Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Invasion of the Russian Gold-Diggers - by Tom Mitchelson
Forget the oligarchs, no one is attracted to money like the new army of Russian beauties taking over London. Femail went undercover to find out what they're REALLY after...
People stare at Natalia. She is stunningly beautiful, elegant, and with a figure that a movie star would die for.
I've known her for four hours and we have just had a bottle of champagne that cost me £200. Now we're strolling down Old Bond Street in London.
She pauses at a jewellery shop and stares in the window. With an exquisitely manicured finger, she points to a diamond encrusted wristwatch.
"This is lovely," she tells me. "Will you buy it for me when the shop opens tomorrow?"
"It's £33,000," I choke. She looks at me, puzzled.
Her blue eyes freeze and she removes her hand from my arm.
"Is money a problem?" she asks, in a caring sort of way.
This is not my normal life. It all started a few weeks earlier when I heard that Britain is under siege from a monstrous regiment of Russian temptresses - arriving here on the billionaire coat tails of Roman Abramovich and his fabulously wealthy friends, and set on grabbing a British boyfriend, a British expense account and a British passport.
Was this true? Or was it just an urban myth? It is certainly widely believed, I found.
There's plenty of talk around the place about Rapacious Russians and Slavic Sirens stalking our streets in search of men - and men with money, at that.
If they exist, they are a glittering army of clever, glamorous, ambitious, sophisticated vamps, descending, locust-like on London, the world's leading financial centre, in a mad search for merchant bankers, commodity traders and City bonus - pocketers.
But was this picture correct? To find out, I would romance the Russianistas, uncover the Ukrainians, and leave no Estonian unturned.
My technique is simple. I shall adopt the persona of a wealthy young man-about-town.
Not wanting to be caught out by elaborate lies, I tell anyone who asks that I inherited my money and amuse myself by writing screenplays.
The truth is I am not a City high-flyer and not even a plumber. In fact, I'm a penniless young writer. But I do own one good suit and I know how to act.
I resolve to spend money I don't have as if there's no tomorrow - and keep a diary that may go some way to keeping me.
I begin my quest in a nightclub in the West End. It is guest-list only. I talk my way onto the list and saunter in.
The crowd is heaving. Sleek women of uncertain backgrounds dance round their handbags, and I can hear the murmur of Slavic accents.
"There's a lot of Eastern Europeans in tonight," I say to the barman.
"Yeah, it's Russian night. Every night is Russian night."
It is 2.37am when I find what I've been looking for. Natalia and I click.
We flirt, we dance and exchange numbers. We arrange a date.
The following evening I'm in a five-star hotel in Mayfair - her choice of meeting point. It seems to be a favourite haunt of hers.
High heels echo over the marble floor and Natalia enters, her Slavic cheekbones accentuated by her tiedback hair.
She's wearing something blue and filmy that shouts money.
She doesn't want to eat because she's worried about her figure, but she does want to drink.
Her tipple is Bollinger 1998 at £180 a go.
My jaw drops, but I have to remember this is her world. As confidently as possible, I take out my wallet.
She tells me that though she's from Moscow, she holidays in Mustique and Monaco and loves Prada.
I ask if she's heard of Primark. She hasn't. And then we're off.
Natalia wants us to meet her friends at a nightclub. I
t's called Pangaea and it's popular with visiting Russians and the younger members of the Royal Family.
This is where Prince Harry took it upon himself to lash out at a photographer, so I know it must be a classy joint.
She gets in free, but it costs me £30. We sit with two other Russian girls and Natalia demands I buy more champagne - which leaves me £150 less well off (not that I was well off anyway).
There's much laughter and joviality. Unfortunately, much of it is in Russian and I'm beginning to feel my function is merely to pick up the bill.
Where is this going? Does Natalia see all men - me included - as cash cows?
It is 4.23am when Natalia and I leave, together, and she sees the wristwatch - £33,000-worth of antique gold, silver and precious stones - in the shop window. So that's where she thinks it's going.
I make my excuses, as they say, and leave. I feel a little let down by Natalia's commercial approach and decide it's wise - if only for the sake of my bank manager's sanity - that we don't see each other again.
Natalia seems less than upset when I tell her so.
Next day, I head west to Chelsea, home of the ultimate oligarch, Roman Abramovich.
There seem to be more Russians in Chelsea than were at the Siege of Stalingrad. They haunt stylish bars, ostentatious restaurants and swanky hotels. Understated good taste is not their scene.
