nose in a book.

Amman Valley Grammar School was there Neil was educated. He did his O levels and A levels there.

University

University College Wales, Aberystwyth had the inestimable honour of educating Neil Hamilton. He is surely Aberystwyth’s most illustrious graduate. There he read economics and politics.

Many undergraduates professed the cloying and stultifying socialism of the Welsh section of the Labour Party. There were also blood red commies. Some of them adulated the most prolific mass murderers of all time such as Mao Zedong and Stalin. It was all in the name of compassion of course. For some leftists these communist tyrants were messianic.

The 1960s was a time of change. 60s teenagers were ‘’children of the revolution’’ as the song said. It was the era of the counterculture, the sexual revolution, flower power, hippies and the anti-war movement. Some couples started to live together before marriage. Unwed pregnancy was no longer quite as scandalous as it had been a decade earlier. Times they were a-changing, as Bob Dylan sang. But even then the counterculture was perhaps as not strongly felt in rural Wales as it was in Swinging London. Through all this upheaval Neil made a name for himself as a young fogey. Some young men grew their hair down to their shoulders and wore shaggy beards but Neil was always short back and sides and was always clean-shaven. He has always been delightfully contra mundum.

Neil was a baby boomer. Those born in the late 1940s are said to be a very optimistic generation. That is because from their birth life got better and better for decades. It was only when such people neared the age of 30 that the Western World started to encounter serious problems and stagnation.

By the 1960s the UK had emerged from the shadow of the Second World War. It appeared to be a time of rampant consumerism. Car ownership quadrupled in the decade. Items that had once been the preserve of only the middle class had become affordable for working class people – telephones and televisions.

The Vietnam Conflict war raging. The Cold War as at its height. There was an ideological clash in Britain too between left and right. Labour was officially on the side of the Free World in the Cold War. But there was a significant faction within Labour that did not support the Free World and felt more than a little sympathy for communist tyrannies. Many communists had joined the Labour Party. They were Trotskyites, Stalinists and Maoists. These comrades thought that the free market was evil, capitalism must be smashed and the Cold War was the West’s fault. Labour was forever enfeebling Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.

The prospect of nuclear war hung over the world like a sword of Damocles. The Cuban Missile Crisis had been but a few years before in 1963. The Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament organized ban the bomb marches. Quite a few Labour Party members wanted the United Kingdom to engage in unilateral nuclear disarmament and leave the UK vulnerable to a nuclear Holocaust without any means to defend itself.

Perhaps the defining characteristic of late 1960s radicalism was its vandalism. It wanted to tear down. Radical enmity towards Western civilization was all the more shocking because of the totalitarians that it looked to. Such nihilism horrified even Labour moderates.

When Neil went up to university there was a Labour Government. A short, soft-spoken, pensive, podgy, pipe-smoking Yorkshireman named Harold Wilson was Prime Minister. Though Labour had won a landslide majority in 1966 it became deeply unpopular just one year later when the Pound Sterling was severely devalued. The United Kingdom was withdrawing from South Arabia (Yemen). There were sanctions on Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) because of its Unilateral Declaration of Independence. Britain had twice been rejected in its bid to join the European Economic Community. There were protests and rising tensions in Northern Ireland.

The Conservative and Unionist Party was led by the uncharismatic bachelor Edward Heath. Heath’s uptight manner, uninspiring personality, wooden oratory and emotional unintelligence led one Tory image maker to say ‘’we have to try to turn Ted into a human being.’’ It proved to be mission impossible. Edward Heath was square in face and square in personality.

While Neil was at university, in the summer of 1969, Prince Charles was invested as Prince of Wales in a magnificent ceremony in Caernarvon Castle. The Secretary of State for Wales, George Thomas MP, had spoken some of the ceremony in Welsh. Thomas George Thomas went by his middle name ‘George’ but was jocularly known as ‘’Tommy Twice’’. George Thomas was later to go on to be Speaker of the House of Commons and was ennobled as Lord Tonypandy – taking the name of his quondam South Wales constituency that was not far from Neil’s natal place. As Lord Tonypandy was a passionate royalist and a committed euroscpetic he was one of the few Labour politicians whom Neil held in high regard.

The investiture of the Prince of Wales was an occasion for Her Britannic Majesty to come to Wales. That was something that did not happen all that often. In the 1960s celebrity culture was only just starting. The House of Windsor was still unquestioningly exalted by almost everyone in the United Kingdom. The 20 year old Prince Charles was held in high esteem.  All the Welsh notables attended eminent persons from across the Commonwealth of Nations were there.

Her Majesty Queen had dubbed her firstborn son Prince of Wales. There had been no Prince of Wales for decades before that. The investiture simply strengthened Neil’s monarchist convictions. There was a handful of racist Anglophobic ultra-nationalist headbangers in Wales who objected to the prince. They tried to ruin the wonderful day for all decent people. But His Royal Highness Prince Charles went on a five day tour of the Principality and was very rapturously received by his mother’s adoring subjects. It seemed to confirm just how popular the monarchy was.

The same separatist bigots in Wales had been trying to wreck the solemnity of God Save the Queen when it was sung at Cardiff Arms Park before rugby matches by jeering through it. It was grossly insulting to the average Welshman who was a fervent British patriot. Coming so soon after the Second World War it was also spitting on the grave of Welshmen who had valiantly laid down their lives for the United Kingdom. These shameful tantrums by separatists in Wales underscored to Neil how distasteful, small-minded and spiteful separatism is. He has always been a firm unionist.

Some of the separatists in Wales turned violent and called themselves the Free Wales Army (FWA). Fortunately they did not manage to kill a single person.

Neil has always punctured the pretensions of these anti-democratic separatists who professed to speak for Wales.

Back then some youngsters affected grunge. But not Neil. He often wore a smart tweed jacket or blazer even on the weekend and he began sport bowties. It is a confection that never left him. He has always been an aesthete. Who has ever see him dress down?

Neil took a degree in 1970.

He was also a mad monarchist.

He later took an MA in the economics and politics in 1975.

Neil was a well-known member of the Federation of Conservative Students (FCS). He joined in 1968 and left in 1974. He was elected to represent FCS. In this capacity he went to Italy to attend a conference of Movimiento Sociale Italiano (MSI). MSI was largely regarded as a continuation of the Fascist Party. Some joked that MSI stood for Mussolini Sei Immortale (‘’Mussolini you are immortal’’). This error of judgement did not harm Neil’s career overmuch. Conservative abhor fascism as a racist and totalitarian species of socialism. Fascism is about social engineering and the abolition of liberty. It is a creed that is profoundly anti-conservative.

In the 1960s there was a spirited debate surrounding the European Economic Community (EEC). The EEC was the precursor to the European Union (EU). The EEC was often known was the ‘common market’ to make it seem less threatening. Young and hip people tended to be Europhiles. Neil perhaps typically decided to be a Eurosceptic. He was in the Anti-Common Market League (ACML). Many in that organisations believe that the Commonwealth of Nations was still a force in the world. If the United Kingdom acceded to the EEC it would be abandoning the Commonwealth. ACML warned of a European Parliament, British law been subordinate to European law, the European Court of Justice overriding Her Majesty’s courts, the European Commission functioning in effect as a cabinet and the advent of a European single currency. The predictions of the ACML were dismissed as deranged jeremiads. But ACML turned out to be a Cassandra.

Always independent minded and never attune to the zeitgeist, Neil called for large scale privatization. This was very audacious at the height of Butskellism. Butskellism comes from the names of the two post war Chancellors of the Exchequer Richard Austen (‘’Rab’’_ Butler who was a Conservative and Hugh Gaitskell who was a Labour man. Butskellism suggested that there was a consensus – a mélange of socialism and capitalism. The mixed economy appeared to be the Aristotelean mean. Harold Macmillan had argued for this via media since the 1930s and later published a book on it The Middle Way. Few dared question such shibboleths at the time. In a sense Neil was a decade ahead of his party’s thinking. He was a Thatcherite before even Thatcher herself! He had no truck with the flabby compromises of Butskellism. Neil never does anything by half measures.

In the early 1970s France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg and West Germany were all more prosperous than the UK. Remember in those days Germany was divided into East and West. The argument ran that these countries were all members of the EEC. If the United Kingdom were to join then it too could share in this. Italy was in the EEC but lagged behind. Denmark and the Republic of Ireland were also in accession talks with Brussels. Could joining the EEC bring the Northern Ireland conflict to an end? As it turns out there was fat chance of that.

In 1973 the United Kingdom joined the European Economic Community. Neil was adamantly against. In 1975 a referendum under the Labour Government of Harold Wilson ratified the British Government’s decision post-factum. Neil then bowed to the will of the people and said that the EEC had achieved his acceptance. Decades later Europhiles were not so democratic when a referendum did not go their way.

The British Conservative Monday Club was very much on the right of the Tory Party.  Its foes – and they were legion – called it racist and far right. The Monday Club had that name because of the Monday in 1961 in which Harold Macmillan had addressed the South African Parliament. Macmillan’s oration in Cape Town was known as the ‘winds of change’ speech. In it he said there was a wind of change blowing through Africa and adjustments needed to be made in view of this. ‘Like it or not the growth of nationalism is a political fact.’ Macmillan’s message was that the white minority in South Africa could no longer keep power to the exclusion of the 80%+ of the populace who were of other races. Macmillan was delivering a message on behalf of the Commonwealth of Nations. The multiracial Commonwealth was growing louder in its denunciations of South Africa’s apartheid system of racial discrimination. Macmillan’s speech had not been cleared in advance with the South African Government. The Prime Minister of South Africa Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd was present in the chamber when Macmillan delivered his address. Verwoerd was called upon to respond. The Dutch-born politician was aghast and professed himself almost speechless and what he considered to be an astoundingly breach of protocol and an unwarranted intrusion into South Africa’s domestic affairs. The Monday Club was founded in opposition to Macmillan’s policy. It argued that majority rule was premature in Rhodesia (now named Zimbabwe) and South Africa. It thought that Tory policy had been generally limp wristed for decades and needed to become far firmer.

The Monday Club said that apartheid should be supported and that the United Kingdom should recognise the illegal white minority regime in Rhodesia as a legitimate government. The Monday Club called for funding for voluntary repatriation of our Commonwealth cousins. It said that non-white British citizens should be offered money to ‘go home.’ In fairness the law provided such funding right up until well into the years of Tony Blair’s administration. Very few ethnic minority Britons took up the offer. The Monday Club was vociferously anti-socialist. It also demanded the annihilation of the IRA. As the majority of people wanted the death penalty to be restored the Monday Club said it was democratic and logical that the supreme sanction be brought back. At best it was Toryism on steroids. Others called it crypto-fascist.

There was much polemic against the Monday Club. People inveighed against it as being an apologist for the white supremacist regime in Pretoria. To be fair, there was a measure of veracity in that accusation.

Neil noted the hypocrisy and emptiness of this self-regarding moralizing about South Africa. Virtually every country in Africa was undemocratic. Yet only one was singled out for a chorus of execration. And that was for manifestly racist reasons. It was because the South African Government was white. People put Nelson Mandela on a pedestal. Who was the Mandela of Zaire or Ethiopia or Chad or Uganda or a host of other slaughterhouse states all across the continent? No political prisoner would last 28 months incarceration in another African country let alone 28 years. This tu quoque argument did not convince many.

Neil contested the chairmanship of FCS but was defeated by David Davis. Davis was then at Warwick University studying Business. He went on to be a prominent Tory leadership contender and cabinet minister.

Seeking gainful employment, Neil found work as a teacher at St John’s College in Southsea in 1973. That was near his grandparents.  While teaching he read for the bar. In 1978 Neil found a new job at Hatfield Polytechnic in Hertfordshire. It is now called the University of Hertfordshire. Neil continued to teach there part-time as a struggling junior barrister. He gave up teaching in July 1982 and concentrated fully on the bar.

At Cambridge, Neil founded the Eldon League. It was named in honour of the notoriously reactionary early 19^th century Lord Chancellor – the Earl of Eldon. Born plain ‘John Scott’, Lord Eldon was the son of a highly successful Newcastle coal merchant. He then matriculated at University College, Oxford. He was a Tory ultra. He said that representative government was the opposite of what the United Kingdom had. Eldon was never happier than when awarding political dissidents 14 years transportation to Australia with penal servitude or indeed sentencing malfeasants to hang. He vigorously defended slavery and said that grand larceny should be punished by death even in the case of children. He is ridiculed in Shelley’s Masque of Anarchy ‘Eldon big ears had on.’ Astonishingly he has statuary honour in his old Oxford college. By a curious coincidence this is also Shelley’s college (University College, Oxford) and he is also honoured with a fine marble statue.

The Eldon League was a decidedly unserious right wing drinking club. They held picnics and garden parties. The Eldonians would spray each other with champagne and engage in suchlike jolly japes. They celebrated such crucial events as the King of Swaziland’s birthday. It attracted a quaint and faintly fruitcake crowd. They published a jocular manifesto demanding that plastic be outlawed and internal combustion engines be abandoned. Insofar as possible the only used train and horse drawn carriages as their conveyances when travelling to and from Eldonian events. It was seen as being against the entire 20^th century. Its member dressed up in anachronistic garb. Neil styled himself by the characteristically antiquated title of Imperial Prior. The Eldon League was a menagerie of eccentrics. But in it, for once, Neil did not seem like an odd fish.

