1. The beginning!

M y name is Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. I am the elected president of the Russian federal republic. Perhaps you have “heard of me”. In this “online diary,” I will try to explain how the world functions. But first let me take you back seven months, to the end of February, when this all began.

I stand in at the top floor of the Национальный центр управления обороной, National Defence Control Center. Through the window, I watch snowflakes slowly disappearing into the dark waters of the Moscow River, fifty metres below me.

I stand in at the top floor of the Национальный центр управления обороной, National Defence Control Center. Through the window, I watch snowflakes slowly disappearing into the dark waters of the Moscow River, fifty metres below me. Quite beautiful. I glance at my Tourbograph pour Le Mérite, a special edition made for me. It shows eight minutes past four in the morning. It is time to change the world forever, I think.

I turn away from the window and walk slowly towards the map table in the centre of the room. It is a special table that I have designed myself. Thirty pairs of eyes follow me intently as I move across the room. No one says anything.

Of course, this is not unusual for me. Most people focus on me wherever I go. I do not say this to “brag”. It is a simple statement of fact. Something for you to think about. How would it affect you if everyone always focused entirely on you? In my case, it has hardly changed me at all.

The men waiting for me at the table are my “Siloviki”, my men of power. Five men, roughly my own age. Their leader is Sergej Shoigu, my Minister of Defense. He is a piglike man with an ugly potato nose. I will tell you more about Mr Shoigu later.

Next to Shoigu stands Valery Gerasimov, the Supreme Commander of the united arms. He has a flat face like a badly burnt blini and is something of an idiot. The two military men are flanked by my “intelligence” troika. First, there is Patrushev, my Secretary of the Security Council. He is an intelligent man with very high moral standards that has followed me for many years. I would listen more to his advice if it was not for the fact that he is a delusional psychotic.

In the middle stands Alexander Bortnikov, director of the FSB. Alexander has a pleasant face, and there is something truly evil hiding in those little swine-like eyes. A raping-orphans-in-the-cellar kind of evil. This, of course, is not a trait you would wish that just any cleaning lady, or supermarket attendant would have. But it is something that has been sadly lacking in our high-ranking security officials, at least since the “reforms” of the soft-skulled old Brezhnev.

Last but not least, there is Sergey Viktorovich Lavrov, my foreign minister. A quite unbearable man, that I would be happy to see drenched in a plastic sack, but for the moment, I need him.

Looking at these men I am, for the thousandth time, struck by the thought of what a man like myself could have achieved with a different genetic material at my disposal.

As I arrive at the table, Shoigu decides he should play a part.

“My president” he shrieks in what I suppose is meant to show excitement “I have ordered the armed forces to await your command to strike!”

The fatty slams his heels together and grins a toady smile.

“Oh have you” I say with a calm voice “and what makes you assume I need you to tell them that?”

Shoigu turns white.

“… I don’t assume … I mean … my president … my … my …”

The eyes of the other men around the table glitter as they witness this humiliating stuttering. My station chief in Dresden once told me that a German can stand any humiliation, as long as he sees you humiliate someone else worse. Since then, I’ve learned that this is not less true of Russians.

“Please Shoigu” I say, “I am joking with you.”

Shoigu breaks out in shrill exaggerated laughter. Ha ha ha ha ha. I hold up my hand to silence him.

“Enough”I say. He shuts his mouth.

There is a moment of almost complete silence in the room. Fifteen people standing motionless, like a congregation, waiting for the priest. Outside the window, the snow keeps falling. The only sound is the distant electrical humming of an air conditioner.

“In a few minutes” I begin “I shall order the Russian army to begin operation Chastise’“

I pause to have a sip of water.

“… or as I like to call it” I continue, with a dry smile “the denazification of a jew!”

The men around the table chuckle. A sense of humour is important in a man, especially when he is about to kill someone, and this is their sense of humour. Russian humour of the old school. Bortnikov laughs and squints his eyes in an almost holy expression. Besides raping orphans, he is also a quite devout Orthodox Christian.

“Within a week” I go on “our man Murayev will be in the Marinskyi, and poor little Zelensky, will be soiling his pants in the cellar of Lefortovo."

Now Bortnikov cannot hold back any longer. He slams his fist on the table.

"Bravo!" he shouts “that is where he belongs!”

I look at him, and he straightens himself.

“Sorry, my President,” he says.

"But there is a more important purpose of this operation than teaching a little jew a lesson” I continue “For over thirty years, we Russians have helplessly watched as the degenerate West has corrupted the world with their frappuccinos and their mentally handicapped transvestites. Now, that's enough. This morning, we will take the first step to restore the Slavic culture."

As if given an invisible command, the five men straighten their backs. It is at this moment that I, to my surprise, realise that my penis is fully erect. Well, more than erect, to be honest. I am “rock hard”. My little friend, who has long refused even triple doses of viagra, is stiff as a pencil. I take a step closer to the table to hide my little bulge and turn to Valery.

"Colonel Gerasimov" I say calmly "commence operation ‘Chastise!’"

Less than 30 seconds later, the first batch of missiles howls through the dark and snowy night towards their targets in the so-called “country” of Ukraine. I am reminded of a passage from War and Peace.

“I don’t know what will happen; but if I want this, want glory, want to be known and loved by the people, it’s not my fault that I want it, that it’s the only thing I want, the only thing I live for. Yes, the only thing! I’ll never tell it to anyone, but my God! What am I to do if I love nothing except glory, except people’s love? Death, wounds, loss of family, nothing frightens me. And however near and dear many people are to me — my father, my sister, my wife — the dearest people to me — but, however terrible and unnatural it seems, I’d give them all now for a moment of glory, of triumph over people, for love from people I don’t know and will never know, for the love of these people here.’