It is here that I meet Svetlana. I'm pretending to be working on my laptop in a bar when I hear the now unmistakable sound of Russian being spoken. Time to make my move.
I've perfected a blatant approach. Once I'm fairly sure the girl is Russian (normally by eavesdropping on her conversations), I sidle over and make lighthearted small-talk to assess the situation. Favoured topics
of conversation would be the barman, for example, the bar or the club.
Continuing a conversation with an available Russianista from there on isn't difficult.
After all, she was there to find a suitable man - and I was there to find a suitable woman.
I take Svetlana to the American Bar at the Savoy.
Even without her sixinch heels, she is tall. (I'm 6ft 1in and she towers over me.)
She's from St Petersburg, she tells me, and is 24. She adores nightclubs and giggles about getting in free on account of her uscule skirts.
She tells me: "I find myself very good-looking."
She is proud of her curves - "Men are not dogs, they don't like bones" - and long legs.
As she sips her chilled Vodka Martini she tells me she wants to see more of the world, travelling first class.
Top of her list is Venice. "Venice is one of the seven wonders of the world," she informs me.
As the evening goes on, it turns out Svetlana thinks Disney World in Florida is another of the seven wonders of the world.
As is Nelson's column, apparently. I steer the conversation away from the Millennium Wheel, the Dome of St Paul's and Big Ben...Svetlana turns her attention to hair colour and asks me if I think brunettes are more intelligent than blondes. I tell her I don't.
She nods enthusiastically. "Yes, because if you were a blonde and dyed your hair brunette, how would that make a difference?" I'm impressed by her logic.
"There are even people who think blondes are stupid," she laughs, shaking her golden hair in delight.
I order another Martini. Svetlana tells me that an ex-boyfriend bought her a convertible Mini. I sense she would expect the same from me.
I have a fun evening with Svetlana, but it is obvious that my most important charm (apart from my tolerance of endless discussion of hair colour) is what she believes to be my wealth.
That's what she's looking for - and she'll find it, because she's determined to. But not from me.
In a hotel bar near Hyde Park Corner, I find Ludmila. While ordering drinks, I strike up conversation. She is a brunette and intelligent. Frighteningly intelligent.
She's 23 and has a Double First from Cambridge.
She's been in England since her parents sent her to boarding school at the age of 15.
We go to a restaurant and she suggests we drink straight vodka.
She is doing her final practical training to become a pathologist. I watch in awe as she expertly dissects her rare steak.
In order to justify my interest in Russian women, I have claimed a knowledge of the nation's literature.
To my horror, between bloody mouthfuls she starts to question me on Tolstoy. I more or less carry it off - and adjust my mental stereotype of a Muscovite moll.
It's an enjoyable evening, and oddly I don't feel she is one of the Russianistas seeking wealth above all else.
Money, however, seems to be assumed in an eligible man.
The meal costs an arm and a leg - the best part of £200. Ludmila does not bat an eyelid and she has no plans on going dutch.
I wonder when the last time was that she paid for anything.
I drop her off in the taxi, and the next morning she sends me a text message telling me she had a nice time.
In other circumstances I might have seen her again, but my wallet would not allow it.
Nastia proves less complicated. She's pretty, pale-skinned and has a pixie-like expression. Audrey Hepburn meets Bjork.
Having overheard her accent in a small coffee shop in central London, I strike up conversation and invite her out for dinner. She consents.
I am sensing a pattern here. These gals will happily accede to a request for a date from any man who looks loaded.
Whether you ever actually get a second date depends on whether you really are rich.
Perhaps there's a sliding scale: first base if you're worth a million, second base for two million.
I ask Nastia where she'd like to go. She says Nobu (one of London's most fashionable and expensive restaurants).
Nastia tells me it's her particular ambition to get to know an Englishman and explains that she is turned on by "money and power". At least she's honest.
She would like to meet a "self-sufficient man which is engaged in favourite business".
I'm delighted when she tells me she finds me a "cheerful person" and that it would be "desirable to communicate further with me".
She adds: "I hope for serious attitude from you."
I take Nastia to Nobu and she apologises for her English.
I tell her it's far better than my Russian. She asks me what I mean. The evening turns into a series of mistranslations.
I ask where in Russia she comes from.
"Vilnius." she replies. "But that's Lithuania," I say, exhibiting my GCSE geography.
"When I born, it in Soviet Union. So I'm Russian. I don't like Lithuanians."
Despite the language barrier, Nastia seems keen and at one point leans over the table and whispers in my ear: "You are my white horse man."
