Having been selected by a specially convened meeting of the Executive Committee of the Cobblers Exchange to represent them at the grand opening of the Coblinka, our equivalent organisation in Moscow, it was with great pleasure and pride that I boarded a plane at Heathrow and arrived at Domodedovo Airport not far from the Russian capital.
News of my journey along with the international standing and prestige of our Exchange in London had preceded me. Leaving the aircraft I was met at the foot of the steps by a welcoming committee that included a charming young lady who curtseyed and presented me with a bouquet of flowers with a great smile. I acknowledged and must have shaken at least a dozen hands before being whisked through customs and taken straight to the VIP Lounge reserved only for foreign dignitaries. A brief speech of welcome followed by the customary plates of caviar accompanied by vodka, then a dozen or more toasts to financial collaboration between Great (the word heavily stressed) Britain and the new Russia, after which I found myself boarding a helicopter which took me directly into the heart of Moscow, landing on the roof of the Hotel Intercontinental.
The Czar Nicholas Penthouse Suite was sumptuous with panoramic views across the entire city. It naturally had its own Jacuzzi, gymnasium, internet connections and cinema. Everything programed in English if needed. If I didn’t want fifty channels ranging from Moscow Babes to Virgins from Vladivostok, real life alternatives were available courtesy of the brisk young waiter from St Petersburg who told me he could get me anything - absolutely anything - no discrimination on sex, age or colour, even Eskimo girls from north east Siberia if I was into that kind of thing. Best though were the convent girls from St Vladimir’s, only too happy to start life off for the price of a Volvo.
I considered the options over supper, naturally served in my suite. An ice cold rose champagne to accompany my boeuf stroganoff but where the hell was the sour cream? This was the classic Russian dish and eaten the Russian way had to be accompanied by yards of the stuff. The waiter didn’t know what I was talking about so I sent for the Manager.
But sir, this was the modern Russia. Boeuf Stroganoff was accompanied these days by chunks of pineapple and a Smoothie. I wasn’t having it. “Go to the local fucking version of Tesco and get me sour cream,” I commanded. “Then take my dinner away, heat it up in a micro-wave and bring it all back with another bottle of chilled Laurent Perrier.”
To cut it short the reputation and power of the Cobblers Exchange got me exactly what I wanted and no, I didn’t go for the flesh selection but munched my way through a delicious fruit salad. Just then I caught sight of my face in the mirror. Jesus, who did they think I was, some Frenchman who couldn’t keep his zip buttoned?
That night I slept like a log, showered down then went for the full English breakfast. Plenty of caviar but no black pudding and sadly short on the bacon. I had to order six more rashers. Today would be big. Honoured guest at the official opening of the Coblinka by the top men in Russia. Leave it out! I’m not talking Abramovich here! This was the Moscow Cobblers Exchange not Stamford Bridge. It would be nothing less than the Kremlin itself and soon I’d be saying hello.
The British Embassy had laid on a Rolls but quite frankly I was in two minds. If there was anything you wanted to know then best take a taxi. The drivers had it all down to a tee. Made of the same stuff as market traders with just as much mouth when required. One drew up, the doorman sir’d me in and I sat back in the vinyl. So, I was going to the Coblinka was I? He’d picked up I was English immediately. The Coblinka eh? Nice kind of people. Russia’s new class. Young and hot to make money. That was the way things were these days he went on, sussing me out in the mirror and manoeuvring the conversation for the maximum tip. I lay back listening, the guy mid-fifties or so.
Strange how easy it is to get things wrong if you want to. The man clearly had something stuck in his craw. Parasites. Filthy parasites, the whole lot of them, he kept going on in English like it was all for my benefit. Sold the country to a few thousand rich with fifty million or more eating cabbage soup all over again, same as it was before Lenin…
My ears pricked up. This was old style communist stuff!
The bastards! They took away our subsidized housing, free health care, cheap food and travel. Stole just about everything from the working people and poor. Socialism was the best thing we had. We were different then. We had our Soviet pride and they took it away. We’re a clean and simple people we Russians but that wasn’t good enough. They gave the kids football, drugs and vodka. We used to get drunk under Stalin but now it’s all over the place.
I listened in silence, wondering how much further it was.
The financial district, he growled, swinging a corner. Plenty of money round here if you know how to get it. My son’s a Professor of Music at the Moscow Conservatoire. Gets two hundred dollars a month if he’s lucky. Has to give private lessons teaching violin to kids who’ve already got their own cars. You should see how they live. Parents stuffed with dollars. Homes in London, New York and Paris, and all out of the factories and mines they’ve taken over. And we get the soup and potatoes…
Who owns your taxi? I asked, thinking he was private like most were in London.
I got a sick grin as he ran his finger over his throat. All taxis are mafia, he replied pulling up sharp. The Coblinka, he muttered pointing at a very grand old style building
I gave him his fare in roubles and threw in a twenty dollar bill. He smiled and loudly called me a comrade. It made me wince. Christ, I didn’t want anyone hearing that kind of shit. Least not in my direction!