Neil’s atavism was perhaps not quite as unusual as it might seem. In the 1970s a show aired on television called Good Old Days. In the show people went to the theatre togged out in Edwardian clobber. They were treated to pre-First World music hall acts. Some of the elderly theatregoers will have been children in the Edwardian era. In the 1970s Britain was on the skids. The empire had been dissolved. Inflation eroded incomes, there was rising unemployment, rising crime and sinking national self-belief.  The country was palsied by strikes. There had been the three day weeks because coal was in such short supply that for a couple of months workplaces could only be provided with three days’ worth of electricity each week. There seemed to be no end to the cycle of stagnation and turmoil. The Ulster Conflict was raging with no end in sight. In Caledonia and in Cymru separatist sentiment had metastisised. Entry into the EEC had been deeply divisive.  The United Kingdom was the sick man of Europe. It seemed apt that Britain treat itself to one last dose of nostalgia for its zenith.

Whilst he was an undergraduate Neil was an active Conservative. At a young Conservative conference he met a lady of his age named Christine Holman. Miss Holman was a doctor’s daughter who was then studying sociology at the University of York. A romance blossomed. They have been inseparable ever since. Their motto is – we do things together.

Unlike Neil, Christine had grown up in one of the most fiercely Conservative places in the realm: rural Hampshire. She was a doctor’s daughter and spoke RP as one might expect someone to do who belonged to the southern English upper middle class.

While at York, Christine made some friends for life. They were Harvey Proctor and Michael Brown – about whom more later.

Christine worked as a secretary for a number of Conservative MPs. For a while she worked for Sir Gerald Nabarro. He was known for extravagant handlebar moustache and his stentorian voice with which he boomed out his outrageously racist beliefs: ‘’how would you like your daughter to marry a big buck n****** with the prospect of coffee coloured grandchildren?’’  Standing 6’4’’ and well-built, Nabarro was a former army physical fitness instructor and was unfailingly perfectly turned out in tailor made Saville Row suits. He had the most extraordinary presence. Sir Gerald and had become a self-made millionaire as a timber merchant. Gerald Nabarro’s voice was said to have been the loudest in the British army. And that’s really saying something! His saloon bar prejudices did his political career a power of good in the West Midlands.  That was Enoch Powell country. He love the monarchy and despised undergraduates. The permissive society was a particular bugbear of his.

Gerald Nabbaro was once had up in court on suspicion of dangerous driving. He was acquitted on the basis that it was not him but his secretary who was driving. Nabarro’s revolting racialism did not add lustre to the Tory diadem. In mitigation one might plead that he was a man of his era. Such rebarbative views were not uncommon in the 1960s. Moreover, the Latin word for black was more of a conversational word than a racial slur at the time.

Nabarro’s racist screeds are perhaps even more surprising considering that he belonged to a much persecuted ethnic minority himself. He was Jewish. But that Christine chose to work for him out of all the Conservative MPs shows poor judgement on her part. Was it not at the very least ethically suboptimal to work for a man who expectorated such detestable racial invective? How did his racist outbursts make the beleaguered black community feel? How did his loathing of mixed race children make them feel? Surely his racist diatribe aggravated racial animus, playground bullying and even heavy violence against non-white people in the United Kingdom.

In 1974 Neil was selected as a Prospective Conservative Parliamentary Candidate. He stood in Abertillery. This seat was in the mining area of South Wales. Of the 650 odd seats in the United Kingdom this was Labour’s safest. The result may be guessed. It was a dry run for a marginal seat next time.

Upon graduation Neil taught history for a while. He then decided that he wished to be called to the bar.

Neil went up to Cambridge to read law. Is college was Corpus Christi. As he already had a degree he was able to take a truncated programme. He did the two year course and received and LL.M. Even Neil’s worst enemy does not doubt his intellect.

While at Cambridge, Neil was active in the Cambridge Union. That is the debating society of Cambridge University.

In 1977 Neil was at the Tory Conference when it was addressed by a 16 year old Yorkshire schoolboy named William Hague. Ambitious young Tories were chanting ‘’bastard, bastard’’ because they were emerald with envy. What a flying start this boy had. Who could ever compete with that – addressing the conference aged only 16! Hague was to go on to be leader of the party and Foreign Secretary.

After 1976 the United Kingdom was led – or rather misled – by a Labour Prime Minister named James Callaghan. ‘Sunny Jim’ as his few fans called him was an amiable and ineffectual figure presiding over what one newspaper called ‘mounting chaos.’ There was strike after strike and seemingly endless inflation. James Callaghan came across as a kindly but pathetic grandfather. The public was thoroughly fed up after the Winter of Discontent – the strikes in late 1978 into early 1979. Notoriously as the gravediggers’ union took ‘industrial action’ for several weeks we could not even bury the dead.

As a wag noted, Callaghan was an Englishman with an Irish name who sat for a Welsh seat. Neil Hamilton is a Welshman with a Scottish name who sat for an English seat.

In 1979 Neil was selected as the Conservative candidate for Bradford North. It was a Labour seat but a marginal one. Bradford did not have a large Pakistani community at the time. British-Pakistanis tend heavily towards Labour. As the Labour Government was reviled for its lassitude, incompetence and decrepitude there was a very considerable chance that Neil could win in Bradford North. But in God’s Own County it a significant handicap that he was not a Yorkshireman. Yorkshire folk tend to regard those born outside the white rose county as an inferior breed. As he joked, ‘’I fought Bradford North and Bradford North fought back.’’

Called to the bar in 1979, Neil began his practice desultorily.

When he came down from Cambridge, Neil read for the bar. He was duly called to the bar. He practised in property law and taxation law. It was a lucrative area of practice.

In the 1980s there was some Thatcherite oomph. Inflation was falling. Consumerism was on the rise. The economy was growing at least in southern England – the Tory heartland. In the rest of the UK there was rising unemployment. It was the decade of big hair and small government. In 1982 the United Kingdom defeated Argentine aggression against the Falklands.

In the early 1980s Neil was the European and Parliamentary Director of the Institute of Directors.

In 1982 Argentina launched an illegal and unprovoked invasion of the Falkland Islands. That was despite almost everyone in the Crown Dependency wishing to remain British. Her Majesty’s Armed Forces duly liberated them. Neil was strongly of the belief that it was right to fight for freedom. He cannot be called a chauvinist or militarist. Some left wingers such as Tam Dalzell said that the Falklanders should be handed over to the fascist junta.

On 12 March 1983 Neil got some very good news. He was adopted as the prospective parliamentary candidate for Tatton. It was one of the safest Conservative constituencies in the realm. Neil’s luck was redoubled when two months later there was an early election.

Christine was the secretary of Michael Grylls MP for Chertsey at the time. You can guess which party he was in!

Into politics

Neil was always sartorially retro. Dressing as though he were born two generations earlier perhaps expressed a yearning for Britain’s imperial zenith. He never quite coincided with people of his age and region. Neil liked to wear three piece suits and had a taste for tweed. He often sported millinery long after it was fashionable.

In 1983 Tatton became vacant. This was a rock solid Conservative constituency in Cheshire. Neil had himself selected. His predecessor as the Tory MP was a most distinguished financial journalist. Tatton was a seat that seemed to be impossible to lose. The seat had previously been called Knutsford after another large town within its bounds. It has been in Conservative hands for decades.

In those days a Tory candidate other 30 without a wife would be looked askance at. If a man over the age of 30 had not taken to wife was he a womanizer? Or even worse, was he what they would then have called ‘queer’? 95% of Tory MPs being male back then and same sex marriage was not thought of. Neil was able to assure Tatton Tories that he was affianced to a young lady of the most unimpeachable Conservative credentials. She had been secretary to the most ferociously right wing Member of the Commons: Sir Gerald Nabarro.

Neil was so confident of winning Tatton that five days before polling day he found time to get married to Mary Christine Holman. Like Neil, Christine is always known by her middle name. The couple married in Cornwall. The happy couple was joined in holy matrimony by the Reverend Father David Johnson. Neil had known David when they were up at Cambridge together. David had been President of the Cambridge Union Society. Johnson was an overdressed, acerbic, vertically challenged, foul mouthed, alcoholic of pronounced racist views and homosexual habits. Fr. Johnson had known Neil at Cambridge. The couple chose not to have children.

Neil was enamoured of the Prime Minister. To him Mrs. Thatcher was Gloriana. He never once criticized her.

1983 was a bumper year for the Conservative Party. With Maggie Thatcher as Prime Minister and Britain buoyed up after victory in the Falklands and Labour in hoc to the loony left the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Neil romped home in Tatton. Finally his childhood dream was realized. It must have made for quite a honeymoon!

Neil and Christine bought a house in Tatton to show their commitment to the seat. Neil had to show his face at every bun fight in the constituency: village fetes, Christmas carol services, Remembrance Day wreath laying and suchlike.

No sooner had Neil’s political career begun than he nearly ended it. It was a pattern of unwisdom that we was due to repeat. Neil went on a controversial visit to Berlin in 1983. Thay was just a few months after he was elected to Parliament. Some schoolboy high jinks occurred. That is putting the kindest possible interpretation on it. Some said that japes might be excusable in an adolescent but in a politician they were unforgivable.

Later a TV documentary was broadcast in 1984 entitled Maggie’s Militant Tendency on a programme called Panorama. It focused on Neil’s contentious visit to what was then West Germany. The programme also revealed Neil’s address to the MSI in 1972. It described his time in the Eldon League and the Monday Club. The programme documented his friendship with George Kennedy Young. Kennedy Young was once Director of Britain’s external intelligence agency: MI6. Some viewed him as far right. He was Chair of the Society for Individual Freedom – a strange position for a spy.

It said that there were some Conservative MPs who were Nazis. It was a leftist media plot to smear the party and pretend that the Tories were infiltrated by anti-democratic elements in the same way that Labour was. The programme alleged that Neil Hamilton had given a straight arm salute in Berlin while fooling around in 1983. Neil was on the trip with Gerald Howarth MP and an activist named Philip Pedley. Pedley had once been Chair of the National Young Conservatives. Neil said his reputation had been besmirched by the BBC. Socialist scribblers on Fleet Street took up the story. They were very delighted to traduce Conservative MPs.

Neil later wrote about the programme, ‘’It was an extremely damaging libel and I was extremely concerned about its impact on my career.’’ That is unsurprising. Perhaps this is when his black hair turned grey.

To some Tories, the BBC programme appeared to confirm their worst suspicions about Auntie. Even a moderate Tory like Chris Patten said that BBC stood for the Bolshevik Broadcasting Corporation. Conservatives were convinced that there was a pinko-liberal infestation in the BBC. At the time of Suez, Sir Anthony Eden said that commies at the BBC had tried to mess up his broadcast by shining lights in his eyes as he spoke live on air.

The MPs who were defamed chose to take legal action. Their libel action succeeded and they were paid damages. Neil subsequently stated that he had made a Nazi salute whilst raising his left fingers to his upper lip to represent a Hitler moustache when he was in Germany merely to ridicule National Socialism. He was cognizant that this constituted an offence under the laws of the Federal Republic of Germany. The imputation that his gesture was expressive of Nazism was preposterous. Neil is certainly no fan of Hitler. Hitler was an anti-smoker and Neil is an indefatigable advocate of smokers’ rights. Tarnishing his reputation as a Nazi was egregiously low and dishonest even by the standards of the BBC.

The libel action was bankrolled by Sir James Goldsmith. Goldsmith was the father of Lord Zac the Conservative politician. In the 1980s Sir James was a stalwart Conservative. He was a self-made billionaire though he had not been born poor:  Sir James was an Old Etonian and his father was a well to do Franco-British hotelier. He recognized in Neil a man of prodigious talent and the uttermost probity. That was why he happily contributed to the fund to clear Neil’s name.

The Spectator columnist Taki also funded Neil’s libel action. Taki Theodorcopalous is an American-educated Greek shipping millionaire of pronounced right wing proclivities. Taki had some fellow feeling of those in legal trouble. In the 1980s he served a few months in prison for accidentally bringing a small quantity of cocaine with him into Heathrow Airport. That could happen to anyone!

David Davis was then a director of the sugar company Tate and Lyle. Incidentally that was where Davis got to know an ex- Scots Guards officer named Iain Duncan Smith who later became an ill-starred leader of the Conservative Party and then a cabinet minister. Davis was a rival of Neil’s in Conservative politics from the 1970s. Nonetheless, Davis and Neil had a good rapport. Davis managed to convince his company to donate to the claimant’s fund. Thus Tate and Lyle became another funder of Neil’s defamation action.

Lord Harris of High Cross also donated around GBP 100 000 to fund Neil’s libel action.

