If I worked for the Foreign Office in Russia I would probably spend half my salary on blackmail payments. My heart is bleeding for James Hudson, the British diplomat filmed with a pair of local tarts by Russian spies. Like most of these sex scandals it reflects terribly on everyone except the man at its centre.
Shame on the Russians, who still live in the same spy-infested tyranny they had in Peter the Great’s day. Shame on the smirking tossers who put the clip on the internet. Shame on his sanctimonious vindictive ratbag of an ex-wife. Shame on me, who searched for the clip on Google. And shame on Pizza Hut, who put my bodyweight in pizza leaflets through the door each month. They are not directly involved in this case, but damn them to hell.
What was he supposed to on his own on a wet afternoon in central Russia, thousands of miles from his friends and family? Read an improving book? Buy some fruit and learn to juggle? Apparently Yakaterinburg is known for its theatres, but how many gloomy Russian plays can one stand in a weekend? He’d have shot himself, sooner or later.
Were they underage? Did he mistreat them? Leave him alone, then.
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