Father and son: How to insult Russian Ogliarchs in Monaco

It so happened that on my most recent trip to the continent with my two dear friends Ms Belle Douleur and Aunty Tonje in tow, we did happen upon two Russians: "look" I whispered the three of us sitting around a table in the Cafe De Paris " it's a father and son act" as two males walked in and loitered near our table looking for the best spot. One of the them was very tall, tanned and most good looking in a "ken way" the other short and squat, heavy of frame with a very round face, anorak and glasses; in fact it has to be said that this was the roundest face any of us had ever come across; as we three ladies later agreed upon - Aunty making a most correct observational comment that he had "a cartoon face". As we were three ladies in Monaco however and were prepared for a time of partying and socialising, we were prepared to overlook looks and covers for want of some engaging company and entertainment: henceforth the following ensued:

As the Nazi waiter brought a bill over and asked for payment - even though we were not moving and pleaded further drinks to his insistence of a "pay as you go along basis" (so un-continental). Father and son had sat right next to us. I tried to grasp their accent as the waiter spoke to them - believing to myself that they sounded of eastern extraction but not feeling sure of the whereabouts of their cultural origins exactly and with son disappearing for a few minutes I urged, in the most matronly and persuasive of ways, Aunty Tonje on: inspired heavily by a group of young women at the next table who, we had gleaned, had had their drinks brought for them by some old sugardaddie type. Aunty being the outgoing party girl of the three of us was nudged further and further in the most unabashed of manners by myself - " go on, talk to him...do it...ask him of any good clubs...go on...he's looking, he's looking...I urged. And so Aunty Tonje made her move; " erm, excuse me, the Russian favoured not to hear but kept his comely look about him "excuse me" Aunty spoke up and he looked to our direction " we were wondering if would know of any good places to visit around here of an evening". And so the descent began.

"Well" he spoke " I can recommend Cannes at the moment because of the film festival - his accent remaining unidentified until I piped up - "where are you from" just as Shortie sat down. "Russia" he spoke directly at me, "marvelous!" I exclaimed and at that point the waiter came over, Russian Ken gesturing with his hand, "ladies drinks?" "mines a white wine" Tonje said, Belle ordered a cocktail and myself a sparkling water. Shortie sat in his chair side by side with me so that when we spoke we had to turn our heads slightly and our eyes moreso - it was obvious that we could bare not to look at one another. "And what do you do" Tonje followed. "He's a plumber" I said grinning at Russian Ken. Showing his sense of humour he laughed and said "I work in coal and metal"; "he's a miner" said Aunty - again Russian Ken laughed, Shortie sporting a smile also. That's not a tan said Aunty it's coal dust - he offered his hand forth and she rubbed it and everyone laughed at the 'un-PC' joke, the Russians no doubt at our blinding cheek. "Do you know of any good bars or clubs" said Aunty to Shortie? "Well we went to a club called ****** (some name I cannot remember) in Cannes which was pretty good but there is a problem here" chimed Shortie "there are so many whores here in Monaco" - to this his alpha male reference of persuasion I took not too kindly and the air turned sourer than one could have imagined marked by a deathly silence; one of many to come. Shortie through one true but tirade filled statement had, without doubt, landed himself in my bad books. "Well isn't that why you came here" I retorted "and isn't everyone a whore in this capitalist world?" I followed. There was a silence. In a seemingly but shallow attempt to change the mood Shortie said "So where are you from" Aunty told him she was Norweigan but lived in London, "we're English" I divulged, pointing between Belle and myself. He snorted "I went to school in England - a top public school - Seven Oaks". "Oh" I remarked "wouldn't Eton be the top public school?" " No Seven Oaks has been the top school for some years". "How come you don't have an English accent then? I enquired, suspicious as always. I haven't tried, I wanted to keep my Russian accent. "You look Russian" he said to Aunty, " lots of people tell me that" she said. "And what do I look like," I joined in, there was yet again another silence. "I've never been to Russia although I should like to go to Moscow" my feeble attempts at a truce seemed to have some impact as both the Russians nodded agreeing it was a beautiful city "but I once had a boyfriend who dated Russian women, he had a degree and MA in Russian and Eastern politics he told me Russian women were cold and that he would never date them again". The Russians flinched - it seems I had knocked us down their scale another notch all through my cynical experience of lives and life. "Typical and ignorant" hissed Shortie. The conversation then turned to politics and communism whereby I was in my element and Shortie and myself exchanged blows loaded with both sarcasms and truisms. "Of course" I remember concluding, "there really is no such thing as communism" I remember well that Shortie let out a small laugh but I felt he agreed mostly with my statement. "I must say", getting onto the subject of the rich and poor gap in large countries such as Russia who had favoured communism previously, "that with communism's profession of progression one would think that all those communist countries would have the lowest mortality and crime rates. Shortie stiffened and attempted to defend Russia as I crusaded on in the brusquest of mannerisms. For twen minutes or so 'Twas Russia versus Uk versus communism vs capitalism versus humanism versus the human condition etc,. Russian Ken, Belle and Aunty who had opted out of politics were trying to amend the relationship through light conversation but it seemed that all attempts were futile. "Well" I recall saying at this point of the scenario which it must be admitted is now rather fragmented in my mind "if we want to talk progression" after the Russian had made a swipe at out and out capitalism "don't they sell children's body parts in Russia" I made no apology for my rudeness again I brought everyone to an excruciating silence, Shortie eventually answering with "typical ignorant English". I agreed "yes it was an ignorant statement, that is very true" and so was the statement itself I thought and I am sure they quietly agreed. As the conversation had turned to politics, "progressive society" and nationalism of sorts Aunty made her escape and had now gone to the lavatory and there was again a pervading uncomfortable silence - things were not going well. Belle and Russian Ken then started to talk about cigars and she accepted a cigarette from him. On Aunty's return Shortie expressed his succinct observational skills " so it seems you are the quiet one" he pointed to Belle " you the chatty, fun one and you" - he glanced sideways at me and me at him - and paused as I filled in "I am the dangerous one" yes" he replied as though genuinely thankful for my erudite self-description. The conversation turned to "So how are you getting back" we drove I said - I saw them exchange glances: clearly they wanted a lift and as we had made ourselves uncomfortable in our presence I wasn't going to put out (with a lift) unless they put in - the final nail came when the waiter sauntered over and landed us the bill - the Russians not offering to pay, made Aunty Tonje's face a picture as she seemingly choked on her drink, Belle got out her purse with very much readiness and I laughed out aloud as though not in the least surprised. Do not they say you should never talk politics over dinner; such fun! Aunty ordered another drink and the conversation lay sparse on the ground at this point. As we sauntered off I bent down and whispered in Shortie's ear " Seven Oaks my arse" "Seven Oaks your arse" was the riposte. Exactly, I thought, I had him in training and he wasn't even aware.

As we walked out a heavily accented waiter came running behind us - "excuse me Madame, there is an unpaid bill" An inebriated Aunty had forgotten to pay for the last drink.

The beginning of our adventures on the Riveria.