Neil said in his libel case that he was like a Mike Yarwood figure in FCS. Yarwood was then very well known for his impersonations. Neil has a gift for mimicry and often took off politicians and well-known actors. He was known for his impersonations of Enoch Powell, General de Gaulle, Edward Heath, Harold Wilson and the actor Frankie Howerd.  Neil cheerily recalled that he had appeared in blackface in 1982 to ridicule the Ugandan tyrant Idi Amin. He had even dressed up in clericals while doing an impersonation of Canon James own while sailing down the Cam in Cambridge. Neil said he had plenty of respectable character witnesses but chief among them would be Norman St John Stevas. St John Stevas was then a Tory MP and he was the only ever person to be President of both the Cambridge Union and the Oxford Union. St John Stevas was gay but whilst an MP he did not feel able to come out. Had he done so it would probably have been terminal for his career.

The Sunday Times offered Neil a chance to give his side of the story. He said that when he gave the sieg heil salute he was simply engaging in a bit of tomfoolery. He noted that Julian Lewis was there and Lewis is Jewish and indeed several of his relatives were killed in the Holocaust. Lewis recognized what Neil was doing was harmless buffoonery.

The liberal action against the BBC went to trial. Neil was due to be cross-examined by the BBC’s counsel. However, on 21 October 1986 the Director-General of the BBC, Alasdair Milne, decided that the BBC would give in. Milne explained that the Governors of the BBC had ordered him to do so. The BBC paid the legal costs of the claimants which amounted to hundreds of thousands of Pounds. The BBC also paid Neil Hamilton and Gerald Howarth GBP 20 000 apiece. Howarth was the MP for Aldershot at the time. That sum was more than an MP’s annual salary at the time. On 27 October 1985 the BBC broadcast another edition of Panorama in which the show apologized unstintingly for the false statements it had made traducing the two men.

Some said that the BBC had had its arm twisted by politicians and that witnesses had been threatened. The BBC Board of Governors had wanted the case settled and told the BBC Board of Management to do just that. Many in the BBC doubted the wisdom of caving in. The BBC’s barristers had not had an opportunity to even begin their defence in court when the BBC surrendered.

The National Young Conservatives (NYC) suggested that there had been some behind the scenes pressure. The Chairman of NYC Richard Fuller said it was very odd that the BBC had capitulated as the trial was proceeding pleasingly for them.

Malcolm McAlpine had access to the BBC Governors. Some speculated that he had a hand in the BBC’s curious decision. Malcolm McAlpine was a cousin of Lord Alistair McAlpine. Lord McAlpine was a multimillionaire and treasurer of the Conservative Party. He was a doyen of the right and the Eurosceptic wing of the party. He was therefore a fan of Neil. Indeed in 1992 right wing Tories gathered at Lord McAlpine’s house to celebrate the fact that a Tory wet and Europhile Chris Patten had lost his seat at Bath. The Liberal Democrats had covered Bath with posters saying ‘Let’s flatten Patten’ and they did. The price of failure for Patten was not too bad. He was made Governor-General of Hong Kong and was later elected Chancellor of Oxford University.

Regarding the BBC affair, there were claims that witnesses had been intimidated. There is no suggestion that Neil was involved in this either directly or indirectly. A BBC memorandum said that 17 witnesses had been made to change their testimony. Some of those who were due to testify were Conservatives and were revolted by what they saw at Berlin. Nevertheless, they suddenly claimed not to have seen anything untoward.

Gerald Howarth and Neil Hamilton thought that the case against Philip Pedley would be pursued. Pedley would not accept the BBC’s offer of accord and satisfaction. Pedley also had some wealthy backers to fund his claim. Richard Fuller vowed to come to his aid.

Jeffrey Archer was then the Deputy Chairman of the Tory Party. The millionaire novelist considered it unwise for Pedley to fight on. The Tory Party had settled the matter. It was risky to continue to battle in the courts. If Pedley lost then it would look very bad for the party. Pedley could not afford the libel action on his own. Without Fuller’s financial support he would be obliged to settle the case. Archer told Fuller it was foolhardy to fund Pedley’s case. But Fuller resisted pressure to withdraw his financial support from his friend.

The Labour Party said that Conservative Central Office (CCO) had orchestrated a cover up and used undue influence to sway the BBC. Labour wanted to question the Chairman of the Conservative and Unionist Party about the affair: Norman Tebbit.

A Labour politician named Dale Campbell-Savours said he had evidence in a letter from Pedley to John Selwyn Gummer MP. Gummer was a former Party Chairman and was later a cabinet minister under Major. The letter supposedly showed that Tory Central Office had contacted witnesses to persuade them to alter their testimony to the advantage of the claimant.

Norman Tebbit acknowledged that one witness had contacted Tory Central Office but said this was merely because he wanted advice but that CCO had declined to give any as that might seem unethical. Tebbit said that the socialist Campbell-Savours was misusing parliamentary privilege to make false allegations knowingly which otherwise would have been defamatory. Tebbit walked out of the House of Commons chamber without making a further comment.

On 25 October the newspaper reported more evidence of unethical communications with witnesses. Neil then withdrew his action against Pedley. Pedley said that he would not back down. There were still people calling for a full enquiry.

Norman Tebbit made statements about the case but not in the House of Commons chamber. To mislead the House is a resigning matter. Neil said that Tebbit was refusing to address the House on the issue because Tebbit’s statements were misleading. Neil urged the Party Chairman to speak about the matter on the floor of the House. Not everyone in the party was sympathetic to Neil. Some said he had brought it into disrepute.

The Hogan Memorandum was an internal BBC memo which named witnesses who had altered their stories. The Independent newspaper said that there was a recording of a statement by a Conservative witness to the incident. The witness was worried by CCO’s insistence that the Berlin incident had not occurred. CCO was keen that no one substantiate the allegations against Tory MPs.

Mr. Campbell Savours claimed that the Hogan Memorandum proved that the BBC had been threatened. He sent it to Sir Michael Havers who was the Attorney-General and of course a Tory. Havers is the father of the actor Nigel Havers.

The Labour parliamentarian Campbell-Savours said that CCO had striven to meddle with witnesses. It was alleged that CCO had tried to tone down statements made by David Mitchell. Campbell Savours then sent a transcript to the Attorney-General.

Neil had made several statements in the media about his contested visit to Berlin. Some Conservative Party members were supposedly told by CCO to claim that they had not seen Neil goose stepping. Some of the witnesses had initially made such an accusation but had changed their testimony. The theory goes that there was a whip at their back to do so. They were told that it would be deeply unhelpful to the party if they did not retract their earlier statements and if there were no retraction then their careers in the party would come to a juddering halt.  Neil wrote to the Chairman of the Conservative Party in January 1984 stating that he had not goose stepped or performed Nazi salutes ever anywhere.

Gerald Howarth and Neil Hamilton had brought a libel action against Philip Pedley. They then discontinued the action on the basis that it was exorbitantly expensive, horrifically time consuming and stressful and that this was out of all proportion to the apology that they could possibly obtain from Pedley. On 3 December 1986 Pedley said he would not accept the terms of settlement offered by the claimants. He wanted to case to go to trial.

The judge was Mr. Justice Simon Brown. He ruled that Howarth and Neil were not allowed to claim that Pedley’s statements were libelous and they were ordered to pay his costs.

Mr. Pedley was jubilant. He acted as though it were a vindication and said he retracted not one iota of what he had said. He reiterated his claim that he had never suggested that Howarth and Neil Hamilton were National Socialists but rather that their antics gravely undermined the Conservative Party. As a staunch Conservative he was aghast to see two Tory MPs bringing the party into disrepute with their immature looning. The Young Conservative report dismissed Neil’s behaviour as no more than ‘’eccentricity.’’ Pedley reaffirmed his earlier accusations against the men.

Pedley said that members of the YC Committee had been subjected to poison pen letters and verbal abuse after their names were published in Bulldog which was the newspaper of the Young National Front (a white supremacist party). Pedley claimed that he and others had suffered harassment from private security companies. He was implying that wealthy people had paid for this.

Soon after being elected to Parliament, Neil was made an officer of the backbench committee on trade and industry. The Chairman was a formidable Tory MP named Michael Grylls.

In 1984 there were dozens of coalmines all across the realm. But many of them had exhausted their supply of economically viable coal. Some of them were digging up mud. The UK was importing cheaper coal from Czechoslovakia (a country that is now two). North Sea oil was providing much of the United Kingdom’s energy needs as was imported oil and nuclear energy. The government decided to close down uneconomic coal pits and let the others prosper. Leftists believe that coal mines without any coal should remain open. All miners were public sector employees and therefore paid by the taxpayer. Left wingers argued that the poorest people should pay relatively well-paid miners to dig up mud. Every penny wasted on this was a penny robbed from the NHS and other urgent matters.

In 1984 the Miners’ Strike began. The National Union of Mineworkers’ (NUM) leader was Arthur Scargill. Scargill had been a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB) when Stalin was the communist supremo of the world. Scargill was a denier of and a defender of countless communist atrocities all across the globe. He wanted to visit this reign of terror on the United Kingdom. Scargill was one of many unrepentant communists who joined the Labour Party in their bid to abolish democracy and replace it with a totalitarian state. Scargill’s dream was to open concentration camps for political dissidents in the UK but it never came true. Scargill declared a national strike without even holding a ballot of NUM.

There were 180 000 miners in the UK at the time of the Miners’ Strike. Not all miners were members of the NUM. Even then not all NUM miners went on strike because there had been no national ballot. NUM wanted to hold people to ransom.

Mrs. Thatcher had seen this strike coming. The NUM had brought down Heath’s Conservative Government in 1974. Ten years on Thatcher was adamant that she would not allow the NUM to subvert the will of the people again.

The NUM resorted to intimidation. They committed violent crime against the police. They even murdered one man for going to work. The NUM was open about its real aim. It was not about saving jobs. It was about overthrowing the elected government as Scargill said time and time again. Though Scargill was never an MP he was a far more puissant figure on the left than even the leader of the Labour Party.

Coal is also the most polluting fuel. That did not stop leftists who pretend to care about the environment advocating for coal.

Neil was four square behind the government on this one. He believed that Britain must not bend the knee to the bully boy tactics of the NUM.

Labour did not throw its weight behind the strike because there was no national ballot. The far left fulminated that Neil Kinnock was a Judas for not giving unstinting support to their attempt to bring down democracy. Some extremists such as Tony Benn and Jeremy Corbyn endorsed the NUM’s anti-democratic campaign.

In the end the cause of freedom prevailed. Scargill led his acolytes to an ignominious defeat. There are now only 2 000 coal miners left.

In April 1986 Neil was one of 10 MPs (all of them Conservatives) to vote against Her Majesty’s Government on a bill which meant deeper European integration.

In the 1980s Neil came to know the late George Choudhury-Best who was a Conservative activist in London. Choudhury-Best was an Anglo-India who had shifted from the subcontinent to what he termed the ‘mother country’ some years after India suffered independence. Choudhury-Best disenjoyed Indian independence intensely. He was keenly alive to the manifold benisons that British superintendence had conferred upon the Subcontinent. Choudhury-Best recognized India as Britain’s nursling and was aghast at premature independence and all its concomitant horrors. He was appalled that the rampantly corrupt Congress Party was ruining the country with socialist policies that impeded its economy while becoming a Soviet ally. Communist governments had taken over West Bengal and Kerala. Independence had led to Partition and the murder of over a million people. None of these cataclysms would have befallen India if India had remained beneath Britannia’s benevolent shield for a few more decades.

Neil was not scared of making contentious remarks. In 1987 Frank Dobson the Labour MP and future Health Secretary made a speech about amputees. Neil quipped, ‘’he does not have a leg to stand on.’’ The left wing extremist and IRA supporter Jeremy Corbyn made a speech about the need to increase the state pension. Neil shot back, ‘’some of his IRA friends could be used to get rid of pensioners by shooting them.’’ In fairness, the IRA did kill a lot of pensioners.

Corbyn is the most extreme leftist ever elected to Westminster. He has been on the side of every enemy Britain has had since 1945. Corbyn is a publicist for most of the tyrannies around the world. Comrade Corbyn is an outspoken advocate of oppression and cruelty. He is a champagne socialist. His desire to help those in pauperism does not mean he donates a penny of his own. He is exceedingly generous but only with other people’s money instead. He still owns his house like the selfish capitalist he is.

In the 1980s Enoch Powell was still in Parliament. He was no longer a Tory but sat as an Ulster Unionist representing Down South – as in the southern part of County Down. Neil was an impassioned admirer of Powell. Neil says that he is not a racialist but that Powell was correct inasmuch as unchecked immigration has led to many fraught incidents.

For the left, Powell was a pantomime villain. Socialists students displayed placards bearing the legend ‘’disembowel Enoch Powell’’ when he came to address universities. Compassionate aren’t they these leftists? But Powell’s friends say he was not gargoyle.

Neil was an ardent Thatcherite. Despite his unswerving loyalty he was not rewarded with preferment.

