"Fearing no insult, asking for no crown, receive with indifference both flattery and slander, and do not argue with a fool." - 'Exegi Monumentum', Alexander Pushkin
"Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough." - English football chant (traditional)
Technically speaking, the contents of this post are classified under the Official Secrets Act: but then, as regular WordJam readers know, I've never been one to play by the rules. In the interests of world peace, I hereby present my first-hand account of key events in the Sergei and Yulia Skripal case as they actually unfolded and continue to unfold. So without further ado, prepare yourselves for intrigue, razor-sharp insight, strong language, ellipses and libel... Just make sure you delete your internet history after reading this, okay?
[Note: You'll notice the name of my, for want of a less euphemistic expression, 'significant other' has been removed from these pages. This is not an act of censorship, but simply that divulging her identity isn't in the public interest. Besides, if the relationship goes tits-up at least I've still got the option of an exclusive tabloid deal.]
* * * * *
4th March, 2018
It's 10:30pm and I've been called to an emergency Cabinet meeting. I don't need this - especially when [Grammy Award-winning singer]'s waiting for me in bed with a KFC family fun bucket, a bottle of Jack and a battery-powered plastic toy in the shape of what can only be described as a disco stick.
"Shall we get started?" Theresa May says, shuffling a series of pages back into a folder adorned with a crayon drawing of a rainbow and the words 'Brexit: An Idiot's Guide' inscribed in red biro. Foreign secretary Boris Johnson raises his hand and asks if there'll be nibbles, whereupon defence minister Gavin Williamson smacks the back of his head with a ruler.
"Gentlemen," May says, deliberately avoiding eye contact with home secretary Amber Rudd, "As some of you may have already heard, this afternoon a former Russian double-agent, now a naturalised citizen of this country, has been hospitalised in what we suspect is a chemical attack..."
Silence descends upon the room as the assembled ministers exchange grave looks. As the enormity of the situation sinks in, one of them finally gathers his nerve and addresses his fellow statesmen.
"What about pizza?" Boris says. Williamson rolls his eyes and smacks him again.
"But this is terrible, PM!" treasury minister Philip Hammond exclaims. "Who's responsible?"
"Russia, you tosser!" Williamson shouts. "Who do you think: Paraguay?"
"So what's the situation so far?" Rudd asks earnestly. May looks around the room, pretending not to hear her. After an impolite nudge from Williamson, Boris repeats the question.
"Well," May says, "the former intelligence agent and his Muscovite daughter are currently unconscious. What's more, the policeman on the scene has also been admitted to hospital in a critical condition."
"Those evil, slitty-eyed bastards!" Boris barks.
"Awful business though it is," May says, waving her hand dismissively, "I think we can use this to our advantage. Just think, gentlemen: a sleepy English village in the heart of the home counties, a foreign attack on British soil... It's the stuff that Brexit's made of!"
"Of course!" Rudd replies, snapping her fingers. "When the great unhosed hears about this they'll feel better about leaving the EU! And if we take on Russia, it'll earn us no end of kudos from the European community..."
"Well, duh!" May says under her breath.
"It couldn't have worked out better if we'd planned it ourselves!" Hammond chuckles. The room falls silent again, save for a polite cough from May.
"Anyway!" Williamson says suddenly, clapping his hands and rubbing them with glee, "This is our chance to show those namby-pambies in Brussels what the old British Bulldog spirit is all about! Eh, fellas?"
Boris leads the room in a boisterous sing-along of "We Won Two World Wars and One World Cup". Even May joins in, slapping her thighs in time to the rhythm.
"One World War, actually," education minister Damian Hinds says, looking up from his copy of Nuts. "Ivan won the second lot."
"Yes, but Johnny Sixpack doesn't know that!" Boris smirks before fixing Hinds with a startled look. "Does he-?"
"Well, you won't find it in a GCSE textbook," Hinds replies.
"But isn't this all just a tad kick bollocks, scramble?" I ask. "I mean, we don't have any proof Moscow ordered this."
"Oi!" Williamson snarls, jabbing a finger at me. "If you don't like it, shut up and go and live in Russia!"
As the Cabinet cheer and stamp their feet, May leans over to Williamson and pats his head.
"Very good, Gavin. Just needs a teensy bit of work, though..."
* * * * *
15th March, 2018
"Twenty-three!" Putin growls, slamming a basketball through the hoop opposite his desk. "Twenty-three of theirs for twenty-three of ours. I'll teach those motherfuckers to give me an ultimatum... I'm an A-1 mushroom cloud motherfucker, motherfucker!"
I tell him that by flouting the ten day disclosure time set down by the Chemical Weapons Convention, legally the UK doesn't have a leg to stand on. It does little to soothe his temper.