Keen not to lead her on, I tell her I ought to make the last Tube home.
She tells me: "I think we met because of satellites hitting."
She really must think I'm Mr Moneybags to be giving me this spiel.
Having remortgaged my flat, I am able to pay the bill at Nobu, and Nastia and I part as friends. I am beginning to think that even if they are all golddiggers, they are tremendous fun.
But then I encounter Oxana from Ekaterinburg, whom I've been put in touch with through a friend.
She wants to meet me near the Bank of England. This is clearly a woman who likes the proximity of money.
I book a restaurant with a Michelin-starred chef and wait in the bar for her to arrive. Blonde with harsh features, she briskly shakes my hand and refuses a drink from the bar. She wants a cup of tea.
Then, in a whiney voice, she begins to catalogue her complaints about life.
She hates the weather, she is cold, she is tired and she doesn't feel well.
And she doesn't live in Kensington, near all her Russian friends, and is angry about it.
We move into the restaurant and examine the menu.
After a moment she puts it down and says: "There is nothing I wish to eat on this card."
"Nothing at all?" I ask. "Nothing."
I mentally shrug and go over to the maitre d' and explain discreetly: "I'm very sorry but something's come up and we have to leave."
At this point, Oxana joins us. "To which restaurant do we go now?" she asks loudly.
Finally we find a restaurant she approves of.
Now she doesn't want tea: she grabs the wine list.
She explains to me that she had been married to a man from Azerbaijan who was resident in the UK.
Now they are divorced. On the basis of my evening with her, he will have had no difficulty proving unreasonable behaviour.
Throughout the meal she keeps talking on her mobile phone (in Russian).
She asks me whether I have any single friends because all her friends want to meet men.
"Are they Russian?" I ask. "Of course."
I bid farewell to Oxana, muttering good riddance once she's out of earshot.
Natalia, Ludmila, Nastia, Svetlana, Oxana - were they typical? It had become clear to me that I had only scratched the surface - that there are thousands, maybe tens of thousands out there, looking for a rich British date.
But let me offer a word of warning to over-sexed Englishmen hoping for an easy catch and quick escape.
These Russians are no credulous bimbos. Nor are they one-night escorts in search of a smart restaurant, champagne and a taxi home.
They may be hot stuff, but they are smarter than you, more determined than you - and probably taller than you, too.
So think twice before messing with an unattached Russian lady. Believe me, there will be a high price to pay.
On behalf of No Ma'am, Rob Fedders would like to reaffirm his delight in the following website:
Monday, May 14, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Then, please take the time to read this article by Tara Lohan in regard to the book,
(Some selected excerpts from the article):
All across the United States, municipal water systems are being bought up by multinational corporations, turning one of our last remaining public commons and our most vital resource into a commodity.
The road to privatization is being paved by our own government. The Bush administration is actively working to loosen the hold that cities and towns have over public water, enabling corporations to own the very thing we depend on for survival.
"We came to see that the conflicts over water are really about fundamental questions of democracy itself: Who will make the decisions that affect our future, and who will be excluded?" they wrote in the book's preface. "And if citizens no longer control their most basic resource, their water, do they really control anything at all?"
...privatization means transforming citizens into customers. Or, in other words, making people engaged in a democratic process into consumers looking to get the best deal.
It is also means taking our most important resource and putting it at the whims of the market.
Currently, water systems are controlled publicly in 90 percent of communities across the world and 85 percent in the United States, but that number is changing rapidly, the authors report in "Thirst." In 1990, 50 million people worldwide got their water services from private companies, but by 2002 it was 300 million and growing.
There are a number of reasons to be concerned.
Globally, corporations are promoting water privatization under the guise of efficiency, but the fact is that they are not paying the full cost of public infrastructure, environmental damage, or healthcare for those they hurt," said Ashley Schaeffer of Corporate Accountability International. "Water is a human right and not a privilege."
The companies first pushed water privatization in developing nations. "But in many instances, those attempts didn't pan out as planned, it being difficult to gouge governments and customers that don't have a lot of money," Public Citizen reports. "The U.S., by contrast, presented the promise of a steady, reliable revenue stream from customers willing and able to pay water bills."
In Felton, Calif., a small regional utility ran the water system until it was purchased in 2001 by California American Water, a subsidiary of American Water, which is a subsidiary of Thames Water in London, which has also become a subsidiary of German giant RWE. Residents in Felton saw their rates skyrocket, "Thirst" reports. A woman who runs a facility for people in need saw her water bill increase from $250 to $1,275 a month.