Neil joined the No Turning Back Group. This was a ginger group of Thatcherites. It was founded by Michael Brown MP who turned out to be gay. Brown was in the closet in the 1980s. Other prominent MPs were members of the No Turning Back Group such as Alan Duncan, Peter Lilley, Gerald Howarth and Michael Portillo.

Conservative policy in the 1980s was to phase out leaded petrol. It degraded the environment and had a deleterious effect on the brain. It was linked to a heightened risk of criminality. Neil was dead against ending leaded petrol. He said that it had not been demonstrated that leaded petrol was in any way harmful to people or to the environment. That was an astonishing claim in view of scientific peer reviewed articles proving what leaded petrol does. He noted that it would hurt the economy if leaded petrol was forbidden. It was trademark Neil – swimming against the tide. He is an anti-environmentalist.

In 1985 Neil started to work for Ian Greer Associations. One of the main corporate clients was US Tobacco. Neil was ever the staunch libertarian. Michael Brown worked on this project with him.

As a politician Neil was always his own man. He was resolutely libertarian. In the 1980s a type of tobacco called Skoal Bandits was legally available in the UK. Some demanded it be prohibited because it was said to be very carcinogenic.

Edwina Currie and David Mellor were junior health ministers at the time. They were inclined to prohibit Skoal Bandits.

The House of Commons Select Committee on Standards produced a report concluding that Brown and Neil Hamilton had lobbied minister with a view to persuading them to allow Skoal Bandits. It noted that neither man declared an interest – that he had a financial interest in allowing Skoal Bandits. Neil admitted that he had not declared an interest.

Neil was almost alone in arguing that Skoal Bandits should remain legal because people have the right to take risks if they please. Furthermore, as we have seen with drugs – prohibition never works. Nevertheless, Skoal Bandits were outlawed.

While in the House of Commons, Neil proved himself to be a fearless advocate for liberty.  He was unwavering in defence of the right to smoke and indeed to do as one so pleases with one’s own body. He was the only MP out of 650 to vote against the government’s legislation banning the sale of human organs.

In 1986 Neil was made Parliamentary Private Secretary (PPS) to David Mitchell MP. This was a stepping stone to being a minister.

In November 1989 Neil won the Spectator magazine’s prize for being parliamentary wit of the year. With trademark drollery and self-effacement Neil joked that he believed it for being ‘’parliamentary twit of the year.’ Self-deprecation is one of Neil’s many endearing traits.

While in the House of Commons, Neil spoke up for the Western Goals Institute. Andrew V R Smith was then the head of the Western Goals Institute (WGI). Smith, like Neil, had been in the Monday Club. Reverend Martin Smith (an Ulster Unionist) was also a member. So were several Conservative parliamentarians: Sir Patrick Wall, Nicholas Winterton and Bill Walker. Neil was on the parliamentary advisory board of the WGI.

WGI was committed to the maintenance and furtherance of Western influence in all parts of the globe. Some its members were unabashed about advocating coups d’etats in other countries. It had fraternal links with Latin American juntas that did not win many prizes for human rights. WGI’s ‘muscular’ foreign policy had some saying that mercenaries ought to be hired to effectuate regime change in a manner congenial to British neo-imperialism.

WGI displayed questionable taste when in 1992 it invited Jean-Marie Le Pen to address them. Le Pen was then the leader of le Fronte National which his daughter Marine now heads. Le Pen was almost universally seen as a racist. Jean-Marie Le Pen was a perennial presidential candidate and in 2002 even came runner-up.

WGI also wanted Alessandra Mussolini to speak to them. Miss Mussolini is the granddaughter of Benito Mussolini. She also speaks up for her grandfather’s reputation. She was then a deputy in the Italian Parliament and a member of the European Parliament. She had also made a name for herself posing for ‘hard’ nude photos. La Mussolini spent much of her time in Brussels and Strasbourg singing hymns of praise to Il Duce. Both Le Pen and Mussolini were to speak to fringe meetings of the Tory Conference!  Alessandra Mussolini is a medical doctor but CCO suspected that her oration would not be solely restricted to health policy. An unapologetic apologist for fascism was not exactly the sort of person the Conservative Party considered to be an ideal conference speaker.

Sir Norman Fowler was then Chairman of the Conservative Party. He was incensed at the invitations – he considered fascism to be foul and was deeply worried at how it would ruin the party’s reputation. Fowler emphasized that the Conservative Party was not linked to the WGI. Both Le Pen and Mussolini were banned from entering the country so the meetings did not occur.

In the 1980s South Africa still had the apartheid (apartness) system. This segregated people of different races. The white minority comprised no more than 16% of the population of the Republic of South Africa. Whites virtually monopolized political power. They also owned 87% of the land. By law a white could not sell this land to a non-white person. The Bantustans reserved for black people were largely infertile and devoid of mineral resources. Such structured racial inequality appalled most of the world. Black people were not permitted to be citizens of South Africa. The South African Government used heavy violence to maintain control. The torture of those suspected of trying to overthrow the government was not uncommon. In the 1960s and 1970s there had been two fairly large scale massacres of unarmed black people by the South African Police.

South Africa refused to play sports against non-white players. Therefore South Africa was subject to a sporting boycott. The Springboks did not get to play foreign teams from 1970 till the early 1990s.

Most countries refused to trade with South Africa. The United Kingdom persisted in doing business with South Africa. Neil was one of those Conservatives who was adamantly opposed to sanctions against South Africa. He said he deplored apartheid but this was an internal matter. The United Kingdom happily did business with many far more tyrannical regimes and somehow that was not propping up oppression. In Zimbabwe, the Mugabe regime murdered several thousand people because they belonged to the Ndebele tribe. But the world turned Nelson’s eye to that one because the perpetrator was black. No one called for sanctions on Zimbabwe despite its regime slaughtering far more people than South Africa did. John Major even had the Queen give Mugabe an honorary knighthood!

In 1990 Nelson Mandela was released from prison in South Africa. It looked like apartheid might be abolished. Some people launched a desperate last ditch effort to preserve the racist system. Mandela later went on to be President of South Africa.

The anti-apartheid movement’s mantra was ‘’disinvest’’. Neil was dead against sanctions in South Africa. His argument was that apartheid was a domestic matter with which the United Kingdom must not interfere. Funnily enough governments that demanded sanctions on South Africa were usually the loudest in denouncing ‘’interference’’ and ‘’neo-colonialism’’ when anyone criticized their often appalling human rights records. Neil said that a moral principle had to be non-selective if it was to be moral at all. It was nonsense to impose sanctions against South Africa if the UK did not do so to black nationalist regimes north of the Limpopo which were often far more hideous than the apartheid government.

Margaret Thatcher had been against sanctions on South Africa on the ground that this would simply further impoverish black people who were already suffering pauperism. Moreover, there was no guarantee that sanctions would lead to political reform. A far smaller country, Cuba, had toughed out sanctions for far longer and its oppressive regime remained intact.

One of the reasons that Neil cited for being opposed to sanctions on South Africa was that this would increase unemployment in the UK. The MPs who demanded that the UK ban all trade with South Africa were usually the same ones who harped on the most about how evil unemployment was. But there they were demanding that their constituents be rendered jobless.

Neil also noted that South Africa was a reliable Cold War ally and the war could turn hot at any moment. The Treaty of Vereeniging which ended the Second South African War in 1902 stated that native affairs (i.e. the rights of black people) was the exclusive competence of the South African Government and the UK was not to interfere in this policy area.

Neil may have been a model for the late Rik Mayall’s character Alan B’stard. B’stard is a conniving self-serving Tory MP of fervently pro-apartheid views, raging vanity who has a sexually insatiable blonde wife. I wonder who that could be? Alan B’stard also drinks champagne and will only drink it if it is South African. This in an era of the anti-apartheid boycott of South African goods. Some say that B’stard was based on a composite of Tory MPs.

Neil worked for Strategy Network International (SNI). This company was founded with the aim of lobbying against sanctions on South Africa and Namibia which was the under South African control. In SNI Neil met Derek Laud. SNI wanted the United Kingdom to break UN Resolution 435 calling for genuine independence for Namibia. Laud and Neil had a mutual friend – Michael Brown MP. Neil was paid GBP 8 000 per annum for his consultancy. That was a very considerable sum considering that the fees for Eton were GBP 10 000 at the time.

SNI managed to have Neil very well treated. He was flown business class to South Africa and put up in five star hotels.

Lady Margaret Thatcher visited the Hamilton’s not so humble abode on at least one occasion.

In July 1990 the Prime Minister appointed Neil as a whip. It was a time of intense controversy over the Community Charge which was commonly called the poll tax. Neil had been fervent in his support for the unpopular measure. This earned him Mrs. T’s gratitude.

In 1990 Thatcher introduced the Community Charge across England and Wales. It was dubbed the Poll Tax. It had been brought into Scotland the year before when the rates were up for review. The Government was horrified that Labour councils had been wasting public money on PC propaganda and nuclear free zones. Mrs. T believed that hardworking people should not have their money squandered on loony left nonsense.

The Community Charge was widely reviled. It was a flat tax payable to one’s local authority. Pensioners and those on benefits paid a lower amount and students were exempt. For the wealthy, the Community Charge was a tax cut. Neil was a firm advocate of the Community Charge. But it was so exceptionally unpopular that Conservative support in the opinion polls dropped to levels not seen again till the dark days of Liz Truss. In Scotland people complained bitterly that the tax was tried out on them before South Britain. This was held to be confirmatory of Scotland’s second class status.

It was easy to evade the Community Charge by taking oneself off the electoral register. Poorer people (mostly Labour voters) were inclined to do so. In which case the Tories would win forever. But Labour ought to like the tax – it had the word community in the name.

Some Conservatives began to think that the Iron Lady was a liability and not an asset. Tory Wets had long wanted to be shot of her. Mrs. T. was adamantine that there would be no compromise on the Community Charge. Full steam ahead with it! The brains behind it was the Honourable William (now Lord) Waldegrave. He was spoken about as PM material. But he lost his seat in 1997 and ended up being sent back to school – to Eton as Provost (i.e. live in head of the board of governors).

In November 1990 Michael Heseltine challenged Thatcher for the leadership of the party and thus the prime ministership. The Chief Whip told Neil that as a whip it behoved him to maintain the strictest neutrality. Neil disregarded this instruction. Whatever he learnt about Heseltine’s campaign he passed on to the Thatcher camp. Neil said to the Prime Minister that she ought to interview each of the Cabinet individually. He thought that they would lack the courage to tell her that they wanted her to resign. However, Neil was wrong and several of them told Thatcher to stand down.

Despite several Cabinet ministers urging Thatcher to step down as PM, Neil pleaded with her to stay on. In a meeting of backbench Tories, Peter Lilley said that Thatcher had had her day. Neil interrupted Lilley and expressed his disdain for Lilley as a faint heart.

On 21 November 1990 Neil and other Thatcherite fanatics met the PM for one last time at Number 10 Downing Street. Thatcher resigned the next day. In the subsequent Tory leadership election there were three candidates.

Michael Heseltine was a Europhile Tory wet who had resigned from the Cabinet in 1986 over the Westland Helicopter Affair. Heseltine pretended it was a principle resignation. In fact the miscalculated thinking the Tories would lose the 1987 election and be could become party leader. This man of raging vanity and vaulting ambition never made it to the top of the greasy pole. He came close though: being Deputy Prime Minister from 1995 to 1997. Heseltine was the son of a Welsh factory owner. He had been to Shrewbsury, Oxford and the Welsh Guards. He was scorned for wearing his Guards tie for more days than he was in the Guards: sixty.

Then there as Douglas Hurd who was also a One Nation Tory and a Europhile but had been loyal to Thatcher. Hurd had been Captain of School at Eton before going up to King’s College, Cambridge and working in the Foreign Office. Hurd played down his poshness saying his pater had only been a tenant farmer. But as the son and grandson of Tory MPs he was a bit too much of a toff.

Lastly there was John Major. Major was seen as a Eurosceptic and a Thatcherite. He also came from a working class background unlike the others. That was perceived to be electorally advantageous. The other candidates were too posh.

Neil cast his ballot for Major. He believed that Major would continue Thatcher’s legacy. Neil was to be bitterly disillusioned.

In 1990 after Thatcher fell it was a pity for Neil was perfervid in support of his Monetarist policies. However, it also presented an opportunity. She had steadfastly refused to promote him from the backbenches.

John Major became Prime Minister. Soon Neil gained promotion. He was made an under parliamentary secretary for corporate affairs in 1992. He then became Minister for Deregulation and Corporate Affairs. This was a brief he relished because was a true believer in the mission. This was a junior ministership. Under each Cabinet minister there are three or four junior ministers. A Cabinet Minister usually has the title Secretary of State. Junior ministers are styled ‘Minister of State’. The next step for Neil would be promotion into the cabinet.

The hot topic was the Treaty of Maastricht. This treaty signed in the Netherlands was to turn the European Economic Community into the European Union. Neil was deeply skeptical about it. He believed that European integration had gone as far as it should. Like Thatcher he believed that the EEC was imposing too much regulation and degrading national sovereignty. He feared that if the EEC became the EU this would aggravate these tendencies. Denmark held a referendum on Maastricht. The Danes voted No in June 1992. Then Denmark held a second referendum and the result was affirmative.

