LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘That’s very nice of you,’ I say. ‘But—’ I am about to say that there has been some kind of mistake and that I am not running away from anything and that I don’t want to join the crew when I remember the expression on Boris’s face as he went out of the door. It was not projecting a lot of human warmth and affection in my direction and could easily suggest an unbalanced personality with a quick trigger finger.

      ‘Yes?’ says Olga.

      ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking.’

      Olga pours some colourless liquid into a glass and hands it to me. ‘Maybe you think too much. From now on, we do thinking for you.’

      ‘What is this?’ I say.

      ‘Just straightforward party philosophy.’

      ‘I meant the drink,’ I say.

      ‘Wodka.’

      ‘You mean vodka?’

      ‘I mean wodka.’

      I take a sip and she is obviously right. It is wodka. Potent too. I have already consumed a bellyful of booze earlier in the evening and this stuff races through me like a flaming brand in a paraffin factory.

      ‘You like?’ Her knockers are now brushing against my bare chest and the sensation serves to short circuit the current already pumping through me from the wodka – the stuff must be pure anti-freeze.

      ‘I like.’ I put my glass on the floor and allow my mouth the freedom of Olga’s cakehole. With a gentleness for which I am grateful she returns the pressure and presses her warm bristols against my chest. I don’t know if you have ever seen a carp sucking at a piece of bread on the surface of a pond but that is rather her kissing style. A lot of gentle chewing and the occasional gnaw of the lower lip.

      We go on like this for a while and she wriggles on to the bunk so that she is stretched out on top of me. It is very good for the warming up and after a few minutes of our nibble fest the last icicles have thawed and percy is rising like an early crocus from the melting snow. In fact, when I say crocus I do man’s best friend a disservice. He is coming up more like a scarlet cucumber.

      A woman like Olga is clearly no stranger to the effect that she has on men and it is not many seconds after percy has thrust himself between us that she lets out an exclamation that sounds like the name of a new Japanese motor bike and begins to sew kisses on my chest like they are mustard seed. I watch her tawny barnet taxiing down to the root of many of my problems and it occurs to me that something very pleasant is about to happen to Timothy. ‘Oh!’ That is me responding to Olga’s snake tongue trying to undo my belly button. ‘Oooh!’ Olga’s right hand has now coasted up the inside of my thigh and is gently squeezing my niagras like they are the bellows which inflate my already straining Mad Mick. ‘OOOH!!’ Olga has now done something very volga that you seldom see unless you watch the chocolate bar commercials on the telly. How shameless and enjoyable it all is. As the minutes pass and Olga’s bobbing nut becomes increasingly in danger of bashing itself against the upper bunk, I decide that is is about time that I did something to repay the hospitality that I am being offered. It is no good lying back and expecting to have everything done for you. Do as you would consider yourself very fortunate to be done by is one of my mottoes.

      Not without some regret, I draw Olga up my body and reapply myself to her lips whilst attempting to remove the garments which lumber the lower half of her body. They obviously do things up differently in Russia because I am not getting anywhere until my friend jumps from the bed, tears open her breeches, tugs off her boots and leaps on top of me again. Such eagerness is touching, as are most parts of her body. With some difficulty, I press her back against the wall and adjust my cakehole to the nearest available knocker. This treatment is well received by the lady and it is with little difficulty that I persuade her to enjoy every knocker’s favourite meal – guzzle and tweak. I dish out a second helping to each Manchester and then head south like a migrating swallow – or dipper, more like. It is funny how birds – I mean the human kind – work themselves up when a muff job is in the air, isn’t it? Backs arch, heads twist from side to side before you have even licked your lips. Olga is no exception. By the time I have found a way of propping my legs against the far wall of the cabin and swept the hair out of my eyes, you could run a model railway under her back. Mind you, it would be a terrible waste if you did. You can play with your model railway any day of the week. A girlchik like Olga comes along only when Sid casts you adrift on a double bed. And that, thank God, is not very often. As Olga quivers I set my tongue to work like it is a bow playing a musical instrument. I can’t say I recognise the tune that comes out but it is certainly a very cheerful sound. Ideally, I reckon that a muff job is a horse’s duvet (hors d’oeuvres? – Ed.) It should whet the appetite for what is to come and get the old gastric juices flowing. I don’t think it ought to become a meal in itself.

      Anyway, in this case, everything works out just about right. Olga suddenly arches her back and catches her nut a terrible crack on the upstairs bunk and I realise that she is trying to tell me something. Hardly before she has sunk back against the pillow, I have stopped staring at the small hammer and sickle she has tattooed above her minge fringe and have hauled myself up her body until percy is now poised for his journey into the interior. I often wonder how he must feel at moments like this. So many responsibilities to discharge, his two porters struggling along behind him – one slightly in front of the other – and the secret cave looming in front, thick foliage almost concealing its narrow opening. It is nearly as exciting as King Solomon’s Mines, isn’t it?

      ‘Comeski, my little comrade.’

      I am not so happy about the little but I assume that it is merely a term of affection. Better not to dwell on it. Wishing that my knees had ridges, I murmur a silent farewell to my fanny ferret and jerk forward the part of my anatomy that carries the six inch gun. Olga’s response is whole-hearted and suggests that she has played this game before. Faster than a camera shutter, her mits clamp round my back ballast and she presses me to her like she wants to take a moulding of my body. At the same moment her legs curve round outside mine and hook over my ankles. It looks like the perfect fall and I can almost hear the referee counting and Kent Walton doing his nut. The Commie custard is now rotating my bum like she is trying to unscrew it. Maybe this has something to do with the counter revolution she was talking about earlier.

      This is all very well but, once again, I feel that I should stamp my own personality on the proceedings. After all, I am representing Britain and regular readers will know that I always pull out all the stops when national prestige is at stake. If we all did our bit – or, in fact, anybody’s bit – then maybe this dear old country of ours would not be in the mess it is now. At the very least, life would be a lot more fun.

      Rising up so that my bonce loosens three of the slats in the upstairs bunk, I drive viciously and feel the satisfying ‘thwack!’ of my baggage train against Olga’s back bumpers. Bracing my toes against the end of the bunk, I deal out a few telling thrusts and hear the satisfying sound of Olga searching for breath. Her hands run lightly up my back as if she is playing a harp and I accompany her on the trombone – in, out; in, out, in – you can’t beat a musical evening.

      Half an hour later, we are still at it, but on the floor this time. The bunks have collapsed. In my present condition, I can’t imagine what it felt like to be cold. Rivulets of condensation are running down the steamed up porthole and the wodka bottle is warm to the touch – when you can touch it. Olga is kneeling on all fours and taking hefty swigs interspersed by shouts of ‘Giddyupski!’ I am in a position slightly to the rear of the lady and we are playing a game she describes as ‘Sleigh rides’. She is between the shafts as she terms it and I must say that it is something that I envy her. I have not been ‘between the shafts’ since we started this bout of intensive, not to mention knackering, exercise and the strain is beginning to tell.

      ‘Once more up and down the Caucasus!’ says my hostess gaily. Frankly, I would be pushed to get up and down the crocuses. It is all I can do to prolong my attachment to the lady as she bumps and grinds round the floor.

      Fortunately, some strange whim makes her suddenly

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