"I couldn't give a sweet motherfuck if those assholes sent the Queen over here in a pair of boxing gloves and a flak jacket: how dare they treat a nuclear power like this?!"
"That kind of talk really isn't helping," I tell him. He stares at me for a moment, the intensity in his eyes making me bow my head.
"Novichok..." he mutters bitterly. "That bastard Brezhnev and his bastard defence spending! God rest his soul."
"But didn't Yeltsin [spits] close down the Soviet chemical research facilities back in '92?" defence minister Dmitry Rogozin asks.
"Kinda..." Putin says sheepishly. "But we scrapped our chemical weapons last year, didn't we?"
"In accordance with stipulations from the OPCW," foreign affairs minister Sergey Lavrov replies. "But you try telling that to... Oh, what's his name? That infant in a man's suit..."
"Johnson," I answer. They start sniggering.
"Can you imagine him trying to negotiate with Chernenko?" Putin snorts. "There wouldn't have been a Britain left to back out of Europe! Or a Europe, come to that."
"Any word on whether a consul can visit the hospital yet?" Rogozin asks.
"No," Lavrov shrugs. "Yulia's still out of bounds."
"It's outrageous!" Putin booms. "This is a Soviet citizen-"
"Russian citizen," Rogozin corrects him.
"A Russian citizen," Putin continues, "and they're treating her like a pawn in a chess game. May acts like she's the fucking Madonna, but she's just a hard-faced bitch in Thatcher's hand-me-downs."
"Did you see the way they greeted her in Salisbury?" Lavrov says. "It was like the second coming of Saint Xenia."
"More like Xena, Warrior Princess," Putin quips. They start sniggering again. Putin leans back in his chair, shaking his head incredulously. "Do they really think I'm dumb enough to order something like this with the election on the way and all eyes on the World Cup?" he sighs. "She's really dropped the ball on this one."
I start laughing. Rogozin and Lavrov exchange wary glances as Putin looks up at me.
"Something funny, friend?"
"She's dropped the ball!" I giggle before the awkwardness sets in. "I just thought that was funny, is all..."
"What, I say I didn't order it and you find that funny?" Putin asks, eyes narrowing with a sinister quizzicality.
"No, it's like what you said about Xena... You're just a funny guy, Vladimir!"
"Funny how-?" he demands, rising from his chair. "Like a clown?! What the fuck is so funny about me??"
"It was..." I croak, the words lodged in my throat. "I mean - I didn't mean..."
He suddenly bursts into a huge belly laugh, patting my cheeks before scooping me up in a bear hug. Rogozin and Lavrov clutch their stomachs, guffawing at the look on my face.
"I'm just breaking your balls, Rich!" Putin chortles. "Anyway, enough about this bullshit: tell me about [Grammy Award-winning singer]... Is it true what she says about how when it's not rough it isn't fun?"
* * * * *
26th March, 2018
I wake up to the news that the US has expelled sixty Russian diplomats and the consulate in Seattle has been closed. I call Trump on the Oval Office direct line.
[Dialling tone, then-]
"Trump residence."
"Hi Don, it's Richard."
"Huh?"
"Richard English."
"[Pause] Hey, Dicky boy! How's it working out with [Grammy Award-winning singer]? You poke her face yet?"
"..Yeah, it's going pretty well, thanks. She-"
[I sneeze]
"You got a cold? You know, for a minute there I thought you were Rocket Man! That little douchebag called me this morning at 4am - 4am! - and asked me to bring six cases of Johnnie Walker Black to the summit! I said, 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!"
[Laughter]
"Smooth, Don!"
"Isn't it, though? 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!'"
[More Laughter]
"So anyway, Don, I'm calling because-"
"[Sniggers] Fucking room service!"
"Uh-huh."
"You know why that's funny, don't you, Dicky Boy?"
"'Cos you run a hotel chain-?"
"[Pause] What do you want, asshole?"
"Well, it's a delicate subject, Don, but it's about these Russian diplomats..."
"Shit... Listen - that was a favor, okay? Mustard Tits Teri called me up, said she had this situation going on... Well, you know how she talks: it's like a tarantula crawled up her pussy. Anyway, 'Teri,' I said, 'anything to help our greatest ally... Besides, it'll get those FBI cocksuckers off my back for a while.'"
"But this tit-for-tat approach... The UK kicks out twenty-three, Russia kicks out twenty-three; you've kicked out sixty, now they're probably going to kick out sixty... Aren't we in danger of reigniting a cold conflict here?"
"[Pause] Not if I get a second term, baby. I've got it all planned out, believe me! The Don doesn't just make it up as he goes along: there are bright days ahead, kiddo!"