Although Neil had deep misgivings about Maastricht he remained faithful to the Major Administration. Some other Conservative ministers resigned in opposition to Maastricht. Neil beseeched them not to do so.

Neil was sent to meetings of the Council of Ministers of the European Union. He became deeply disillusioned with the European Union (EU). He came to think it was unreformable and hell-bent to removing all national sovereignty.

In the 1990s Neil became involved with a parliamentary lobbyist named Ian Greer. Greer brought a new more pro-active style to lobbying. Mr. Greer was homosexual and Neil was not prejudiced against Greer because of his orientation. This was an era in which homosexuality was still deeply disapproved of by many Tories. No Tory MP came out as gay until Alan Duncan did in 2001. Duncan, the MP for Rutland and Melton, incidentally was another friend of Neil’s.

Harvey Proctor was also a friend of Neil’s. Proctor was a Conservative MP who got into trouble when he had an encounter with a rentboy whom he believed was 21 but turned out to be 17. It was an innocent mistake and could happen to anyone.

On his solicitor’s advice Proctor pleaded guilty to an offence in relation to this. He got a suspended sentence. There is no suggestion that Neil was involved in Mr. Proctor’s encounter with the ill-judged rentboy encounter or was even aware of it. Proctor subsequently left politics and ran a gentlemen’s outfitters. He had always been a shirt lifter!

In 1992 Neil happened to be in Harvey Proctor’s shirt shop when two men assaulted Proctor for homophobic reasons. Neil valiantly came to the defence of his friend. He suffered a broken nose for his pains. The two assailants were later jailed for their attack.

It was in the 1990s that Neil came to know Derek Laud. Laud was a Conservative activist. Unusually for a Tory at the time he was black and born in the United Kingdom to Jamaican immigrant parents and flamboyantly gay. Derek Laud grew up in a family with little money. He joined the Monday Club which was often accused of being anti-black. Laud is also gay. He was selected as a Conservative prospective parliamentary candidate for the 1997 election. However, he withdrew when allegations of unethical conduct were made against him. This did not stop him being made Joint Master of the new Forest Foxhounds . He was later a Big Brother star. But he was so loathed by his competitor who called himself ‘Science’ – who was also black – that Science said ‘’Laud is the first black person ever who actually makes me want to join the BNP.’’

Laud had written speeches for Thatcher and also for Alan Clark MP. That was despite Clark having said of the Ugandan Asians in 1973, ‘’they must be told ‘you cannot come here because you are not white.’ ’’ Laud was a friend of David Cameron’s. Years later he became so horrified with the ineptitude of Theresa May that he joined the Lib Dems and even stood for them in Cameron’s old seat of Witney, Oxfordshire.

Neil knew an Egyptian tycoon named Mohammed Fayed. Mr. Fayed was best known for owning Britain’s flagship department store: Harrod’s. Fayed was a fraud who could not even tell the truth about his name. The man from Alexandria styled himself Al Fayed – misusing the nobiliary particule. He also gave several contradictory answers about his year of birth. It was proven that he ordered a break-in to a safety deposit box owned by a business rival named Tiny Roland. Fayed had been a Conservative donor. However, he became embittered when his application for British citizenship was refused.

Fayed had grown up in Alexandria as the son of a schoolteacher. They family was higher status than you might expect because most Egyptians were illiterate at the time. Fayed was a very small businessman until the early 1950s. By some miracle he managed to marry a Miss Khasshoggi. She was from a very affluent and well-connected Saudi Arabian family. Admittedly this is because the Saudis became as rich as Crassus. His well got wife opened many doors for him. Before you can say ‘’bribery’’ he had fat contracts in Saudi Arabia. He later served as the honorary consul for one of the most dishonourable dictators in the world – Papa Doc Duvalier of Haiti.

Mr. Fayed craved the one thing he never deserved: respectability. He laboured under the misapprehension that gentlemanliness could be bought. But common decency is not a commodity for sale.It was as though Fayed sought to exemplify Oscar Wilde’s dictum – he knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

Mohammed Fayed was an oleaginous social climber. There was more than a touch of Melmotte from The Way we live now by Anthony Trollope. He purchased the former home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor in Paris. This, Fayed reasoned, brought him closer to the royal family. Then Fayed became the major financial donor to the Royal Windsor Horse Show. This again was a bid to buy some kudos. His donation obliged Her Gracious Majesty to deign to meet him.

Mr. Fayed was of the Mohammedan persuasion. He never pretended to be a pious Muslim. If hirsuteness is indicative of Islamic observance it is notable that Fayed was always clean-shaven. He was partial to spirituous liquor but not to orisons nor did he profess to be a Koranic scholar. There was little anti-Muslim prejudice in the United Kingdom before 9/11. The average Briton knew precious little about Muslims or Islam. Fayed did not try that old chestnut – that he was a victim of anti-Muslim animus. Nor did he say he was hard done by on account of his nationality or ethnicity.

On October 1994 the Guardian newspaper ran a story saying that Tim Smith MP and Neil Hamilton MP had been paid cash by Mr. Fayed for asking questions in Parliament.

Fayed alleged that he had paid Neil and another MP in cash to ask questions in the House of Commons. The shopkeeper said that sometimes cash was handed to the MPs in envelopes and on other occasions money was paid to Ian Greer and was then passed on to the MPs in question. Another Tory MP such as Tim Smith admitted that this was true and on 19 October 1994 he stood down from his ministerial post. Mr. Smith also stated that he would leave Parliament at the next general election. Tim Smith was an Old Harrovian who sat for Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire. Notably, Smith was the one who defeated Tony Blair in Blair’s first attempt to enter Parliament: the 1982 by election.

Neil vehemently denied ever taking cash to ask questions. The then Deputy Prime Minister Michael Heseltine questioned Neil about the issue. Neil categorically denied ever having any financial relationship with Fayed. Mohammed Fayed boasted ‘’you hire an MP like you hire a taxi.’’ He was so rancorous about being refused British citizenship by a Tory Government that he decided to embarrass the Conservative Party as much as he possibly could. He became a passionate Labour supporter despite not being able to vote. It was solely out of spite – he wanted to give the Tories one in the eye. If Fayed wanted to exact vengeance he certainly succeeded.

Neil initiated libel proceedings against those who had accused him of taking cash for questions. John Major said to Neil that the whirlwind of negative publicity around this was harming the government. He told Neil to resign or he would be dismissed.  On 26 October 1994 Neil was prevailed upon to resign from his government post. Relentless negative publicity about him was damaging the government. The attacks on Neil’s honour continued unabated.

The libel action was against the Guardian newspaper. Ian Greer was Neil’s co-plaintiff in the case. In 1996 the Defamation Act amended the Bill of Rights 1989. This permitted utterances made in Parliament to be questioned in court.

The day before the case was due to be heard the two co-plaintiffs settled saying that they could not afford to pursue the action and there was a conflict of interests. The Guardian then triumphantly published a headline about Neil dubbing him ‘’a liar and a cheat.’’ They were sure that Neil would never sue. Alan Rusbridger was then the editor of the newspaper. He crowed about how the two has capitulated.

On 1 October 1996 – the day that the libel trial would have commenced – Alan Rusbridger and Neil went head to head on Newsnight – a nightly current affairs show on the BBC.

Many scurrilous stories about Neil appeared in the Guardian. The Guardian is of course the sewer of choice for leftist ordure.

To some it appeared that Neil had been a victim of the left wing gutter press. Tories were accustomed to being monstered by scurrilous and scabrous dishonest pinko-liberal hacks.

Sir Gordon Downey was the Parliamentary Commissioner for Standards. He began an investigation into the allegations against Neil. The investigation came to a conclusion in 1997. Neil said that were the report to be critical of him then he would stand down from Parliament.

Edwina Currie gave evidence to the enquiry. Miss Currie was a fellow Tory but had been a nemesis of Neil’s for many years. She said that when she showed Neil photos of the cancers caused by tobacco this did not sway him at all. Neil said he judged the issue on the merits and not on emotive images. He was perfectly aware that smoking can kill but that people ought to be permitted to make their own decisions regarding health and lifestyle. Neil and Michael Brown MP had been paid GBP 6 000 each and been provided with free hotel stays and lavish dinners by Skoal Bandits in return for seeking to keep their product lawful. In 1989 Kenneth Clarke, the Secretary of State for Health, signed an order banning Skoal Bandits. This was despite Clarke being a lifelong smoker and indeed working as a consultant for British American Tobacco.

Currie’s concern for health was odd. She said that cervical cancer was caused by crisps and northerners. She opined that good Christian people do not catch AIDS. She later resigned in a dispute over salmonella. It was a storm in an egg cup.

What no one knew at the time was that the married Edwina Currie was then having an affair with the also married John Major. They are both so repulsive I do not know which one of them should be more ashamed. In the early 1990s Major was to launch his ill-starred back to basics campaign. His crusade for personal morality came to grief when it was revealed that several Tory MPs had a predeliction for adultery. Had Mrs. Currie revealed than that she was penetrated by Major in the 1980s then it could easily have brought him down as Prime Minister.

Throughout this time Neil was being savaged in the newspapers every single day. Lunchtime O’Booze and Glenda Slagg type columnists always had him in their sights. This unrelenting media campaign depicted Neil as Mr. Sleaze.

Sir Gordon Downey’s report reached damning conclusions about Neil. Downey said that the evidence against Neil in the cash for questions affair was convincing.  It found that Neil had misled Michael Heseltine who was then the President of the Board of Trade and later the Deputy Prime Minister. Neil said that he did not have any financial ties to Ian Greer. Whereas in fact Neil had been paid by Greer on two occasions in 1988 and 1989 and these two sums had added up to GBP 10 000. In fairness this had been five years before Heseltine posed the question to him. In Neil’s mind this was ancient history and it was true in 1994 that he had no financial relationship with Greer at that time.

Neil and his goodwife had stayed in the Ritz Hotel in Paris and in Mr. Fayed’s Scottish castle gratis. Neil had not declared these in the register of members’ interests. Downey found that this was ethically below par and in breach of the Nolan Standards in Public Life.

Michael Brown was in a spot of bother. He had long before acknowledged being paid GBP 8 000 by US Tobacco and not cited it in the Register of Members Interests as he was legally obliged to do. But in the 1990s it emerged that the 40 something MP had been on a Caribbean holiday with a 20 year old man and shared a double bed with him. The gay age of consent was 21 at the time. What Brown was doing was technically illegal. He was not prosecuted. John Major said that homosexuality was no longer a resigning matter. Brown was not ‘out’ at the time. But when the news broke he publicly stated that he was gay.

Michael Brown also lost his seat in the 1997 election. Downey said that if Neil and Tim Smith had still been in Parliament after the election then they should have both been suspended for a long period of time.

Neil fiercely defended himself. He said the report was shoddy and based on hearsay. He accused it of bias. It was not a judicial inquiry, did not have a presumption of innocence and did not require the criminal standard of proof.

Tim Smith said he agreed with the conclusions of the report and sought no further role in public life.

Fayed was a deeply unsavoury character. His wastrel son Dodi Fayed was a fully qualified professional playboy. Dodi was engaged to an American model in 1997 when he began a liaison with the recently divorced Princess Diana. When the Ishmaelite businessman heard that his son had begun an intimate relationship with the princess he was jubilant. This was the establishment validation that he had yearned for with such flagrant indignity. Dodi dropped his fiancée like a hot potato and sent her a few million Pounds to encourage her to go away and shut up.

Dodi’s relationship with Diana lasted all of three weeks. They were together for about 10 of these 21 days. Nonetheless Fayed claimed without any evidence at all that the two were engaged and that Diana was pregnant by Dodi. Several investigations have disconfirmed these outlandish statements. Neil was up against a man with a proven record for outrageous falsity and utter ruthlessness.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had accepted a free weekend in the Paris Ritz Hotel which Fayed owned. They acknowledged that this was true. It emerged that Mrs. Hamilton had even taken postage stamps for free from the hotel.

The Hamilton’s submitted to an exhaustive Revenue and Customs investigation of their finances and tax affairs. They came out of it smelling of roses.

In the June of 1995 Jon Major made a shock announcement. He resigned as leader of the party. But he had not resigned as PM. It was a back me or sack me move. He was fed up to the back teeth of all the carping. His resignation triggered a leadership contest in the Conservative Party. It was hoped by many on the right of the party that Michael Portillo who was Secretary of State for Defence would contest the leadership. Some Portillistas set up a campaign HQ and even installed extra telephone lines. But he did not stand and instead remained in the Cabinet and asked people to vote for Major. John Redwood resigned as Secretary of State for Wales and he stood against Major. Neil remained enamoured of Portillo despite Portillo letting him down in 1995. Indeed in 2001 when Portillo sought the Tory leadership he lost out on getting into the ballot of ordinary party members by one vote. Neil then expressed his sympathy for Portillo and said it was a pity that Portillo had not won.

