February 6th, 2007


There were once things like reality...

А вот почитайте, ребята и девчата, чем серьёзные люди, а не шантрапа всякая, занимаются в Москве.

Материал раз.

Материал двас.

Материал, написанный самим Кларксоном, разбирается на цитаты весь.

So, at the airport Adrian was met by his rather dreamy translator in a smashed-up taxi, and I was met by a Maybach. Also, there was a Cadillac Escalade full of policemen in paramilitary uniforms, sub-machineguns and a selection of potato-faced meat machines who talked into their cuffs a lot.


If I’m honest, Adrian spent most of the night looking like something heavy had landed on his foot, and I spent most of the night talking to a girl in our party whose grandfather, Vladimir Chelomei, had been made a hero of the Soviet Union for inventing what became known as “Satan”: the SS-18 intercontinental ballistic missile. For more than 20 years, this was the launch vehicle for Russia’s nukes. For a generation, it brought sleeplessness and terror to 500m people in the West. Me included. Yet here I was, sitting in a bar full of naked Ukrainian ironing boards, chatting to its inventor’s agreeable granddaughter. Tell me the world is not a weird place. I dare you. I double-dare you.