He’s Only Half Way There

“I think,” I said to Amy, “that I have got that Mr Putin half way up my chimney. Or as he would regard it, half way down.”

I couldn’t help regretting that there was no way to share my predicament instead with Augustus Sly, but he is in Vienna following up my neighbour Maria’s bottom. He would probably have had something sensible to offer whereas Amy was always more likely to shout.

“You got in your chimney how? I saw him at G20, on television.”

I started to tell her about my night terror and my fateful and clumsy use of the yulification ‘app’, which had had the effect of making a bad situation much worse.

“I know. I read this. But how you know it’s Putin?”

“I don’t, of course, and of course I saw him at the G20 too. That may have been a double. He wouldn’t have wanted to have a full and frank exchange of views with Angela Merkel himself – who would? – or with our own Mr Cameron, bless him, so he may have sent a stooge. Lenin would do that, expose someone else instead when there was any risk to his personal safety. It’s certainly someone Russian. I twisted the Cossack foot. From the depths of the chimney breast I heard a faint cry. They said, ‘Horse potty!’.”

“’Horse potty’?”

“It’s a mild but characteristic Russian ejaculation. Like ‘Goodness!’.”

“Did it sound like a little dictator, to judge by the vocal quality?”

“It was too faint to tell.”

“What say the better half? Her bedroom too.”

“She’s keen to put it to political advantage. She shouted up the chimney – and she has a penetrating voice. She said, ‘Withdraw your troops from Ukraine and we’ll let you out!’.”

“What he say?”

“He said ‘Chto?’.”


“What? It means ‘What?’. He was indicating that he couldn’t hear.”

“Cunning bastard.”

“Being a cunning bastard is one cornerstone of his successful career.”

Amy thought about this.

“I wouldn’t just say leave Ukraine. I’d say: free press, free elections, no more murders, no more lies and a substantial contribution to your extraction expenses taken from the budget for his enormous new dacha near Sochi.”

“It’s hard to ask for anything complicated if all he says is ‘Chto?’. The better half thought that if we did something unpleasant to a toe it might make him hear better.”

“Or,” said Amy with the subtlety for which the Chinese are famous, “you could tickle his sole.”

“I thought of that – but I don’t think I could bear to touch him. Also, I’m not sure that I want to descend to his level, even to help the people of Ukraine.”

There’s an issue,” said Amy. “Ends and means. We can debate this.”

“My friend Theo says,” I said, “that he is a strong leader holding his country together and that without him Russia would become dangerously balkanised.”

“Bollocks,” said Amy. “They said that about Chairman Mao and the Gang of Four. Anyway, he is not holding anything together now. He’s in your chimney. Maybe we leave him there and see if Russia balkanised.”

“I wish it was that simple, Amy. Unfortunately he’s started to leak. He’s dribbling into the grate. It smells bad. The better half doesn’t like it. Even Bella turns her nose up, after some initial interest. We could go to the spare bedroom until either he empties or Russia balkanises itself, but that’s only a temporary solution.”

What would you have done? We decided to think it over.

Half an hour later Amy sent me a text:


It was a pertinent question but one for which I had no answer. I couldn’t see and I couldn’t ask.

A few days went by. Russia didn’t get noticeably balkanised. Someone who looked like Putin continued to appear on state television and point out the hypocrisy of the West. They accuse Russia of political murder, he said, but what about the Northern Line? Who are you to point the finger? The leakage eventually fell away but the smell became appalling. The better half said, “You’ve got to do something.”

“What about independent Ukraine?” I said.

“Geopolitics is immensely complex,” she said, “and I want my bedroom back.”

I put a handkerchief round my hands and tugged at the leg. Nothing moved. There was another cry of ‘Horse Potty!’, but far weaker this time. Whoever was up there, Putin or not, ensacked or not, they were alive: but this was a condition whose continuation indefinitely could not be relied on.

I called round to see Aubergine Small. Strength and resourcefulness seemed to be called for. It crossed my mind to find out if The Jibjab Woman would help, but I didn’t know where she stood on a resurgent Russia and I didn’t want to offend her. Aubergine Small assessed the situation. He also twisted the leg, but could get no purchase. All he got was another weak cry of ‘Horse potty!’. Muttering to himself (or what would be muttering if he had the wherewithal; Aubergine Small is dumb and converses by the use of pre-printed cards), he took himself off and the next thing was that I heard him on the roof. He was prodding a bit of wire into the chimney from above. This time there was silence. He returned to the bedroom.

He produced a card:


“What does that tell you?”

He demanded paper. This was a circumstance without a well-known phrase or saying.


Without his cards he can be quite prolix.

“You mean…”


Aubergine Small threw himself at Mr Putin’s leg with a passion. For thirty minutes he tugged, but to no avail. Sweat on his brow, he faced me.




He seized the pad.


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2 thoughts on “He’s Only Half Way There

  1. My only concern is that, if it is Putin, the chimney is blocked and the REAL Santa will be unable to gain entry – have you and your neighbours tried a liberal application of Vaseline – that could solve the problem!

    For my part, and to change the subject, I have been engaged in a losing battle with the mighty EBay – I have been using their facilities for 7 odd years – I don’t make any loot out of it but, in the immortal words of Peter Sellers, ‘It helps to pass the Time’.

    I had achieved, their computer told me, an ‘above standard’ rating – based on the generous and affectionate way in which I treated my ‘customers’ when they complained of breakages and non delivery of ordered items.

    Their mighty computer system (Haktar? – refer to Douglas Adams), however, didn’t agree and, 20 minutes after being told how bloody wonderful I was I got an e-mail saying I had been ‘suspended’ – it seems that my ‘above standard’ rating only applied to transactions in the UK and Eire.

    No worries, I thought, I will send a forceful letter to their customer support service and copy it to their CEOs – no responses!

    I eventually got a message apologising for the delay in responding and telling me how much they ‘value my business’ but finishing with the conflicting statement that the computer’s decision could not be reversed and that my suspension was, now, permanent.

    Now I was never a fan of ‘Little Britain’ but I do recall the sketches which involved punters querying decisions and being told ‘The Computer says no’ – it was mildly amusing but I never thought it bore any relation to real life.

    Regrettably, it seems, it does the phenomenon is alive and well and living at E-Bay.

    For your interest the default for suspension is 4% and I had, through absolutely no fault of my own, reached 4.2%.

    Sod ’em – I’m launching my own site!

  2. alablague says:

    These approval ratings are all very strange. I used to give four stars when someone did something simple correctly, since what’s excellent about that? But then people started emailing to complain so I stopped evaluating altogether. When I used to do franchising work I discovered that franchisees would often get paid depending on the response to customer evaluation forms. So I was horrified when I was waiting for a delayed plane once in some franchised airport restaurant to discover that my infant daughter and her friend were whiling away the time filling in form after form and posting them in the little box. Their evaluations were uniformly bad (THE FOOD WAS CRAPP!!!) and I am afraid that bankruptcy may have been the result.

    You are right. Vaseline may have to be applied to the great dictator. My worry is: what’s in the sack? Nothing good. Ask the people of Crimea.

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