Neil was bitterly disappointed with Major’s spinelessness and Europhilia. Under Major there was a sense that direction had been lost. He had no vision for the country. He was also as accident prone as can be. Neil lent his full support to Redwood. Redwood was seen to be too right wing. With a D.Phil from Oxford he was clearly and alpha mind but he was distinctly lacking in emotional intelligence. One journalist said that Redwood came across as a space alien in human form. His supporters were accused of being swivel eyed loons and foam flecked fanatics. Tony Marlow in his striped blazer came in for particular execration.

In the end Major won the votes of about 75% of Tory MPs. But he was not to survive as leader of the party for two more years.

In the mid-1990s the Tory Party was mired in allegations of sleaze. The press was extremely hostile to the party. Neil was savaged by the gutter press.

The Guardian is the United Kingdom’s main left wing broadsheet newspaper. The Guardian excoriated Neil as ‘a liar and a cheat’ in a screaming headline. The left wing media had successfully depicted him as Mr. Sleaze. It was a perception that was very difficult to correct because of the Semmelweis Reflex. Once people get a notion in their minds it is all but impossible to disabuse them of this misapprehension even if one presents a mountain of the most irrefragable evidence.

In 1996 Neil and he co-claimant withdrew their libel action. They were panned for this in the press.

Conservative Central Office lent on Neil not to stand in the 1997 election. They said that even if he was innocent he was attracting enormous amounts of hostile press coverage. This was preventing the Conservative message getting out. They asked him if he would please announce that he would not seek re-election for the good of the party. Neil adamantly refused to do so. He was innocent and he would let his constituents vindicate him.

Tatton was the fourth safest Conservative seat in the UK. Neil had won in 1992 by 16 000 votes. His position seemed unassailable in spite of the extremely negative reportage on him in most of the press. But being misportrayed by the media for several years was taking a toll on Neil’s standing in the constituency.

The Parliamentary Standard Commissioner investigated Neil. Neil’s withdrawal of his libel action seemed to some to be confirmatory of his guilt. Some Tory MPs begged him to step aside but he would not budge. In those days CCO had no say whatsoever over whom a local Conservative Association picked as its candidate. Neil is perhaps the single greatest reason why CCO now has the legal power to block local Conservative associations from selecting candidates whom CCO finds uncongenial.

There was much unease in Tatton Conservative Association. Nevertheless, the majority of Tatton Tories stuck with Neil. They believed him to be the victim of a leftist smear campaign. His chief accuser was a pathological liar. Never trust a man who cannot even tell the truth about his own name of year of birth.

In April 1997 it was time for the Tatton Conservative Association to choose their candidate for the upcoming election. 182 Conservatives voted for Neil to be their candidate. 35 voted against him. There were 100 abstentions. That was not the ringing endorsement he wanted. Only 55% of Conservatives in the constituency had voted for him.

There were two other Conservative MPs who were dogged by sleaze allegations. They were Piers Merchant and Allan Stewart. Stewart sat for a seat in Scotland. Merchant had been the President of the Durham Union and by 1997 was the MP for Beckenham in Kent. The married middle aged Tory was having an affair with a 17 year old nightclub hostess named Anna Cox. An ICM poll for the Observer newspaper showed that Merchant and Stewart were both fairly popular in their seats in but that Neil’s popularity had evaporated. But many in Tatton viewed Neil as a slimeball.

For 3 years Neil had braved brutal headlines almost every single day. It proves how indomitable he is that he stood up to such bile from the media.

Jonathan Aitken – the Conservative MP for Thanet – was also facing allegations of taking unethical payments from Mohammed Fayed. At the time the scandal broke he was Chief Secretary to the Treasury. He was spoken of as a future Prime Minister. A 6’4’’ lean marathon runner with chiseled features – he looked like a leader. He had impeccable establishment credentials – he was the son of a Canadian peer who was a war hero; he was the nephew of a newspaper magnate, Aitken also had an Eton and Oxford education behind him.  He had been a Fleet Street journalist and a war correspondent in Vietnam. He had once been the toast of the media for defending the free press and even being willing to risk prison for doing so. Jonathan Aitken was an Anglican lay preacher.  He had even been the boyfriend of Thatcher’s only daughter – Carol. Aitken dumped Carol because he was two-timing her: unbeknownst to Carol he was also going out with a Yugoslavian blonde named Lolicia. Aitken proposed to Lolicia and jilted Carol. People later asked Mrs. Thatcher why should would never give this talented young backbench MP a government post. Margaret Thatcher would never promote Aitken despite the blandishments of his many admirers. Why? He made Carol cry.

He had midwifed arms deals with Saudi Arabia which had netted him millions. Some felt that his eagerness to sell weapons to a cruel Islamist tyranny flew in the face of his much vaunted Christian faith. Saudi Arabia did not allow Christian worship. Anyone caught with a Bible or conducting prayer meetings would spend years in a fetid dungeon. The Saudi Government promoted anti-Christian forces in Sudan and the Philippines. How could a Christian defend such a regime? It seemed that Aitken had no conscience. He had a moral standard. His arms deal commission fee was a very high moral standard. Somehow money salved his qualms. His sexual infidelity did not sit well with his pharisaical posturing either.

A documentary called Jonathan of Arabia suggested that he had pimped for Arab princelings. The relentless press attacks in Aitken led to him eventually agreeing to resign. His presence in Cabinet was at the very least a distraction from the government’s message.

Aitken insisted he had not done so and he had paid for his stay in the Paris Ritz which was then owned by the Egyptian grocer. Mr. Aitken claimed his daughter and his Yugoslav wife Lolicia were with him Paris at the material time.  Aitken unwisely took out a libel action against the Guardian newspaper. Aitken pressured his teenage daughter into perjurious statements to help him out of a tight corner. In the end Guardian journalists were able to obtain records that proved that Mrs. Aitken and her daughter had lodged in a hotel in Switzerland on the night in question and thus could not possibly have been in Paris.

Jonathan Aitken swore on the Holy Bible before testifying in court. As he was a self-professed Christian who often preached in the Church of England it is particularly horrifying that he profaned the Christian faith by perjuring himself when he had sworn on the Good Book to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. His statements in court were proven to be false.

The Guardian later celebrated Aitken’s downfall. The headline was He lied and lied and lied.

Luke Harding is the Guardian scribbler who make Aitken his quarry over several years. He published a deeply disobliging biography of the Conservative cabinet minister. Aitken had the unenviable distinction of being the first politician to have a biography of him published titled The Liar.

Aitken was later sent down for perjury. His memoir Pride and Perjury is a riveting read and gives a sense of what the era was like for doom-stricken Tories. Aitken had always been a practicing Anglican. He really found Jesus anew in prison. When he came out he went to Oxford forty years after taking his first degree. Aitken was later ordained a Church of England priest.

In 1997 the election was called. The BBC journalist Martin Bell stood against Neil. Bell was then famous for his reportage from Yugoslavia in the midst of its wars. He had been shot whilst finishing a broadcast. This had made him a public hero. Bell was seen as the voice of reason and unpolitical. The media coverage of Martin Bell’s campaign was entirely favourable. His campaign was helped by the presence of his outstandingly nubile blonde daughter. Bell insisted on wearing a white suit throughout the campaign as if it were indicative of his purity. There was a media circus around him. Labour and the Lib Dems knew they had little chance of taking Tatton even though the press was almost universally negative towards Neil. But Labour and the Lib Dems knew that the Tories could lose the seat. Labour and the Lib Dems therefore withdrew their candidates. This gave Bell a clear run.

Had Labour and the Lib Dems not withdrawn their candidates then Neil would very likely have retained the seat albeit narrowly. Conversely, had Bell not stood but Labour and the Lib Dems fielded candidates then again it is highly probable that Neil would still have saved his seat but again not by a large margin.

Bell stood as the anti-corruption candidate. Neil disliked this label intensely and said it was deeply disingenuous. He wanted to ask Bell a question on camera. Neil sought out his challenger. Bell and Neil met each other on Knutsford Common and had a famous exchange filmed by the TV cameras. Neil’s insouciance was incredible. Neil said that by Martin Bell calling himself ‘anti-corruption’ this unmistakably implied that Neil was corrupt. Christine harangued Martin Bell. This transformed her from an unknown into a celebrity. Neil was remarkably restrained and courteous. Bell said he was independent and not anti-corruption. He extended the presumption of innocence to Neil. Neil then welcomed Bell as an independent candidate.

Labour possibly committed a grave blunder in withdrawing its candidate in Tatton. For Labour, Neil was a gift that kept on giving. As long as Neil was an MP the newspapers would be full of the headline ‘’Tory sleaze.’’ But if he was booted out of Parliament then he would no longer be so closely associated with the party. Strangely, Neil was worth more to Labour in Parliament than out of it. It was actually in Labour’s interests for Neil to win his seat. Depriving the Conservatives of one more seat was of negligible importance in an election where Labour was predicted to win and did win a staggering majority.

Bill Roach was a local celebrity from his role in the long running soap opera Coronation Street. He turned up to campaign for Neil. Neil still had friends in high places.

In the wee hours of 2 May the result was announced by the returning officer. Neil’s massive majority had been overturned. Bell beat him by a staggering 11 000 votes. It was a swing of an unprecedented 48%. Martin Bell won an unprecedented 60% of the vote. No one in Tatton had ever won by that much. There were three ‘independent conservatives’ who also stood as well as the usual collection of loonies who stand in high profile seats.

Martin Bell was Britain’s first independent MP in decades. Neil remained ever defiant. He swore he would be back in Parliament one day.

Bell served one term as MP for Tatton. He vowed he would not seek a second one. In 2001 he stood in Brentwood and Ongar against another Conservative. Bell said this was because the local Conservative Association had been taken over by a religious cult. It was staggering that he stood against a Conservative again when there were many pathological liars on the Labour benches – mainly Tony Blair. This time Bell was unsuccessful.

On 3 July 1997 the Downey report was published. It said that Neil had taken cash for questions. It specifically said that Neil had even been paid in brown paper envelopes. The Independent newspaper reported on it extensively. It suggested that the new Tory supremo William Hague expel Neil from his party if the Tories were ever to expunge the disgrace that clung to them.

The Downey Report savaged Michael Grylls and Michael Brown. Michael Grylls was an ex Royal Marines officer and then the MP for Chertsey and the father of Bear Grylls who is now Chief Scout.

The issue of Neil Hamilton remained divisive for several years in the constituency. In 1999 George Osborne sought to be selected as the Conservative candidate for the seat. The 28 year old Osborne was the heir to a wallpaper fortune. He had been educated at St Paul’s and Oxford. After a stint as a struggling political journalist he had worked for Tory Central Office. He found it prudent not to voice an opinion on Neil Hamilton. Some association members remained devoted to Neil. There were others who reviled him. Osborne went on to be elected in 2001. He later served as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Out of Parliament

John Major resigned as leader of the Conservative Party immediately after the electoral defeat. He stayed on in a caretaker capacity until such time as a replacement could be elected. William Hague was duly elected leader in June 1997. Hague was one of the youngest Tory MPs aged only 35. He was also the former Secretary of State for Wales. Hague was then dating a civil servant in the Welsh Office: Ffion. These days this would be considered deeply inappropriate. His Welsh connection did not endear him to Neil Hamilton.

Hague believed that the party badly needed to move on from the scandal-struck Major years. He implored Neil not to attend the 1997 conference. The Conservatives needed him there like they needed a hole in the head. Neil bowed to Hague’s entreaty and agreed not to show his face at the party conference.

On 9 May 1997 – five days after he lost his seat – Neil was on Have I Got News for You. Angus Deayton was the host of the penal game show. Deayton wore a white suit for the only ever time – it was redolent of Martin Bell’s white suit that he famously sported in the Tatton election. The Hamilton’s were paid their fee in brown paper envelopes. Neil hit back, ‘’I’ve found its much better making political jokes than being one.’’

Neil chose not to return to practice at the bar. He was sick of what he called ‘’a constipated profession’’ and said he would not be able to contain himself when dealing with judges – he would tell members of the bench what he really thought of them. What Neil and Christine did have was an awful lot of publicity. They started to monetize this.

In 1999 the Oxford University Conservative Association (OUCA) invited Neil and Christine to be guests of honour at their termly dinner. OUCA was well known for holding ‘OUCA-holic’ events. The President of the Association was an eccentric alcoholic high camp homosexual of reactionary leanings named Steven Philip Doody. The boozy dinner went well enough. They then repaired to Steven’s set of rooms in Balliol College, Oxford for the after party. They were all well-oiled!

The Oxford Student newspaper published an article on the after party in Balliol. The headlined proclaimed ‘OUCA lurch to Reich wing.’

The after party involved choruses of songs in questionable taste such as a song to the melody of ‘Dashing through the snow’. The lyrics go: ‘dashing through the Reich/ In a black Mercedes benz/ killing lots of kikes/ rat a tat at at/ Mow ze buggers down/ Oh what fun it is to be/ ze SS in ze town/ Oh lebensraum/ lebensraum…’ This revolting song joking about the Holocaust was not considered ideal publicity for the new and inclusive Conservative Party. No one has said that Neil or Christine ever participated in singing these anti-Semitic songs or even knew the lyrics.

