"So what did 'u' say..?"
"I said nothing your honour..."
"No, i mean 'u'..?"
"Me..? As i said your honour..." Etc... Etc...
I could go on but you get the drift. Yep, every now and again a Member of Parliament gets his... 'Ahem'... member out, pillow talk ensues, and months later it turns out that his secretary has more Russian FSB contacts than Vladimir Putin ever knew he had. For you young people, FSB is what we used to call the KGB, the Soviets, the red menace, commies if you will... Either way, they are spies, the whole damn lot of them, and it would seem they are still capable of fielding a good old fashioned honey trap for diplomats and politicians to get their teeth into.
|The Cameraman from Russia Today... I spied on his movements for hours. Turned out he was as bored as i was, hanging around street corners.|
You have probably realised that i have mentioned no names. There is a reason for this. I don't want to drink my morning Latte at 9am and go to bed tonight glowing like a lava lamp following an ingestion of Polonium, courtesy of a shady bloke called Boris Tvistabollokov... Oh no. I will leave the fearless reporting to the fearless reporters. And anyway, i have a bad back. So why am i telling you this?
Well i found myself in London this morning covering the deportation hearing of said honey trap/Spy/Secretary. Deportation? i hear you say... Well yes. You see the lady in question was not a high class hooker, a disenchanted socialist bent on the downfall of British imperialism, nor was she an upper class English rose, turned by the FSB whilst her diplomat father traded cocktails at the Russian Embassy. She is a Russian... From Russia, with a well known liking for bumping uglies with diplomats on a regular basis, yet still found herself hired by a British MP, given a pass for the halls of Westminster, and all this with added benefits from said MP which involved pillows, beds, and oodles of sweat.... I will say no more.
I am not making this shit up... Honest.
So there i was, standing in my usual place on the street corner, whilst the plot of an early eighties Bond film played out inside the hearing rooms. And having filmed the protagonists entering and leaving the building, i guess that a few spying careers may have gone down the gurgler. I imagine it thus...
"Ah... Mr Bond, i've been expecting you. I saw you on the BBC News..."
But no matter. The world of treachery, spies and the shagging of important people by undercover Mata Hari's goes on as it always has, and always will. And if a good looking woman approaches me and introduces herself as Pussy Galore, then sign me up... MI6 with a license to kill. But if i were a Member of Parliament, in my fifties and over the hill, and were romanced by a pretty 19 year old Russian girl with a keen interest in defence matters, alarms would start ringing, and so would the phone on M's desk.
But i guess some people just don't see it the way i do... Nope, instead of hosing them down with bullets from my trusty Walther PPK, I shall do so through the lens of my camera. Bring the whole sordid mess into the glare of the public eye... But from now on, if you call me on the phone or meet me in the street, the phrase you must remember is...
"The wind is cold on Westminster bridge..." And i shall reply, "It is the winter winds from the East..."
Then i will know it is you.
Paul Martin is @ukcameraman on Twitter