"I've got to ask, Don: do you really think Russia's behind this? May says she's sharing intelligence with Britain's allies, but she hasn't presented any conclusive facts yet."
"Facts-? [Blows raspberry] Facts don't mean anything!" It's like all this shinola about the Russian gas pipeline... People don't wanna hear about that: they wanna know about The Don's plan!"
"'Shinola'-?"
"It ain't shinola making America great again."
"No, I meant the Russian pipeline."
"And that's part of the plan, Dicky Boy! Let's say America has a milkshake and Russia has a milkshake - but these milkshakes aren't milkshakes, they're gas reserves. Now let's say Europe has a straw that reaches across the sea from... well, wherever the hell you are... to here, okay? So now you're drinking our gas. But let's say you can't afford to pay premium rates for our milkshake and you want something more competitive. So you extend that straw the other way and start drinking Russian gas instead. Where does that leave America? I'll tell you where: sitting on a big milkshake no one wants while those bear hugging assholes get fat on gas! So we find a way to isolate Russia from the rest of Europe and let them drink our milkshake... You get me? [A member of White House staff addresses Trump] What? [Inaudible conversation, then-] Sorry, Dicky Boy - it's time for my two o'clock. Catch you on the flip flop, okay? Just don't forget what I told you: people don't care about facts, they wanna see results! [To White House staff member] Let me tell you something, hot stuff: if Obama's a Panatela, I'm a fucking Havana, sweetheart..."
[Phone clicks dead]
* * * * *
3rd April, 2018
Cameras snap and flash as Boris ascends the podium, ready to greet the hungry men and women of the press.
"Gabba gabba hey!" he begins, prompting a polite titter. "Porton Down... Yes! Marvellous organisation... Keeping us safe and all that; breeding chemicals to help fight against those who use chemicals against us... Leading us not into temptation, but delivering us from evil... The Evil Empire, as Reagan called it... Russia! Land of Rasputin, Stalin and... [thinks] the other one. Putin... Putin, yes! Autocrat... Murderer... Propagandist... Chemicals being developed, poisoning British citizens... Tests at Porton Down - marvellous organisation! - say they don't know where the chuckle gas was manufactured, but I stand by my position... Foreign secretary... Foreigners, yes! Coming over here, poisoning people... Not the one who came over here and got poisoned... Maybe she poisoned herself, who knows? I know: she didn't! [Pause] Any questions?"
A flurry of arms shoot into the air, fingers waggling in anticipation. Boris selects a stubble-faced man in jeans and a brown overcoat.
"Andrew Dawson, The Sun. Given what you've said about jumping to conclusions and misrepresenting the findings of an official government body, Putin is a mad bastard, isn't he?"
"111% mad!" Boris replies. "Spinal Tap crazy times a hundred... Next question."
"Rebecca Jones, Daily Mail. What's your favourite colour?"
"Blue... Red, white and blue! Johnny Poisonaspyovitch can't boast that, can he? Any more questions?"
I can't take any more. I leap onto the podium, grab the microphone and make myself heard.
"Yeah, I've got a pretty fucking good one, actually. When Theresa May was home secretary she handed out 650 investor visas to Russian millionaires, many of whom invested capital in prime property - including former deputy prime minister Igor Shuvalov. Conservative backbencher Jacob Rees-Mogg's fund management company Somerset Capital's sixth biggest holding is Sberbank, which has been on international sanctions lists since the so-called annexation of Crimea in 2014. Just over a month ago, defence secretary Gavin Williamson accepted £30,000 from Russian banker Lubov Chernukhin to dine with his wife, and only last year you yourself accepted £161,000 from the same banker to play tennis. Two weeks ago May expelled twenty-three diplomats, saying, and I quote: 'We don't want these people - or their money - in our country'." So - in light of the obvious financial advantages the Conservative Party have enjoyed from its connections with Russia, which may have had some bearing on May blocking the public inquiry into the murder of Alexander Litvinenko for a full year until the high court intervened; global economic sanctions that already exist against Russia which would inevitably be stretched even further in the event of a diplomatic incident such as this; the eyes of the world already fixed on the Russian election and the World Cup; America's attempt to monopolise demand for gas reserves in the face of Russian competition; and the fact that a 60-something retired double-agent who's been living in relative anonymity as part of an internationally-agreed exchange for the last eight years poses no further threat to the security of his homeland - I put it to you, BoJo-"
I suddenly hear the sound of guns cocking behind me. Several guns. I look at Boris, whose face twists into a demented grin. My edgy, rapid breathing causes the microphone to echo and hum.
"I put it to you, BoJo... the England team have got a pretty good chance this year, haven't they?"
Boris raises his arm above my head and makes the 'V for Victory' sign as a Guardian journalist asks me if Lady Gaga's any good in bed.
