The Man at the Long Table…

It’s not as if he ever came from a background of any distinction.  His history is entwined in the dirty little world of back alley stabbings, dealing out mean and vengeful deaths to the ‘enemies of Russia’.   In his KGB past he is rumored to have been a spy, his obsession to have been untraceable poisons, and his methods to have included blackmail.

Alone, he has occupied this chair for twenty-two years.  That’s twenty-two years of absolute power.

That’s twenty-two years in a bubble – twenty-two years only hearing what he wants to hear:  flattery, concurrence, justification.

For most of those years no-one has suggested he is wrong: no-one dares.  The few who have been brave enough to withstand the lethal gale of his power are long gone – consigned to oblivion in all but the minds of those they left behind.

Their minds, and his.

Each new atrocity committed in his name, every life his actions have caused to end before its time is arrayed before him on the long table while his sycophants watch from far off, wondering how they strayed so close to the flame, wondering by what means they can ever escape.

He is sixty-nine now.  Do they want the chaos he will leave them when the bubble of that black heart bursts at last?   Will he have anything to leave?

There are good reasons why civilized, democratic countries limit occupation of the highest office to one, maybe two periods of four or five years.  The longer one person remains in power the thicker the walls of his mediaeval castle keep  will grow, the fewer the people who will be allowed to oppose him, the more isolated and deluded he will become. 

Feeling all those atrocities committed by his hand festering in his brain, weighed down by the burdens of his advancing years and ever more anxious to justify it all by the execution of his Grand Plans of Empire his mind becomes deformed, his health begins to fail And more and more he sees the urgency of his mission.  

Vladimir Putin, dangerously insane.  Will he burn the whole world?  Or will someone have the courage to stop him?

Home Thoughts of a ‘Pantser’ Stuck in an Office Chair…

I  admit I thought long and hard before committing myself to writing another ‘as you go’ novel on this blog.  I have serialized novels previously and I think they have been well received – I even believe the current serial, ‘Satan’s Rock’ has an heroic following who I hope will not be disappointed with the ending, which is at last in sight.

Yes, at last!

The thing is, I write entirely for my own pleasure.  It is a ruthless self-indulgence.  Oh, I had a go at selling a few books when the wondrous fields of Kindle opened up to me, back in two-thousand-and-frozen-to-death, but my heart was never really in the publishing side.   I never considered authorship as a commercial venture.

Turning three thousand words a week wasn’t in the least onerous to me, back then.  I enjoyed the challenges that represented, the research, the editing, the constant plot revisions that writing on the hoof present.   

Now, I find it harder.

The Covid interlude and the old ‘advancing years’ thing have conspired together to urge me to move on, to sketch together short pieces like this and publish them, rather than commit a whole week’s writing to one piece of fiction.  I have to recognize physical limitations both on my readers’ part (it takes time to read 3000 words) and my own, which might serve as a warning to anyone considering continuing a writing career into old age.   Look into the history of any writer on record as still writing in their dotage and you will discover tales of loneliness, physical pain and the mortification of watching as horizons grow ever closer.

Not that I regard myself in such a tragic light; heavens no!   At 75 I am a warm, pulsating male dynamo with the heart of a lion and the strength of an ox – although I do get a bit short of breath now and then.   No, you see, the truth is, I was never fast – never a quick writer – and now I’m getting slower.  There are so many things I see that need to be written about and I don’t have the time to write them.   I have a different view of the world to many, and I need to get it out there.

Who knows, maybe someday someone will listen?

I’m planning a new page for this blog,   ‘Fred Anderson;  The Complan Years’.  Watch out for it!

A Short Yet Fervent Wish: Happiness in the Coming Year.

I wanted to use this banner picture, because of all it says to the world in this revelatory year. Durham Cathedral which nestles among trees and can be so beautiful, reduced – or you might think transformed – into a draftsman’s exercise, an instrument of domination. Money and power proving humanity can be bought, it seemed specially appropriate in this odd, rather threatening time. Orwell’s 1984 is long gone: Soros’s 2024 is unpleasantly close…



Let’s make the best of it we can!

No promises for blog content over ‘The Holiday’. I am prone to spelling errors when fatigued, and in matters of fatigue I am a professional.

So Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, condolences to those who don’t, and a guid, (hideously misspelled) New Year.

Love Fred.