It was soon out of my thoughts as I walked up the red carpet. The whole place was buzzing with smart young men and women in tailored silk suits, average age mid to late twenties. Girls all had their hair done, the boys smelt of cologne. A scattering of a few grizzled old hands. Speculators out of the seventies. This was a place for the young and go-getting. Ambitious kids who knew how to talk. I recognised so many topical phrases… futures trading, hedging, closing deals, taking up a lead, putting the quarks on, strutting your core round the money… Smooth, easy, unmitigated cobblers and wonderful to hear. Pure Russian Cobblers as Margaret Thatcher must have once dreamed when she’d told Gorbachev he was someone she could do business with. And so it turned out when he helped break the Miner’s Strike!
As I listened I saw more and more people looking my way… You have to be?
My answer rippled round the room. There was a hush at first then a wave of excited talk.
It was him. The honoured guest from the Cobblers Exchange in London!
Everyone looked at me now. People coming over… Soon I was surrounded, everyone wanting to shake my hand and so many good natured smiles.
COBBLERS EXCHANGE! CITY OF LONDON! The words echoed everywhere…
We just had to meet you… We’ve heard so much about your great Cobblers Exchange… How many of you are there? What did we do? Did the really big people listen to us?
With the usual reticence that characterises members of the Cobblers Exchange I modestly held up my hands. Ladies! Gentlemen! We were so alike, you Russians and ourselves, and I could say without doubt that we both spoke the same language. Cobblers was exactly the same in Moscow as it was in London.
There was a buzz of pleasure round the room. Yes, I said emphatically, Cobblers was a universal language which is why the Cobblers Exchange in the City of London had been set up, and indeed we had many members. The Cobblers Exchange was a powerful institution and I was happy to say that all the really big people listened to us. We were one of the most respected organisations in the City and had the attention of Government and Opposition alike along with the ear of all the major financial institutions and industrial conglomerates. And of course we had a good working relationship with the best of our media.
But what we do best, I added, looking around at all the eager young faces, is acting as a forum, an academy for discussing financial ideas and potential wealth creating methods.
There was much nodding approval, but just then an excited stir filled the room. I immediately sensed a powerful atmosphere, always associated with the arrival of supremely important people. The word President came to my ears followed by Medvedev, the name of the Russian Prime Minister. This was it then, I was finally in the presence of the great and the good!
“Our distinguished visitor from the Cobblers Exchange in London, Mr President,” I heard a voice say. Suddenly we were face to face, Putin and myself! There was a firm formal handshake between us. He had a strong grip but mine was equally so. I read the acknowledgement in his eyes… So you also go to the gym!
“A very great honour to meet you Mr President,” I said affably. “Your opening of the Coblinka here in Moscow today will mark another great stage in your country’s remarkable history.”
My remarks were precise and very much to the point for a man more given to action than words. He acknowledged with the courtesy he was known for… Russians were honoured to have this guest from the City of London be among them at the inaugural ceremony to mark the opening of the Coblinka.
This was followed by his address, the translation whispered into my ear by one of my new friends.
The Coblinka was to be an engine for the new Russian society. A place where those who made money could come and talk, share their ideas and generate intellectual capital for the new modern Russia! Enrich yourselves and you will enrich all of Russia!”
With its high note of patriotism his speech drew great applause. He was clearly a man who led from the front. Who spoke our own language. And now beside him his great partner in the New Russia venture, Prime Minister Medvedev. First a snapshot for the media, their photo together, each wearing a crystal symbolising energy and progress, is how I will always remember them best. Both smiling confidently, knowing that together they were taking their country ahead into a magical future. And together it was that they cut the symbolic tape between two specially placed magnums of champagne.
Much flash photography. Tomorrow their faces would make the world’s media.
But now I was to meet the Prime Minister himself. A dapper figure with a smooth round face, dark curly hair, at the centre of his team of advisors. For a moment I was taken aback. It was Medvedev, but at first impression he was a dead ringer for George Osborne! The likeness was remarkable!
“It’s a great honour Mr Prime Minister,” I said graciously, holding out my hand. Someone must have told him who I was. Distinguished guest from the Cobblers Exchange, City of London and all that… His eyes took me in. “I hope we may learn from each other,” he said. “Here in Russia we have always so much admired your British way of doing things.”
I was really impressed, hearing such excellent Cobblers spoken this way by the new Russian political class. I had to hand it to them. They were almost as good as the Liberal Democrats! I nodded my head. Having already listened to some of his young countrymen here at the Coblinka, it gave me real pleasure to say that they talked the international language of Cobblers as readily as our own people did in the City and now further afield in Europe such as other young traders on the Coblieres Francais in Paris and the Cobliano Nazionale in Milan. Ours was indeed an international language. One of finance and commerce the world over. Together we formed a growing movement. A new force for enterprise, peace and prosperity.
