No Mr Brown I expect you to die....

One weekend in Kyiv a client invited me to his house for lunch. Instead of living in the centre he had rented a large house outside the city on an island in the Dnipro.

Everything was wonderful until his landlord joined us. His landlord owned the whole island and he was a German gentleman who made you want to bomb Dresden all over again. I mentioned "samogon" and Herr Goldfinger said that he had his own distillery & proceeded to have some brought to our table by his lackeys.

He then insisted on telling me the story of how he acquired the island and how he had his own private fire brigade. He asked me if I wanted a demonstration, I politely declined; he called them anyway. Within minutes a big red Soviet fire truck appeared and started to unravel hoses until Herr Gelbfisch told them to halt.

We then moved to his house, which was a Bond villain's monstrosity of glass & steel. He had a 5-a- side football pitch in the grounds & a riverside bar. He insisted on showing us his harbour where he kept a collection of ridiculous boats. The afternoon was getting more surreal by the hour. After playing football & nearly drowning in the river we went for a jaunty ride on one of his speed boats. This makes you realise why rich people are not happy. They buy these toys and then don't understand why bouncing around on the waves doesn't make them happier. Although I have to say that I felt much happier when I got back to dry land.

We then dined at his personal "private"restaurant. By this point I had been drinking for most of the day. Herr Goldberg insisted that I finish my vodka with every toast, "trinken, trinken" he shouted.

I'd had enough. I got up and left. I was banned from the Island.

My finest hour

I grew up in Edinburgh. I went to one of the best local primary schools, Dean Park in Balerno.

But when I was eleven I had to go to the big school, Currie High. The building was forbidding, the teachers were a bottle of alcoholics and the dinners were disgusting. A friend of mine, Duffy, was rude about the meat pies to the dinner lady. These were a concoction that Sweeney Todd would think twice about serving to the public.

Mrs. Fletcher, a formidable lady comparable to the Trunchbull in Matilda, decided to organise a witch-hunt. She came to our music lesson and singled out poor Duffy. He was told to stand in front of the class to answer for his crime. Fletcher then asked if any amongst us had also been rude about the pies.

This was my Spartacus moment. My chance to stand alongside my friend. We all knew that the pies were unfit for purpose. Pathetically I did nothing. It's my greatest regret.

But years later at college I had a chance to redeem myself. The Student Union had put forward a motion that we should sponsor a South African student. Everyone agreed with this fine act. I had marched against Apartheid that summer in London.

But they had no oppostion. And the meeting was not quorate. They had to run around the college grounds dragging people to the meeting to get the required 10% of the student body to pass the motion. They proposed the motion. Then they asked if anyone would speak against it.

I stood up. I was shaking. But I knew that I had to speak against the fact that they had no opposition. There were cries of "Fascist" and "Nazi" as I walked to the podium.

Somehow I managed to say a few words about how the English legal system always required an opposition. In the Hollywood version of my life I will be played by Morgan Freeman and I will be calm & eloquent. In reality I was probably as loquacious as Colin Firth in the King's Speech.

But I did it. I had my Spartacus moment.

Edinburgh...Proud Town

I used to share an office with a Ukrainian-American called Ed. He always protested that he was Polish-American but as both his parents were born in what is now Ukraine he was clearly Ukrainian.

We hired him because he spoke all the languages of the region. Russian, Polish & German...plus his English wasn't bad either. So he was equally useless in a multi-lingual way. But he did know a lot of people. And like a child with stray animals he was always bringing them to our "home" on ulica Madalinskiego.

One day he brought a very strange couple. They looked like living versions of Ken & Barbie. He was Californianski with golden hair, perfect teeth and expensive skin. She was a Polish model of exquisite beauty & seemingly little brain. I don't even know why Ed brought them to our ad agency. But he soon left me alone with them while he went to make coffee.

"Ken" started talking to me while "Barbie" sat there practicing her beauty.

"Where are you from?" he asked
"Scotland" I replied
"Which city?" he enquired
"Edinburgh" I answered

"Proud town" he exclaimed in his deep & deeply pretentious voice, and then repeated with greater emphasis, "Proud town"

I had to leave the room as I was starting to laugh. But he's right, Edinburgh is a proud town.

Warszawa nicht Warschau

When I was in Poland I was visited by an arrogant little German gentleman called Christopher Schumacher.

He was selling media space in Axel Springer or G&J or Bauer. During our meeting he kept talking about "Warschau this & Warschau that & Warshau the other." This was irritating me as we went to War so that it wouldn't be called Warschau. So I said in my poor school Deutsch.

"Entschuldigen Sie - es ist nicht genannt Warschau seinen Namen Warszawa - you lost."

One has to do these things - after all they bombed me Granny.