As you will know, I was away last week on a trip to Moscow with my old Russian friend Georgy. He had promised to show me the sights, and I thought I would do what I could to improve Anglo-Russian relations, which have been so disturbed in recent years. It was certainly a memorable trip... but not in a good way.

Before I fill you in on my trip, I would like to apologise for the complete hash my PA, Beaker, made of the blog last week. I had instructed him to focus on the issues you had raised with me, but he spent most of the blog wittering on about his bloody monkeys. I will have to do something about that.

Anyway, to Russia. Georgy and I had an uneventful flight, and upon our arrival in Moscow we took a taxi to our hotel. Georgy had arranged both the flights and the hotel, and I was interested to discover that we were staying in the very same hotel that President Trump had stayed in all those years ago, when he was alleged to have had a bed-wettingly good time in the presidential suite. I joked with Georgy that I hoped I wouldn't be given the same bed that Trump had (mis)used when he stayed there.

When we arrived at the hotel, I was bemused to find that most of the other guests milling around reception were wearing dark suits and dark glasses. It seemed to me that the 'Men in Black' look was de rigeur in Moscow at the moment.

A group of dark-suited men wearing dark glasses in a grand hotel lobby

The 'Men in Black' in the hotel lobby

We checked in, and I was shown to a very comfortable room. Happily, it was not the room that Trump had used, and I can report that my mattress was completely dry. After an excellent night's sleep, I met Georgy for breakfast, where the same group of dark-suited men completely dominated the hotel's dining room. They were a very odd bunch: they barely spoke, and they didn't seem very interested in breakfast either. It could have been my imagination, but they seemed to be more interested in me and Georgy than in anything else.

A group of dark-suited men wearing dark glasses having breakfast in a grand hotel

The 'Men in Black' having breakfast

When Georgy and I set off for our day's sightseeing, I was most surprised to find that the dark-suited group of tourists seemed to have exactly the same itinerary as we did. Everywhere we went, they followed us. As well as being rather a coincidence, I have to admit that I found it somewhat annoying as time went on. For one thing, I found it next to impossible to take a good photograph of any of the sights, as my view was constantly blocked by this damn tourist group - as you can see for yourself.

Saint Basil's Cathedral

The Kremlin

The Bolshoi Theatre

Almost unbelievably, the same thing happened the following day - and the day after that. I tried talking to the tourist group, but they seemed not to hear me. Another odd thing I noticed was that they didn't seem to be at all interested in any of the tourist sights they were visiting; they just stood there. And then, I realised what was going on. I noticed that as well as their dark glasses, the men were all wearing discreet earpieces. I realised that they must all have been partially-sighted and hard of hearing. That made me feel a little more charitably towards them, and Georgy and I made the best of it... although they were still a bit of a pain in the backside, to be perfectly honest.

I am sorry to report that on the third night, our trip to Moscow took a turn for the worse. Georgy had introduced me to the hotel's night manager, Vlad, who was an old associate of his; the two of them had known each other for years. Vlad turned out to be an excellent chap, with a good understanding of exactly what a fellow like myself was looking for when staying alone in a hotel in a new city. On the third night, Vlad asked if I would be interested in meeting up with a friend of his niece - Ekaterina, a young woman who was apparently planning to study law and who was very keen to learn more about the British justice system. I said that I would be delighted to meet her, and we made arrangements for Ekaterina to visit me in my hotel room later that night.

Ekaterina turned up bang on time, and turned out to be an utterly delightful young companion. The two of us got along terribly well, despite Ekaterina's poor English and my practically non-existent Russian. However, just as things seemed to be going swimmingly between the two of us - I was in the middle of explaining how the Metropolitan Police restrain violent suspects that they have apprehended - the poor young woman somehow stopped breathing. I really don't understand how it happened. I did my best to revive her, but to no avail. To my horror, I realised that she was dead.

In a panic, I untied her hands, threw on some clothes, poured myself a stiff drink and phoned Georgy, who rushed along to my room instantly, bringing his friend Vlad with him. Thankfully, Vlad - bless him - was able to keep a clear head, despite the shock of what had just happened. Vlad took complete control of the situation. Obviously, he wanted to avoid any publicity that might adversely affect my reputation - or that of the hotel - and he did an absolutely sterling job of clearing things up after the unfortunate incident.

A uniformed man pushing a laundry trolley, with a human leg sticking out of it, along a grand hotel corrider

Vlad clearing things up after the unfortunate incident

The entire episode was obviously deeply upsetting. It brought to mind a similar unfortunate incident I had 20-odd years ago with an Albanian chambermaid in my room at the Savoy - an incident that I was none too happy to be reminded of. Why do these things keep happening to me?

Anyway, having talked things through with Georgy and Vlad, we all agreed that the best course of action would be for Georgy and me to cut short our sightseeing trip and head back to Britain post-haste. The next morning, therefore, saw us skipping breakfast - and the attentions of the blind and hard-of-hearing tourist group that had been shadowing our every move - and heading straight to the airport, where we booked tickets onto the first available flight out of Moscow.

As I said, it was certainly a memorable trip. But not a trip I would be in a hurry to repeat. Not that there is much likelihood of me returning to Russia after what happened last week, I think I will be holidaying elsewhere from now on.

But enough of my Moscow trip. Having returned to the UK and recovered as best I could from my traumatic experience (a few stiff brandies worked wonders), I read up on what had been going on in the world of British politics in my absence. A couple of things stood out for me.

Firstly, I was somewhat concerned by Rachel Reeves' statement that she was going to give the go-ahead for a third runway at Gypping Airport. The idea of a third runway was first mooted some years ago, but environmental concerns - including residents' completely understandable concerns about increased noise and pollution - put paid to the idea. But now, Labour's rush for growth has meant that the third runway is now seemingly back on the agenda. I understand that many people are worried about this proposed development, so I am planning to visit Gypping Airport at some point this week and investigate further. I will keep you posted.