(Link to the entire article: http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=viewArticle&code=LOH20070425&articleId=5483 )
Lol, AND THEN, read this piece describing "Public-Private Enterprise" and how Al Gore, the same traitor who is instrumental in causing the Global Warming Hype which threatens national sovereignties world wide, was also a major player in bringing about the whole notion of "Public-Private Partnerships."
Excerpt from an interview with United Nations expert, Joan Veon (interviewed by Geoff Metcalf for World Net Daily, August 27th, 2000):
Q: I'd like to throw a few key phases at you and get your response. "Public-private partnerships." That sounds pretty benign.
A: One of the things to remember is the United Nations never defines words. Actually, words end up becoming very hidden in their meaning. That was part of what I was trying to figure out in trying to understand what their agenda was. Public-private partnerships is a phrase I first came across in 1996. I spent six months researching it. I've written two books about it. It is extremely simple and very, very key. And let me say, it is Al Gore who has spearheaded a complete structural change of our government through public-private partnership. Interestingly enough, he's not even talking about it as to why the American people should elect him president when he has already restructured our Constitution. But a public-private partnership is exactly what it says.
Q: Break it down for us into its various components.
A: First of all, it is a partnership. It is a business arrangement. That is extremely important. The idea of any business is profit. The partners in this particular arrangement are both public and private. The public partners pertain to government: local, county, state, federal, foreign and international governments. They can all be involved, one or two or three can be involved.
Q: We have a real good example that was just pushed through and it seemed benign at the time. The agreement that Andy Cuomo blackmailed Smith and Wesson to sign was ostensibly a public-private partnership, which would have resulted in government control of a private industry.
A: The private partners are business, multinational, transnational corporations -- as well as nongovernmental organizations, these minions of a different philosophy other than the Constitution who are all funded by the foundations of the multinational, transnational corporations. So, what is a public-private partnership? It is the shifting of government responsibility and government services into a partnership with other parties -- primarily those who have deep pockets -- because your county, local and state governments are all bankrupt. What they are now saying is, "Look, we need stronger hands, deeper pockets to help us do what we used to do. We're going to do it a little differently."
Q: Once again, the golden rule: The guy with the gold makes the rules.
A: Exactly. They say, "We're going to do it in a partnership, a public-private partnership." The people of Dallas don't want their taxes raised, so they have to use what they call "innovative financing." The city sewer system has just shifted from being owned by the people of Dallas into this new entity, which is a partnership jointly owned by government and business. These people are sitting around the corporate table. The bottom line is, who has the power? Obviously, you and I know very clearly -- whoever has the deepest pockets and the most money has the power. What has just happened?
Q: A redistribution of assets?
A: Yes, sir. A major asset has been shifted out of governmental hands into a new relationship, a public-private partnership that is for business, which is, by way of philosophical bent, fascism, because fascism is the marriage between government and business. The bottom line now is profit -- and the citizens now become customers.
Why not privatize water, eh? Just steal it from us, the people, and then force us to buy it back at a profit for whichever Multinational Corporation stole it from us in the first place.
I mean, it's not like we haven't seen privatization popping elsewhere - like private mercenary forces hired by the government to go to the Middle East... or privatized "police forces" to suppress and terrorize the citizens of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.
Put the pieces together, people. This is some serious shit that is happening right underneath our noses.
I'd say "welcome to the New World Order," but I think the new leaders frown on Serfs believing they have a right to speak for themselves.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Yup, Spring has come to Beautiful British Columbia and it isn't the daffodils that tipped me off.
I'm a guy, and I don't notice Spring by blooming flowers or hundreds of baby bunnies hopping around.
In BC, we know it's Spring when the @#%&$ Canucks get eliminated from the playoffs. It has happened every year of my life. The Canucks lose, I look out the window and go, "Hey, it's Spring out."
Well, maybe after we get over-run by the Marxofeminist Totalitarian State, we can send the losing team up to the Arctic for the summer. Perhaps that will motivate them to win the Cup just ONCE in my lifetime!
I suppose that the DV Shelters throughout the province will be having a busy night tonight, given that men must be taking out their frustrations by beating up their wives and probably even extinguishing cigarettes into their children's arms... I mean, the Stanley Cup Playoffs are Canada's Superbowl.
Sigh. Tomorrow, after I've calmed down from my violently drunken stupor, I'll cash in all my empty beer cans and donate the money to the local anti-family propaganda shelter/divorce center. You know, to show my support for the liars in the Pink Proletariat.
Read why I despise Trudeau in the following posts: