Europe is Screwed...or so I heard this morning at the coffee shop...

Before we get to it, the other notable thing about the conversation was that the person in question was struggling to remember the name of "some old Russian President... Boris... Boris... what was his name?"

Yikes. It was less than 5 years ago, wasn't it, that Yeltsin's presidency ended? I kept quiet, because no one likes some complete stranger dipping. Another genius chirped in with:

"Yeltsin? The drunk one, always drunk, that's what he's famous for."

"Not for being the first leader of a Russian State to be democratically elected, or for finally getting rid of the old guard of Communism? He did a bit more than drink vodka."

Oops. Spot the pompous and tedious windbag in the corner. Oh well. I've always felt sorry for poor old Boris, because I suspect that because he wasn't as pretty as Gorbachev, that he got a rougher ride from the media than he deserved.

Anyway, this gal went on to relate the following, which she swears her professor swears is true. That's all you need to know about the plausibility of this right there. Naturally it's a myth, but it's a fun one.

When Yeltsin came to power, he was informed by his security advisers that the Soviet Union had placed nuclear weapons - suitcase bombs - in 60 cities around Europe. Good grief, get them back at once, was the gist of what he said.

Only 32 were retrieved.

There the story ends, inviting us all to go "uuhhhhh....", and wonder where the rest of these are. Captured by the West, which kept them secret? Sold to terrorists? Or still there? Each option is hilarious to consider, but my favorite is the last.

"Right, Yeltsin has personally ordered the recovery of our hidden nuclear bombs from these European cities. I'm in charge, so I'm going to Paris."

"Bagsy Barcelona."

"I want Rome. I've never been to Rome."



"We still have a few left. Birmingham. Glasgow. Marseilles."

"Fuck off, I'm not going to Glasgow. Pfft."

"Come on, we've got to get these back. You, Stanislav: go to Glasgow, that's an order."

"Yeah, you get Paris, and I get Glasgow? How is that fair? We should at least draw straws."

"I'm in charge, and you'll go to fucking Glasgow if I say so."

"Make me."

"Oh for fuck's sake."

So, straws are drawn.

"Ha ha Stanislav, you got Glasgow anyway, and I got Paris. Ha ha."

"It's a fix."

"Grow up, and get the fucking bomb. The security of Mother Rus, er, Commonwealth of Independent States is at stake."

"Like I care. Glasgow. Pfft."

"You'll go, and that's that."



"Awright mate; on yer holidays, or comin' hame?"

"Is business trip. Please take me to Hampden Stadium."

"Right ye are. Oan a spying mission, ur ye?"

"What?!"

"Calm doon, pal, I just huv ye pegged as wan o' they foreign managers, ower here fur a wee swatch at the groond an' that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"As ye like, pal. Maw's the word. 5, airport pickup, oan ma way tae Mount Florida."



"Excuse me - "

"Aye, whit?"

"This is Hampden Stadium?"

"Aye, ye dobber."

"But... but... it is new."

"Rebuilt, intit? Not frae roond here, eh? Ye English?"

"No..."

"Frae Edinburgh?"

"No..."

"That's awrite then. Cannae stand they cunts. Good here, intit?"

"What?"

"Glasgow: brilliant, intit? Friendliest fuckin' people on earth, aye? Salt of, my man: salt fuckin' of. Sense o' humour an' that. Fuckin' brand new. The patter's excellent, naw?"

"Er... yes."

"Here, huv ye got a spare fag?"

Fucking Glasgow. I'm going home.




"Well, Stanislav?"

"It was gone."

"Damn. The Americans must have that one as well. Why their security is so good in these grim European cities, I don't know. Piotr, how did you get on in Birmingham?"

"Lovely. Very hot. Do you like my tan?"

"The bomb, you moron."

"Oh that... gone. No sign of it. Looked everywhere."

"Why are you wearing a sombrero, Piotr?"