JaJa99. No 224. Monday 28th February 2022

I did go down to the woods today and what a surprise I got. I expected to see the odd tree in a re-arranged state but the extent of the damage caused by Dudley, Eunice and Franklyn quite took my breath away. As a Londoner, you could call it DEF and Destruction mate. But now that the ill winds from the west have had their say a much more menacing storm is brewing from the east. In those halcyon days when we used to play at war games in the certain knowledge that we would never actually have to go into battle, we would spend five days on exercise wearing hideously uncomfortable NBC suits (nuclear, biological and chemical), going through all sorts of decontamination procedures, with respirators (gas masks in old money) that made us look like escapees from a Star Trek movie set, while “the enemy” (red forces) attacked us with everything they’d got; except that is real gas, germs or nukes. We somehow convinced ourselves that we would survive and go on to overwhelm the Reds with our superior morals, wit and general joie de vivre. Back in the “good old days” of the Cold War when I was flying anti-tank helicopters, our wartime role was to deploy to a Schloss close to the East German border, where we’d park our choppers in the Count’s orchard and avail ourselves of his most generous hospitality. Our aim was to slow down the Soviet assault. Their aim, we were always told, was to drive their legions of T60 and T72 tanks to the Channel in ten days, demolishing all before them. The great thing is that those were MAD times, (Mutually Assured Destruction) so although East/West relations were extremely frosty, for the most part we all felt very safe. In fact the World has been a lot less stable place since the Iron Curtain got so rusty and corroded they had to take it down.

I’ve been mulling over the correct pronunciation of Vlad the Mad. Generally those of us to the east of the Atlantic tend to call him Pewtin; pew as in one of those back-graunchingly uncomfortable wooden benches that devoted church-goers must endure to demonstrate their love for the Almighty, or pew as in the mediaeval drinking mugs that still lurk at the back of my drinks cabinet as fond reminders of a bygone age. (English pewter was always the best!). Americans however, in their ignorance, call him Pootn; poo as in a pile of canine excrement left steaming in the middle of the pavement ready for some unwary traveller to sully their handsome buckskins, or perhaps Pooh, as in a bear of very little brain who has a penchant for honey. Knowing that we were right, I nonetheless consulted the Oracle (Google), only to discover to my horror that Russians say Pootin. It makes him sound like a poor man’s version of a chamber pot (which might be quite appropriate) or something a squaddie might take on manoeuvres when there are no thunder boxes available. (Also quite appropriate).

There’s a splendid emporium nearby called Hudson’s that’s run by Jonathan, an Old Eastbournian and Kate is Polish wife. They employ a delightful Ukrainian lady whose daughter and family are still in Ukraine. Her first language is Russian. She understands every evil word that emanates from Pootin’s mouth. With terrible sadness in her eyes, she was telling me today how the tactics have changed; how the Russians are now shooting at ambulances and schools, with reckless bombing of residential areas and hospitals; how tank commanders are grabbing women and children and putting them on their tanks, inviting the Ukrainian soldiers to “see what good shots you are now?”. One thing is certain. Pootin will end up dead. The horrific question is how many will have to go first before he is despatched to Hell. I was a soldier once and I used to consider myself reasonably tough when it came to these things, but I confess I have openly wept today hearing her story and seeing the terrible scenes unfolding in Ukraine. Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury in 1170, allegedly died on the altar steps of Canterbury Cathedral when four knights took literally, King Henry II’s outburst, “will nobody rid me of this turbulent priest”. Good and honest citizens of Russia please hear a similar cry from billions of people around the world, but especially from the forty four million Ukrainians whose lives have become a living hell thanks to your chamber pot of a President.