Here I am at a golf resort at Lough Erne in Northern Ireland for the G8 summit. I had been hoping for a superb opportunity to distract attention from the various "scandals" back home and display my unique talents as a statesman and diplomat. But Air Force One had not even landed at Belfast before Vlad the Inhaler was warning the rest of us, via the media, not to arm the Syrian rebels. What an atrocious schemer he is. He knows perfectly well that I have just authorized such arming and he wants the limelight for himself. From previous experience I know the man loves to show off his torso. So I will invite him for a swim in the resort pool. Now he is divorced he will leap at the chance to display his squat, muscled body to the media. He loves to goad me, to crush my elegant fingers in a harsh handshake as he fixes me with those cold, narrow-set blue eyes, looking for the slightest flinch. And so it was today. "Care for a refreshing swim, Vladimir?" I asked him. "Да" he said, which means "yes " to those of you without my extensive education and knowledge of Cyrillic script which I learned at Moscow University [no you may not see my transcripts]."Let's meet at the pool in ten minutes, " Da!" I replied. I went to my suite where Marv Nicholson had already laid out my swimming shorts. When I arrived at the pool, Vlad was already strutting about self-importantly chest puffed out, belly drawn in. Without further ado I dove in and he followed. Out of breath, we soon stopped swimming and began to tread water. Unseen by me, he dove under, again seized my shorts in both hands and ripped them down over my feet, throwing them out of my reach at the edge of the pool. I was naked and thus trapped in the water. "Marco! [code for "help!"] I yelled to any of my Secret Service detail who might be within earshot Luckily my aid, Marv, had just arrived at the pool with a towel. "Polo!" he yelled back, immediately reading the gravity of the situation and tucked a toe under my wet shorts, dragging them discreetly back into the water where I was able to grasp them as they sank and wriggle them back on. Awkwaard! As I emerged from the water, I saw Vlad sitting in a poolside chair, heaving with Slavic laughter. I hissed at him: "ублюдок" [bastard!] and stomped off to the refuge in my suite, there to restore my dignity with a bottle of Guinness from the mini-bar. But enough about me.
Here I am at a golf resort at Lough Erne in Northern Ireland for the G8 summit. I had been hoping for a superb opportunity to distract attention from the various "scandals" back home and display my unique talents as a statesman and diplomat. But Air Force One had not even landed at Belfast before Vlad the Inhaler was warning the rest of us, via the media, not to arm the Syrian rebels. What an atrocious schemer he is. He knows perfectly well that I have just authorized such arming and he wants the limelight for himself. From previous experience I know the man loves to show off his torso. So I will invite him for a swim in the resort pool. Now he is divorced he will leap at the chance to display his squat, muscled body to the media. He loves to goad me, to crush my elegant fingers in a harsh handshake as he fixes me with those cold, narrow-set blue eyes, looking for the slightest flinch. And so it was today. "Care for a refreshing swim, Vladimir?" I asked him. "Да" he said, which means "yes " to those of you without my extensive education and knowledge of Cyrillic script which I learned at Moscow University [no you may not see my transcripts]."Let's meet at the pool in ten minutes, " Da!" I replied. I went to my suite where Marv Nicholson had already laid out my swimming shorts. When I arrived at the pool, Vlad was already strutting about self-importantly chest puffed out, belly drawn in. Without further ado I dove in and he followed. Out of breath, we soon stopped swimming and began to tread water. Unseen by me, he dove under, again seized my shorts in both hands and ripped them down over my feet, throwing them out of my reach at the edge of the pool. I was naked and thus trapped in the water. "Marco! [code for "help!"] I yelled to any of my Secret Service detail who might be within earshot Luckily my aid, Marv, had just arrived at the pool with a towel. "Polo!" he yelled back, immediately reading the gravity of the situation and tucked a toe under my wet shorts, dragging them discreetly back into the water where I was able to grasp them as they sank and wriggle them back on. Awkwaard! As I emerged from the water, I saw Vlad sitting in a poolside chair, heaving with Slavic laughter. I hissed at him: "ублюдок" [bastard!] and stomped off to the refuge in my suite, there to restore my dignity with a bottle of Guinness from the mini-bar. But enough about me.