It was only later that I remembered what the taxi driver said about the fifty million Russians eating cabbage soup. Too bad I thought to myself. If you wanted to be rich you had to work to get rich. That was the essence of it all really… young people wanting to be rich. The more young people there were who wanted to be rich the richer we’d all be. And while they were making it happen they could all get together and talk Cobblers. Letting everyone know how they were getting along. In our modern society of money and finance the only way to get on was to do the right kind of work and talk Cobblers to the right kind of people. Those who knew the language only too well themselves.
The buzz around the Coblinka continued until mid-afternoon when having been surrounded by one group after another and asked for my opinions on a vast range of financial issues I found myself taken aside by the Chairman of the Exchange and presented with two tickets for the ballet that evening. Evening dress was essential, he smiled, even for me! Plenty of places in the better parts of Moscow that would help.
Leaving my many new friends and back at the hotel I immediately contacted management and let them know my requirements. I was soon measured up for the occasion and by five the outfitters arrived with the finished goods. Trousers, starched shirt, dinner jacket, waistcoat and shoes, and of course a top hat. My Cobblers Exchange Credit Card stood against all costs, its validation more powerful than anything from banks. Cobblers Exchange Credit Card? City of London? When they saw it they immediately knew what kind of person I was. To have one of these came close to buying the Kremlin. No matter, by seven I was all dressed up and ready to go. This time the Rolls Royce from the British Embassy was acceptable.
A great evening lay ahead. My chauffeur parked and I walked up the steps, handing my tickets to a smart young receptionist who hurried to greet me. You have two tickets sir but you are alone. Would you like to be accompanied? I immediately considered the possibilities but demurred. It was either my dear wife or no-one. The sweet faced Muscovite offered me a program and accompanied me to my box in the theatre high on the right facing the stage. Champagne ordered, I began studying the program resume which was in English. The Gala Performance that evening was of a ballet specially created by Vaichovsky, one of Russia’s leading young composers to mark the official opening of the Coblinka.
Below me there was a great bustle as the theatre began filling up, sounds of music and the sense of great expectation. The story of Coblina as the ballet was called centered on Irena, a financial heroine among Russia’s young nouveau riche who discovers a new way of futures trading and aided by her partner Alexei, a youthful hedge fund manager, they set out together on a magical quest to harmonize the trading market with their romantic inspiration. All goes well and they become the toast of the new Russia but then tragedy strikes. As I watched, totally enchanted, they are betrayed by Pseldonimov a jealous bureaucrat who plants false information in their name on the Currency Market causing panic and collapse. The two lovers are trapped in a downward spiral of selling and in a dramatic finale, stricken by grief she dies in his arms on the floor of the Futures Exchange, where the music now at its climax is joined by the cries of their distraught friends as their faces appear for the last time on the trading screens before fading.
By the end I was quite overcome, sharing the emotions of the entire audience as the final curtain came down. For a moment there was a stunned silence which quickly gave way to rapturous applause and waves of the well-known Russian oorah! The entire gathering was now on its feet cheering its appreciation at something so moving. Soon the curtain rose again with the prima ballerina and her partner taking center stage. Again endless waves of rapturous applause! The ballet fully evoking the traditional passion and romance of Russia now welded to its new aspiration of financial hope and prosperity. Only in Russia I kept telling myself. Only in Russia!
I spent my last hour there in the Dressing Room of the stars and Moscow’s assembled glitterati. This was a very cultural affair so no politicians. The main players were introduced to me and I couldn’t help but note their respectful demeanor. I was, after all, the representative of the City of London Cobblers Exchange at the heart of the new British financial culture and the ballet could also be said to represent our own aspirations, without the tragedy of course! That’s a very Russian thing and best left to those who know how to do it. Something to which we more reserved British might justifiably respond, leave it out!
We don’t like too many tragedies here in Britain, and neither I hope, will the ambitious young folk on Moscow’s Coblinka. Let’s be clear. Cobblers is the language of talking it up. We’re into profits not loss. Even so, while raising my glass for yet another toast I couldn’t help wondering about the cultural diversity of our international language and in the end it was left to me to give the final accolade to which all the assembled company raised their glasses.
TO COBBLERS, TO THE COBLINKA AND TO RUSSIA!
The following day I had private business to attend to. That completed I boarded a flight to London and gave my report to the Executive Committee of the Exchange late Friday evening. It gives me much satisfaction to say, on behalf of myself and my associates, that my visit to Moscow had been a most memorable occasion and an excellent opportunity for fostering good relations between the two countries across the financial spectrum. Safe to say, it will be the language and aspiration of Cobblers that will take us forward together into a bright future.
Finally an important announcement. At the close of our meeting it was unanimously decided by the Committee that in view of the Prime Minister’s relationship with someone charged by the police with attempting to pervert the course of justice we cannot at this time bestow on him the illustrious honour of the Cobblers Gold Star. The banquet that we proposed to hold for him in this respect has therefore been cancelled.
We have noted in our Minutes that the charge is extremely serious and until justice has run its course we cannot allow the reputation of the Exchange to be associated with a politician careless enough to sign his emails to such people, L.O.L. (LOTS OF LOVE) and have the sheer lack of sense to send them imprudent messages of the keep your head up variety.
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