FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE - I























A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE BROTHEL
All things considered, it had been a long and contradictory day. I was still sitting in the grey suit I’d stepped into 24 hours ago in a grey London dawn, and here we were, the suit and me — two airports, two dinners, two parties, three time zones, four traffic jams, three bodyguards and approximately 36 small, perfectly perky breasts later — clutching the international hospitality of a warm Coke, slouched on the sofa with a troika of new Russian friends, a photographer and a translator, and Clarkson.

In a gents’ club in downtown Moscow somewhere, Jeremy is keeling over like a stricken junk. He is still wearing most of his London suit, but he’s also casually thrown on a virtually naked Ukrainian lady with legs longer than the Trans-Siberian railway and a smile that could melt buttons. She’s not wholly naked, she’s still wearing the merest thong... Oh no, that’s come off, revealing a pubic tonsure as slim as a gulag snout. Though I expect it looks like a mohair beanie from where Jeremy’s sitting.

“My, these are very attractive lap-dancers,” he shouts by way of polite conversation to our host, a charming and taste-free Russian plutocrat who...
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foto: deborah turbeville (link)