Agent Running in the Field

It is my considered opinion, that for Britain and Europe, and for liberal democracy across the entire world as a whole, Britain’s departure from the European Union in the time of Donald Trump, and Britain’s consequent unqualified dependence on the United States in an era when the US is heading straight down the road to institutional racism and neo-fascism, is an unmitigated clusterfuck bar none.

You know what Trump is?’ ‘Tell me.’ ‘He’s Putin’s shithouse cleaner. He does everything for little Vladi that little Vladi can’t do for himself: pisses on European unity, pisses on human rights, pisses on NATO. Assures us that Crimea and Ukraine belong to the Holy Russian Empire, the Middle East belongs to the Jews and the Saudis, and to hell with the world order.

It is my considered opinion that for Britain and Europe, and for liberal democracy across the entire world as a whole, Britain’s departure from the European Union in the time of Donald Trump, and Britain’s consequent unqualified dependence on the United States in an era when the US is heading straight down the road to institutional racism and neo-fascism, is an unmitigated clusterfuck bar none.

For unbelievers, badminton is a namby-pamby version of squash for overweight men afraid of heart attacks. For true believers there is no other sport. Squash is slash and burn. Badminton is stealth, patience, speed and improbable recovery. It’s lying in wait to unleash your ambush while the shuttle describes its leisurely arc. Unlike squash, badminton knows no social distinctions. It is not public school. It has nothing of the outdoor allure of tennis or five-a-side football. It does not reward a beautiful swing. It offers no forgiveness, spares the knees, is said to be terrible for hips. Yet, as a matter of proven fact, it requires faster reactions than squash. There is little natural conviviality between us players, who tend on the whole to be a lonely lot. To fellow athletes, we’re a bit weird, a bit friendless.

So what are you?" "A patriot, I suppose." "What of? Facebook? Dot-coms? Global warming? Corporations so big they can gobble up your broken little country in one bite? Who's paying you?" "My Office. I hope. When I get back.

Nothing endures that is not fought for.

Sometimes in life you get caught for sins you haven’t committed.

We are a divided nation, Nat, as you will have noticed. The divisions between us across the country are neatly reflected in the divisions between our masters. No two ministers think the same way on the same day.

If a traitor doesn’t surprise the shit out of us, he’s no bloody good at his job.

After washing up, we go to bed early because we need to make love and I have a crack-of-dawn flight.

He does everything for little Vladi that little Vladi can’t do for himself: pisses on European unity, pisses on human rights, pisses on NATO. Assures us that Crimea and Ukraine belong to the Holy Russian Empire, the Middle East belongs to the Jews and the Saudis, and to hell with the world order. And you Brits, what do you do? You suck his dick and invite him to tea with your Queen. You take our black money and wash it for us. You welcome us if we’re big enough crooks. You sell us half London. You wring your hands when we poison our traitors and you say please, please, dear Russian friends, trade with us. Is this what I risked my life for? I don’t believe so. I believe you Brits sold me a cartload of hypocritical horseshit. So don’t tell me you’ve come here to remind me of my liberal conscience and my Christian values and my love of your great big British Empire. That would be an error. Do you understand me?

Does Ed put in a guest appearance anywhere in this family soap opera? Of course he doesn’t. How could he? He never left the island.

There has always been something a little alien about the Moiras of the Service. They know more about you than you know yourself but they’re not telling you what it is, or whether they like it.

I am a small but precious part of her life and she will never let me go.

Mutual expressions of love are seldom impressive to anyone not taking part in them,

I can be irascible and am not by any means immune to female charms.

Her mother died of alcohol.

It was at this point – call it frustration or bewilderment or the involuntary awakening of a protective instinct

Prue loves her garden. I am up for the mowing and heavy lifting, but otherwise my finest moment is when I take the gin and tonic out to her on the stroke of six.

A man on a grudgefuck mission is saying to the person he’s hopped into bed with – in this case Mother Russia – the only reason I’m here screwing you is because I hate my wife even more than I hate you. So it’s a grudgefuck.

And that was our special relationship with the United States for you. Sucking away merrily on the hind tit of American power. Getting our rocks off. Where are we now? Back of the queue behind the Huns and the Frogs. With a bloody sight less to offer. Total disaster.

I am remembering something I read a hundred years ago in a Chekist handbook: a clandestine meeting appears more authentic if food is taken.

Not much has been written, and I hope never will be, about agents who devote the best years of their lives to spying for us, take their salaries and bonuses and golden handshakes, and without fuss, without being exposed or defecting, retire to a peaceful life in the country they have loyally betrayed, or some equally benign environment.

I come up with the notion that now is the ideal opportunity to make a clean breast to our daughter about the true nature of her father’s work, or as clean as Head Office allows.

..so for the sake of a country you have serious reservations about, even very serious, you persuade other nationals to betray their own countries.

When you were telling other people who to be, did you ever consider who you were?

That is what they hired you for. As a Romeo. For your universal homoerotic charm. You were insistent, I was young. Voilà.

He is dispatched on foreign missions, lends a hand in ‘extra-legal measures’, euphemism for assassination. Before he becomes too sullied he is recalled to Moscow to be instructed in the gentler arts of fake diplomacy.

John Le Carre’s Agent Running In The Field: Some wonderful dialogue in an interrogation scene. The following line is amusing: “Let me get this right, you are telling me, the West pisses him off for not coming up to his ethical expectations