Christine by her own admission goes for anything in trousers. There was a law undergraduate from Christ Church named Will Goodhand. Christine and Will got along very well indeed! They snogged. On seeing this some Oxonians said, ‘’do it again for the camera.’’ The canoodling couple happily obliged. At the time Will was 19 and Christine was 50. So she was a bit young by Will’s standards!

The photo was sold to the Sun newspaper for several thousand pounds. That was a very tidy sum in 1999. Bear in mind undergraduate fees were GBP 1 000 per annum back then.

‘A minging Tory snog’ was the headline splashed across the front page of the Sun. Will Goodhand was seeing snogging Chirstine Hamilton.

The Hamiltons said those who had stooped so low as to sell this photo to the Sun ought to be ‘osctracised.’ Mrs. Hamilton commented that ‘’if he thinks that was a snog then he has a lot to learn.’’

Will Goodhand went along with the Sun and posed for photos with a Page Three girl. The article said he took her on a date punting and to dinner. The latter part is not true but they paid for Will to dine on his own. Will was later an unsuccessful Conservative parliamentary candidate and a semi-successful radio DJ.

On 16 January 1997 Mohammed Fayed went on the Channel 4 documentary Dispatches. Fayed said that Neil had been given cash payments totally GBP 110 000 over several years and had been given Harrod’s gift vouchers free of charge as well as being allowed to stay at the Paris Ritz for free on a long weekend in 1987. All this was in payment for Neil asking questions for Fayed in the House of Commons. Neil always admitted that he had stayed in the Paris Ritz Hotel at Fayed’s expense but insisted that there was no impropriety involved in accepting the free hospitality.

In 1999 Martin Bell MP went to address the Oxford Union. His predecessor as the MP for Tatton decided to surprise Mr. Bell. Neil is a life member of the Cambridge Union. There is reciprocity of membership or one might even say mutuality between the Oxford Union and the Cambridge Union. Neil and Christine attended the meeting and sat in the front row much to Bell’s chagrin. He was egregiously discombobulated to see them there. At the Union Neil’s old chum Fr David Johnson entertained him royally. The late Fr Johnson was then on the Standing Committee of the Oxford Union. He was its oldest ever member aged 45.

On 31 July 1998 Neil’s libel action was given a court listing. Though Neil was a barrister himself he chose not to defend himself. Defamation was not his area of law. He had many supporters who contributed most liberally to his legal fighting fund.

Neil still had friends in high places. Lord Harris of High Cross donated to Neil Hamilton’s libel action fund as he had done in 1984. Taki contributed to his legal costs as did Lord Harris of High Cross. The Earl of Portsmouth also contributed. Gerald Howarth MP contributed as did Gyles Brandreth (former Tory MP for Chester and television show presenter), the right wing curmudgeon journalist Simon Heffer, Lord Bell and Peter Clarke. There were only 165 Tory MPs left in 1997 and 40 of them contributed to the fighting fund. That was a staggering level of support given the wall to wall vitriol against Neil in the popular press. Over GBP 410 000 was raised. Libel is an astonishingly expensive business. A single day in court with a junior barrister will set you back at least several thousand pounds.

Defamation cases can be heard by a judge or by a jury. If the parties cannot agree which way the case will be tried then the judge shall determine which means of trying the case will be serve the interests of justice. The trouble with a jury is that Neil’s name had been dragged through the mire for years before the case opened. Therefore many jurors may have been prejudiced against him. The press had been traducing him and it would be very hard for jurors to put this out of their minds.

If Neil won the case his reputation would be restored, he would win hundreds of thousands of pounds in compensation and he could get his seat back. Neil and Christine were bullish about their chances of winning. That is suggestive of innocence. Why would they stake everything on it if they were culpable?

In November 1999 the trial began. The judge had to ascertain that the jury was not biased. Fayed owned Fulham Football Club. He asked if there were any Fulham supporters on the jury. To public amusement it emerged that none of them were Fulham fans.

In the case Fayed was asked why he called himself Al Fayed when his surname was actually ‘Fayed’. ‘’Call me Al Capone if you liked’’ he quipped to gales of laughter.

Fayed repeated his claim in court that Neil had been paid cash in brown paper envelopes sometimes these were handed to Neil by Fayed’s staff and sometime the payments were made via Ian Greer.  Neil repeated his denial that he had ever accepted an ob from Fayed, either directly or via an intermediary but said it was true that he had stayed in Fayed’s hotel for free. The counsel for Neil said that Fayed’s false statements had ruined Neil’s good name.

Fayed hired the foremost QC of the day: George Carman. Mohammed Fayed was in the witness box against Neil. The case lasted 6 weeks. Jonathan Aitken is another former Conservative MP who was hit with sleaze allegations. Aitken described being cross-examined by Carman as being ‘’carmanised.’’ Carman is the only barrister whose name became a verb! He was a fearsome advocate. Carman had had his old university friend Jeremy Thorpe sensationally acquitted of conspiracy to murder in 1979. Thorpe was the erstwhile leader of the Liberal Party.

Neil and Christine were both cross-examined by the fearsome George Carman QC. Carman QC asked Neil if he had been corrupt in 1989 when he asked Mobil Oil for GBP 10 000 to table an amendment on a finance bill. Neil was then on the House of Commons Select Committee on Finance.

George Carman QC the continued to cross examine Neil. Neil would usually gave lengthy answers that to some gave an impression of chicanery. Carman would then snort contumeliously, ‘’you finished?’’ Surprisingly the judge did not reprimand Carman for such ungentlemanly conduct. But Neil’s loquacity appeared to be his undoing. It seemed to have a negative impact on the jury’s view of him.

There was some sympathy for Fayed so soon after his son’s death. The public, particularly in London, was still egregiously anti-Conservative. This may have prejudiced the jury.

On 21 December 1999 the jury found for Fayed on the basis of justification. His utterances regarding Neil were held to be substantially veracious. Neil was branded corrupt.

Neil and his wife came out of the Royal Courts of Justice. They appeared as though they were gazing into hell. He had bet the bank on winning the case and restoring his reputation and political career. Now he was doomed. Down into the abyss he would have to go. Some people would have been driven to suicide by this calamity.

Neil appealed and lost. He sought leave to appeal again this time to the House of the Lords which at the time functioned as the Supreme Court. Leave was denied.

On 27 May 2001 Neil declared bankruptcy. This was because he was unable to pay his legal fees and Fayed’s costs. These amounted to a staggering GBP 3 million. Being a bankrupt this forfended practicing at the bar or being an MP. Neil vowed that Fayed would not get a penny. All his earnings went to his goodwife because she was not bankrupt. He was discharged from bankruptcy three years later.

On 30 March 2000 Neil went on Da Ali G Show which was then brand new. It was hosted by Sacha Baron-Cohen in his persona of Ali G – a racially ambivalent shell suit wearing educationally subnormal rude boy, capo of the West Staines Massive who poses as a petty drug dealer but in fact comes from a boringly bourgeois background. In it Ali G proffers a cannabis cigarette to Neil which he happily smoked.

In a later edition of Da Ali G Show the guest was Mohammed Fayed. In it Ali G asked the Egyptian shopkeeper what he would say to Neil Hamilton if Neil were there. Fayed replied, ‘’Nothing. To me he is nothing.’’ Ali G then claimed that Neil had said he had seen Fayed wearing women’s lingerie. Fayed denied it and said ‘’he is the one who is doing that. He is very well known for that.’’ Ironically Neil did appear in ladies undergarments years later as part of a theatrical production. That was the Rocky Horror Show where he wore high heels and a basque.

There were still some political groups who were keen to hear from Neil. The Springbok Club invited Neil to address them. The club was for South Africans resident in the Home Counties. They displayed the apartheid era South African colours. Mr. Hamilton said he was pleased to speak in front of the ‘’true flag of South Africa.’’ Leftists took it as an endorsement of racialism.

After 2001 the Hamilton’s had to rebuild their financial position. They appeared on numerous quiz shows. They were on celebrity ‘Who wants to be a millionaire?’ to raise money for charity. When they underperformed Christine was visibly distressed at having let down needy people.

The couple appeared on posh nosh and other shows.

Neil and Christine traveled to the Republic of Ireland because they were invited on The Late, Late Show. The show was the most popular chat show on Radio Telefis Eireann (RTE) which is the Irish Republic’s principal channel. On RTE they were interviewed by the late Gay Byrne. Gabriel ‘Gay’ Bryne was Ireland’s foremost presenter for decades. Before going on air the couple had addressed the Law Society of University College Dublin (UCD). There were plenty UCD law undergraduates in the studio audience and they afforded the Hamilton’s a very hearty welcome.

Neil wrote an enthralling booked titled Great Political Eccentrics. He also penned another engrossing tome called Politics’ Strangest Characters. Did Neil write whereof he knew? He has never been accused of normality.

The Hamilton’s sold their Cheshire home for GBP 1.25 million. That was a very tidy sum at the time more like GBP 3 million in the values of 2023.

Upon selling their Cheshire domicile the Hamilton’s shifted to Hullavington, Wiltshire in October 2004.

In When Louis Met the Hamilton’s, Neil said that he and Christine were ‘’professional objects of curiosity.’’ Some said they were a circus act.

While on When Louis Met the Hamilton’s, Neil is show exercising in Hyde Park. As he said himself he was not bad for a 51 year old man. He has never been fat.

In some shows Neil seemed himself. He was confident and garrulous as usual. On other shows he appeared to be stiff and inhibited. No all media suited him.

MacIntyre is a show fronted by an eponymous Dubliner. Mr. MacIntyre had Neil on his show when he was helping the police. They winkled out wanted criminals by sending them letters saying they had won a competition and were due to be awarded a prize. As Neil was so often seen on game shows his presence lent this cover story some credibility.

Christine acquired herself a richly deserved reputation for being an outrageous flirt. No man was safe! Women of Britain: lock up your sons! And fathers and grandfathers. In spite of her pantherine sexuality, in fairness to her, no one has ever suggested that her behaviour has gone beyond mere coquetry.

Christine and Neil often appeared in pantomimes. It turned out that they had an exceptional gift for acting. They became a stable of quiz shows. They were on the Weakest Link hosted by Anne Robinson and on Ready Steady Cook. Neil competed on a celebrity edition of Mastermind on 26 December 2004. In 2005 Neil went on 18 Stone of Idiot and he danced in a Perspex box while the morbidly obese comedian Johnny Vegas and someone else poured buckets of fish over him. The price of political failure was not too high!

The couple appeared on Loose Women. Neil said the secret of his marriage’s success was ‘’I find we get on very well if I do exactly as I am told.’’

The Guardian dubbed Neil ‘’an all-purpose Z list celebrity.’’ He was perceived as an unpolitical figure. But the Noughties he was famous for being famous. He may never has asked cash for questions. By 2000 he was being questioned for cash.

Christine Hamilton went on Have I got news for you? The satirical news quiz show. The host mercilessly lampooned the Hamilton’s. It paid their fee in brown paper envelopes. This was an allusion to how Fayed claimed he had paid Neil.

Louis Theroux then did a show called ‘when Louis met’ and he usually encountered extraordinary freaks. Louis Theroux is the British born son of the celebrated American travel writer Paul Theorux. Louis is a skinny, bespectacled, so self-assured that he is soft-spoken and unassuming chap who was educated at Westminster and Oxford. He is a man over whom women swoon.  In 2000 he did one with Neil and Christine Hamilton.

Neil blazed a trail. He was the very first ex-politician to become a star of reality TV. Since then others have sought to reinvent themselves as media figures.

In 2003 Nadine Milroy-Sloan, the false accuser, was awarded a three year prison sentence. It was a disgracefully light sentence bearing in mind the far longer sentence that would have been given to Neil had he been wrongfully convicted. She was found guilty of perverting the course of justice.

Max Clifford who had represented Miss Milroy-Sloan paid Neil a sum of money in compensation. Part of the agreement was that the figure be kept secret.

Milroy-Sloan was a habitual liar. In 2014 she was again imprisoned for falsely accusing her ex-boyfriend of threatening her with a sword.

In the summer of 2000 Neil and Christine Hamilton was falsely accused of the rape of a woman. On 10 August 2001 the couple was arrested pursuant to a rape investigation.

Christine said that this accusation was ‘’lies on stilts’’. Indeed the couple had probative evidence that they were miles away from the scene of the alleged crime at the material time. They were dining with Derek Laud who corroborated their alibi. When the investigation started the couple were being filmed for When Louis met the Hamilton’s which was part of a series wherein Louis Theroux met interesting freaks At first Louis was entirely unaware of the rape allegation. In the back of a Range Rover Neil said that they had a story for Louis and most people would charge him extra for it but that they were giving it to Louis for free when Neil dropped a bombshell saying that they had been false accused of rape.

 The Sunday Times wrote ‘’they deserve less sympathy than most’’ but acknowledged that the couple had been blackguarded. Christine read the article aloud on the reality TV show When Louis met the Hamilton’s.

