ELECTION fever is in the air in Russia, much as it is gripping the body politic in the UK, Australia and, to lesser extent, New Zealand.
There is one key difference though with the way things are unfolding in Moscow. A Prime Minister has just been appointed by the President who Joe Public knows virtually nothing about. Unprecedented in the West, de rigeur in Russia.
Cast your mind back to 1999 when Putin became PM. One of the most unlikely of candidates, he went out to take the top job in Russian politics. Forget about grassroots campaigning, having a political hinterland and the “if at first you don’t succeed” maxim. It’s all anathema in Russian politics, which is not so much democratic as technocratic. Think of the country being run like one huge company. The President finds the right candidate, appoints them and presents a “fix this” list.
For those of us with a ringside seat on all of this, it’s at once gripping yet hugely galling – the realisation that Western democratic values (foremost adhering to the Rule of Law and free and fair elections) continue to evade this county. Admittedly, not living in the “West” has its advantages – foremost the ability to buy duty free on flights from Moscow to London. But for those really big-ticket items, like who governs? the dislocate continues to be a cause for concern.
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Write On has been in abeyance for some months, so the following is now rather dated but worth re-telling all the same.
I happened to be in Sydney and found myself in a supermarket late on a Sunday night before a Bank Holiday. The checkout operator had his work cut out scanning the trolley-full of items the customer in front had bought, but still managed the jovial “mate” when the final total rang through. What happened next was too surreal to be true – only it was. Customer: “I’m not your mate”. Checkout: “Come on Mate.” Customer: “Take it all back – take all this food off my [credit] card.” Checkout: “This is Australia, mate.” Customer: “Call your manager.” Manager: “Gidday mate, what can I do for you?” Customer (about to burst a blood vessel, all other customers standing well out of harm’s way: “I’m not your mate, I’m not his mate. I’m Sir. Now take it all back.” Cue eight bulging bags of shopping returned to the shelves. One proud “Sir” holding his head high, with pride intact but probably nothing in the fridge come Monday. I can’t help thinking that if Pauline Hanson had of been in the store, she’d have at least found one devotee that night.
Walking along Marylebone High St in London last weekend, I passed the NZ-inspired Providores (the online reviews are decidedly patchy for a supposedly swanky eaterie) and onto a pub where Scotland’s national anthem was ringing out on the big screen TV.
Turns out it was the All Blacks playing the Scots – or rather drubbing them 40-0. Doubtless the Providores sold a surfeit of Cloudy Bay a few doors down as a result. That extravagance to one side, you’ve got to wonder whether our national side aren’t just a tad too mollycoddled for their own good. The First Class treatment all the way, sponsors tripping over themselves to turn 20-somethings into royalty overnight. Isn’t it all just too much too soon? Or am I just old-fashioned? Your thoughts, as always, are most welcome.
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