Able Was I Ere I Bellowed over Putin's Big Table - The Countess

Since my exile from my Motherland (Russia) I have been working on my prose. It's not been an easy thing leaving my homeland. I was a successful, highly sought after tarot reader in Odessa. If only I hadn't taken that request from the Kremlin, I would still be ensconced in my wonderful palace apartment in St Petersburg with Nikolai, my capuchin monkey.

Vladamir (my beautiful cherubic President) wanted a full reading to allow insight into his goal to emulate his hero Alexander The Great. How could I refuse? I knew his mother Vera you see, back in the days when young Vlad worked for the KGB. He would charge into apartment, nose aloft sniffing the air, overjoyed when Vera had lovingly baked his favourite Bubliks. Vlad would cram those doughy snacks into his sweet little mouth. In those days of course, young and vivacious as he was, his metabolism was on his side.

Always conscious of his physique, Vlad always strived to be extremely manly. I would remark to Vera how his full plush lips were wasted rebuking his compatriots in the KGB. He really had the most remarkable pout. He would call upon those bee stung lips when the bubliks weren't on offer, till Vera relented and baked a fresh batch. Young Vladimir always used that kissable mouth superbly until you relented. I knew then, (despite his self consciousness of a prematurely receding hairline) that Vera's son would go on to make a mark on this world. His determined persuasive pursuit of bubliks never went unnoticed in my book. I championed his career through the Yeltsin era, to his current role as saviour of the free world, and was overjoyed to be invited on behest of Vladamir, to give a comprehensive tarot reading in the Kremlin in 2016.

(forgive me Bublips!)

I have two statements about this whole sorry affair.

Primarily, I meant no offence when I commented on his now fuller physique. I told him I remembered his unquenchable hunger for bubliks, and how it was wonderful for other men to see a softer body emerging from the river, bravely shirtless, on a that great stallion. I told him of my trip and similar jaunt in the Siberian rivers. How many other Russian gentlemen had told me of their own fears of being too "feminine" now they had gained a few pounds through middle age. I wanted Vladmir to know that he was promoting a marvellous bodily acceptance for puffier gentleman. I told him, I was so proud of my macho Рыбka  (baby fish)

My second comment relating to my arrest and exile portends to the fact that I had to shout my loving sentiments to my dear Vlad. It was extremely hard to convey my admiration and tone from across such a huge stately table. Either end we sat, TWENTY feet apart. I really feel my intentions were misconstrued because I had to virtually shout my message of body acceptance. He didn't even see the Tupperware box I'd brought FULL of his favourite bubliks. It really is the most unfortunate thing, and I feel he only really heard the word "feminine" when I commented on his Siberian horse escapade.

It wasn't until I arrived home in St Petersburg and found my darling Nikolai caged and outside my apartment that I realised I had upset the boy. I really didn't care for the strong armed "vacation" to Odessa that I was sent on.

I think of Napoleon's glorious palindrome "able was I ere I saw elba" While mine cannot be read backwards and forwards, I lament in rhyme: Able was I ere I bellowed over Putin's big table.

So here I am, in Brighton. Following a few years in Odessa, I foolishly entrusted my nephew Anatoly with my ancestral jewellery. I needed those funds to bolster my petition to Vladmir. I felt a few million Rubles would attest to my genuine love, compliance and sincere affection for his eternal leadership. Anatoly, if you are reading this, please at least return my alexandrite tiara. Your mama would be ashamed!

Sadly, in my much reduced state, Nikolai and I ended up in Budapest. I have not given up on my dream to return to St Peterburg, but until then, I am resolute, I shall make the best of it. A kind friend is funding my sojourn in Brighton, and I am currently making quite the buzz with my poetic prose and tarot.

I am available for readings. My fee is £123 for a telephonic experience you will never forget. I did start by visiting people's homes with my oversized pendulum and Golden Girls tarot deck, but an unfortunate experience in Shoreham on Sea (appalling place) pushed me to reduce my exposure to Skype and the mobile telephone. I also write bespoke poetry, and will perform it at your intended via that awful TickTok thing.

I recently performed my "Serenade To The Taxman" at a delightful soiree in Dyke Road and found a new sponsor.

Serenade To The Taxman. An original from the Countess. Inspired by Noel Coward and Gertrude Lawrence - YouTube

Obviously, following the misadventure in Shoreham by Sea, I demand the right to refuse a request. I did not appreciate the photographs appearing on Only Fans, Peter. I stand by my future refusal to appear as a life model for all future bookings. So please do not ask again.

Yours, The Countess.

A Serenade To The Taxman (written out lovingly by me) - All poems cost £150, and I will perform and send you a written version (3-5 working days) on the finest acid free, fountain pen friendly paper. Here we go (For Bill, who always offers the best organic wine)

I remember Nanny saying

A mild and pleasant mannered man

A loyal and meticulous Stan

Oh, DO date the taxman

At least consider a one night stand

or a date to see a 90s indie band

Don't let your arms gather dust

He has a pension plan you can trust

He'll hold you against the single breast

Of the fine suit he bought at Next

He admires Fermat's Little Theorem

He will gift you a tasteful earring

I'll admit, I'm scandalously craven

For the safety of his tax haven

He plays chess on Tuesdays, no pursuit too trivial

Cricket on a Sunday

Endlessly convivial

Thirst for love, you he will adore

His passion will not be hidden offshore

He's always first to the bar, refreshment "counts" too you see

"A touch more Campari Lisa, or an Espresso Martini?"

Gentile humility, for maths is his trade

So let's drink! to the Tax Man Serenade