Their calumniator was subsequently awarded a three year prison sentence. The publicist who did most to disseminate these utterly bogus claims was Max Clifford. Clifford was a Labour donor who later went to prison for sex crimes.

Neil and Christine went into writing.

 Great British political eccentrics is a very readable book by Neil. He is a soi-disant eccentric. In it he featured Nabbaro, Screaming Lord Sutch, Roy Jenkins and others. Neil had little sympathy for Lord Roy Jenkins whom he lampooned. Lord Jenkins of Hillhead was a Welsh Labourite who sat for an English seat. He was the Home Secretary who shepherded through a piece of legislation that has killed over ten million British children. He later split from Labour to found the Social Democratic Party (SDP). His splitting the anti-Tory vote handed the entire 1980s to the Conservative Party. Thanks Roy! He later became Chancellor of Oxford University.

Neil later wrote a thoroughly engrossing tome called Politics’ Strangest Characters. In this book he mused on the curious case of Treibitsch Lincoln. The weird and wonderful Lincoln was born into a Jewish family in Hungary. After studying at the Royal Hungarian Academic of Dramatic art he moved to the United Kingdom. He managed to have himself selected as a Liberal candidate in 1910 and was returned to Parliament. He sat there only between January and December 1910. 1910 is the only year bar 1974 in which the United Kingdom held two general elections. Lincoln’s story grew ever more bizarre. He ended up in Tibet in the 1940s where he died – possibly poisoned by German agents.

Christine published a tome titled the bumper book of Great British battleaxes.

Neil appeared in numerous shows. They have acted in pantomimes.

In 2002 the Hamilton’s resigned from the Conservative and Unionist Party after 35 years of stalwart service. They joined the United Kingdom Independence Party (UKIP). Nigel Farage was then one of the most prominent UKIP Members of the European Parliament. Farage recalled luncheon with the Hamilton’s. He claimed that half way through he felt a hand on his knee. It was Christine! She was a notorious man eater. It is a fate that befell even me. She ruffled my hair and twittered ‘’oh what a lovely boy you are.’’

Christine forged a media career in her own right. She has been a columnist and a television reviewer. She has been on countless talk shows. She was a star turn in I’m a celebrity get me out of here wherein she was exiled to the Australian jungle for a few weeks.

In 2003 the Hamilton’s were invited to address the sixth form of Oundle School. Their car broke down and they were unable to make it. The school wanted them so badly that it arranged another occasion for them to speak. In his oration Neil said that there was a certain level below which support for the Conservatives would not go. Rock bottom was about 30%. He made disobliging remarks about Conservative leaders – Hague and Iain Duncan Smith IDS. IDS was such a lamentable choice for leader that people joked his initials stood for ‘’in deep shit.’’

Ironically Neil had far more influence outside Parliament than he had inside it.

UKIP was keen that a household name stand for Parliament. Neil and Christine declined to do so. They said ‘’we’ve done politics.’’ They needed to earn some money and buy themselves a decent house. This they eventually succeeded in doing. They purchased a home in Wiltshire.

In 2004 Neil and Christine attended an event in Oxford to commemorate the 60^th anniversary of D Day. The fete was held in the, alas and alack, now defunct pub called the Far from the Madding Crowd on Friar’s Entry. It was organized by Rev Fr David Johnson. Present were fifty persons including the Canadian High Commissioner (‘’call me Mel’’) and the morbidly obese and bearded Luxembourgish Ambassador straight from central casting.

Neil is never short of an opinion. He said he exalts David Lloyd George as the first Welshman to rise to the office of Prime Minister and one who made the political weather for a generation. That is despite Neil disagreeing with Lloyd George’s collectivist policies which paved the way for socialism.

Tony Blair attracts particular hostility and disdain from Neil. He scorns Blair’s so called ethical foreign policy and believe that Iraq War was calamitous.

In 2006 the Hamilton’s released a song for the Football World Cup. It was titled ‘England are Jolly Dee’. That was notwithstanding neither of them caring a fig about the sport and Neil is not actually English. Nor were either of them remotely musical. Full marks for effort!

In 2008 Neil and Christine founded Vixen Consultants Limited. This dealt with their media appearance. It trades under the name of Vixen Consultants. Neil is company secretary.

By the 2010s the Hamilton’s star was waning. The days of the 1990s when they had wall to wall coverage (whether wanted or unwanted) were over. They were all but unknown to the junior generation. It was at this point that Neil decided to throw his hat into the political ring once more.

In September 2011 Neil went to UKIP’s autumn conference. Nigel Farage was then leading the party. Farage endorsed him to stand for election to the National Executive Committee of the party. Neil was elected on 1 November 2011. He then served as deputy chairman of UKIP. Neil later became campaign director in April 2014. In May 2014 he sought to be elected in Wandsworth London Borough Council. He stood for St Mary’s ward. There were 9 candidates and Neil came a distant 8^th. London is not fertile soil for UKIP. The British capital is one of the most ardently Europhile areas in the country.

Arron Banks was the main UKIP financial backer. In private emails he dubbed Neil ‘’a corrupt old Tory’’

In 2014 Neil provoked wrath once again when he said that decent BNP voters were turning to UKIP. The British National Party as recently as the 1990s was an openly white supremacist party which sought to deprive non-white Britons of their British citizenship and expel them. It had denied the Holocaust and stoked odium against Muslims. Some say there is no such thing as a decent BNP voter. But it is an objective statement of fact that quite a few people who formerly voted BNP then cast their ballots for UKIP.

On 5 May 2016 Neil stood to be a member of what was then styled the National Assembly for Wales. UKIP was riding high because of the Brexit referendum. Neil was elected as a list Member of the Senedd (MS) for Mid and West Wales. Senedd is the Welsh word for ‘parliament’. He soon became the leader of the UKIP faction in the Welsh Assembly. The Welsh Assembly was subsequently renamed the Welsh Parliament in 2020. 7 UKIP MS’s were elected to the Welsh Assembly in 2016. All of them came in via the regional list system. UKIP never had anyone elected to Cardiff for a constituency.

Just five days after being elected to the Welsh Assembly, Neil was elected leader of UKIP in the assembly. He ousted Nathan Gill. Farage was the leader of the party and criticized the move. UKIP should not be fighting UKIP. Neil said Farage should not interfere in an internal Welsh matter and said that Farage was throwing a tantrum. Neil reminded the public that Farage was a Member of the European Parliament for South-East England and had never even stood for election in Wales.

In that legislature Neil continued to vocalise his forthright views. He said he was immensely gratified to be serving in the Land of my fathers – calling to mind the Welsh patriotic song. He was the only MS not to reside in the principality. Bigots tried to exploit this to portray him as somehow an alien and unfit to represent a region of Wales.

Nathan Gill was so dischuffed at being ousted by Neil that Gill left UKIP. He sat as an independent.

Neil made a barnstorming maiden speech in the Welsh Assembly. He also dubbed Kirsty Williams and Leanne Wood ‘’concubines’’ and said they were in a harem. Feminists were not best pleased. The talentless ex-social worker Leanne Wood was a Plaid Cymru MS and later became leader of the party. Stroppy, far left, eurofanatic, politically correct, anti-monarchist, bigoted and viciously intolerant – la Wood was not exactly Neil’s cup of cha.

A loony leftist MS named Eluned Morgan said that Brexit would hurt the poorest most. Neil Hamilton unkindly blurted out ‘’suicide’s an option.’’ The Presiding Officer called upon Neil to say sorry. He declined to do so, ‘’what is there to apologise for? What was unparliamentary about the remark?’’ In the end he said, ‘’I apologise for whatever remark I am supposed to have made.’’

Neil courted controversy in 2018 by speaking up for the late Enoch Powell. Powell had been the Conservative MP for Wolverhampton South-West and later an Ulster Unionist MP for Down South. Powell was notorious for his 1968 Rivers of Blood oration in which he said that non-white immigration was an existential threat to the United Kingdom. Powell was defended by Neil and said that Powell was no ghoul. Neil said that while large scale racial violence that Powell had forecast had not transpired, Powell was correct inasmuch as social change had been wrought by mass immigration and it was unwanted by most of the UK populace. Neil said that Powell was right to speak up for ordinary people when the elite chose to disregard these well-founded concerns.

Leanne Wood then denounced Neil saying that he was keeping racism alive. A Labour assemblyman said that Neil’s remarks were outrageous.

In 2019 Neil stood in a by-election in Newport West. He came third and polled a respectable 8.6%. Newport West had been a Labour seat for a century.

In 2020 the BLM movement began to demand that some statutes be taken down in Wales when the statute was a likeness of someone who had been involved in the slave trade. BLM wanted a statue of Mr. Pickton removed from Cardiff City Hall and Pickton Street renamed. They also sought the removal of another statue in Carmarthen. To Neil’s eternal credit he refused to be morally blackmailed by the racism industry.

Neil vociferously argued that the statue ought to remain in situ and that Pickton Street retain its name. He denounced BLM as Marxist and said it aimed at the erasure of Wales’ heritage. BLM proposed to put a statue of George Floyd in room of Pickton. Floyd was murdered by the police in the USA. Neil accused Floyd of being a drug peddler.

Unfortunately there is a rising tide of far left bigots demanding the abolition of British national pride. Neil set his face like flint against these socialists seditionists.

In 2020 Freddy Vachha, the UKIP leader, was forced out. Neil became acting leader of UKIP. He later became its substantive leader.

In 2021 Neil was the only UKIP representative other than local councilors.

In 2021 in the election to the Welsh Parliament, Neil chose not to seek re-election in Mid and West Wales. Instead he stood in South Wales East. It was possible a mistake. He was top of UKIP’s regional list.

BBC Wales held a main leaders’ debate. However. They did not invite the UKIP leader on saying that it was a minor party. Neil was invited to speak in a minor leaders’ debate alongside the leaders of the Green Party and Reform UK.

Neil stood in Islwyn. This was the onetime Labour leader Neil Kinnock’s former bailiwick. But Hamilton performed worse than the other Neil! He polled only 507 votes – coming 6^th.

All UKIP politicians failed to be elected to the Welsh Parliament.

In 2018 Neil was himself pushed out as UKIP leader in the Welsh Assembly. He was supplanted by Caroline Jones.

In 2018 the then leader of UKIP Gerard Batten said that a vote would be held to elect the UKIP leader in Wales. Whoever won would lead the party’s delegation in the Welsh Assembly and would be the Cymric voice of the party. Gareth Bennett MS, Miss Jones and Neil Hamilton all contested it. Bennett won. Nonetheless, Hamilton said he respected Bennett and would cooperate with him.

On 12 September 2020 Neil was elected leader of the UK Independence Party. He won 498 votes out of 631. That meant 79% of the total vote. He defeated John Poynton. Membership had collapsed. Most talented and ambitious UKIPers had decamped to the newly founded Brexit Party (now called Reform UK). That included the sometime leader of UKIP – Nigel Farage.

When Neil took over UKIP was in poor shape. The membership had fallen off a cliff. Its finances were shocking. As Brexit had happened it seemed that UKIP had lost its raison d’etre. People were bored rigid of the EU issue. But Neil insisted that the Tory Brexit had been half-hearted at best. In spite of Neil’s most valiant efforts, UKIP is largely a one man band. It has trouble garnering much media attention. Neil does his level best to keep the UKIP show on the road. But the membership is elderly, donations are paltry and public opinion is shifting towards seeking readmission to the EU. In truth the party shall probably not long survive him.

In 2021 Neil was ‘liberated’ in his own words from the Welsh Parliament.

In 2022 he attended the memorial service of Fr. David Johnson.

When Brexit came Neil believed that the United Kingdom had benefitted precious little therefrom. He wanted a hard Brexit and argued that the United Kingdom has not used its Brexit freedoms fully. Nonetheless, he was impressed by Boris Johnson’s drive and ambition. Neil has thought aloud about rejoining the Conservative Party but concluded, ‘’I am a bit long in the tooth to do that.’’

The UKIP position on Ukraine is that Ukraine must free itself from Russian aggression and tyranny. The United Kingdom must back Kyiv to the hilt.

Neil expressed his disagreement with reparations for slavery. He said it is ludicrous. He also disagrees with taking down statues of those who trafficked in slaves. This would lead to the razing of all Roman architecture.

By 2022 Christine had had enough of being in the media spotlight. She voiced her desire to leave all that behind and to finally regain some privacy. A quarter of a century as a public figure has been more than enough.

One of the happiest and most marvelous things Neil has achieved and the thing that has sustained him through many disasters, is his marriage. Adversity appears only to have drawn the couple closer when it would have sundered many other marriages. It is surely one of the most resoundingly successful celebrity marriages of the present day. The Hamilton’s have plenty of sworn enemies. But even their most implacable foes have never accused the Hamilton’s of being unfaithful to the marital bed. What extraordinary serendipity that these star crossed lovers should have met so young

Did Neil ask cash for questions? He has never wavered in his denials in over 29 years. Perhaps finally he ought to be believed.

A peerage for this political titan is long overdue.