I was more impressed by Rachel Reeves announcing (if I heard this correctly) that she was going to build 'Europe's Stilton Valley' right here in the East Midlands. I know that the land around Gypping in the Marsh is rather too boggy to be good for grazing - although that has not stopped one particularly determined local farmer from trying his hand at milk production - but I will do my utmost to ensure that Gypping in the Marsh is not left out in this push to develop a world-beating hub for the dairy and cheesemaking industries.

Cows grazing - somewhat unsuccessfully - on Gypping Marsh

It may have passed some of you by, but last Friday was the fifth anniversary of Brexit. The celebrations here in Gypping in the Marsh were somewhat subdued, with a very poor turnout; in fact, the only person who turned up in the drizzle was Mad Roger. I blame the weather.

A bedraggled and dirty old man holds a sign reading Happy Birthday Brexit, as a dog looks on

Mad Roger celebrating the fifth anniversary of Brexit

On a happier note, it was lovely to take part in the traditional Imbolc celebrations in the village on Saturday night. As you will no doubt be aware, February 1st represents both the celtic festival of Imbolc, which marks the beginning of spring, and the Feast Day of Saint Brigid, a saint who has long been revered in Gypping in the Marsh.

As usual, we all gathered together on the village green, with the girls of the village dressed in white robes and holding burning torches. Bridget, who works in the village butcher's shop, has had the honour of being 'Brigid' for the past 37 years, and she played her part well as she was tied to a large wooden cross, then paraded through the streets of the village in silence, surrounded by the torch-bearing girls. As happens every year, the parade ended in the churchyard of Saint Bodkin's, where 'Brigid' was removed from the cross, which was then planted firmly into the ground before being burned.

A woman in a bloody butcher's apron standing next to a large wooden cross, surrounded by torch-bearing girls wearing white robes

Bridget from the village butcher's, about to be tied to the wooden cross at the start of the Imbolc celebrations

Outsiders might be interested to know that the removal of 'Brigid' from the cross prior to its burning marks one of the very few changes that has been made to the ceremony over the years. The change was apparently made in 1923, after the villagers found that it was getting increasingly difficult to persuade a local woman to take on the role of 'Brigid' each year. Traditionalists at the time were opposed to the change, but the prevailing feeling was that the continuance of the tradition was more important than the fine details of the ceremony. Myself, I would have stuck with doing things the old way, but then I'm a traditionalist at heart.

Happy Imbolc to you all!

Gilbert Murray MP

13th February 2025 - An update on the plans for a third runway at Gypping Airport

I am pleased to report that the past week has been nicely uneventful, compared to the stressful time I had in Moscow the week before. Having gone through such a distressing experience, I decided to spent the entire week in Gypping in the Marsh to recuperate. It was a good decision: the fresh country air and slower pace of life has done me the world of good, and I relished the chance to catch up with Kylie.

However, my week has not been all play and no work. I wrote last week that I was planning to visit Gypping Airport, to find out more about the plans for a third runway which have resurfaced in recent weeks. In case any of you are unaware of this issue, Rachel Reeves announced the other week that long-shelved plans for a third runway were back on the table, and that she was supporting them fully.

Along with other residents, I had been under the impression that plans for a third runway had been kicked firmly into the long grass some years ago, so it came as something of a shock to find that they had been dusted off once more. Gypping Airport, as you probably know, already has two runways, and I think it would be fair to say that most local residents are opposed to the addition of a third runway to the site. Apparently, if the third runway were to go ahead, the public footpath that runs from Gypping Marsh to Snipe Coppice would have to be either re-routed, or diverted into a tunnel that would run directly underneath the new runway. And then there is the additional noise and air pollution that would result from a greater number of flights... and the single-track lane that leads to the airport would probably need to be widened. Given the level of public concern about these proposals, I felt that it was my public duty to visit the airport in person and find out more about why they feel a third runway is necessary.

Gypping Airport

I popped down to the airport early one damp, misty morning. As luck would have it, I arrived just as a plane was landing. I parked up in the somewhat waterlogged car park and stood watching as the little Cessna touched down - 'splashed down' might be a more appropriate phrase, given the bogginess of the grass runway number 1 - then taxied round towards the 'terminal'... which is rather a grand description to apply to the rusty corrugated iron shed that stood before me.

I was interested to see that the little aeroplane was absolutely rammed with people. I am sure those Cessnas are only supposed to seat four people, including the pilot, at a push, but after the pilot got out of the plane, I watched as no fewer than five more people - all of Middle Eastern and African origin, by the looks of it - disembarked. As soon as the pilot spotted me, I saw him say something to the passengers, at which they all took to their heels and sprinted away across the fields towards Gypping Wood.

Five people running away in a flooded field, next to a rusty old Cessna aeroplane

The disembarked passengers taking to their heels

I strolled over to introduce myself to the pilot, Mr Murray (no relation), who had very obviously not been expecting any visitors. After I had explained what I was doing there, he became more welcoming, and we waded over to the aircraft hangar together for a cup of tea and a chat.

As the tea was brewing, I asked who the passengers in the little aeroplane had been. He explained that they were members of an international sprinting team whom he had flown over to England from an airstrip near Calais, to take part in an athletics competition. Having been sat in the cramped little plane for so long, it was no wonder they were so keen to stretch their legs as soon as they had landed. He told me that he was getting an increasing amount of work like this - he said that he was flying sports teams into the country from northern France at least once every day - and that was partly why he was hoping to be able to build a third runway. The other reason he wanted a third runway was that runways 1 and 2 were underwater much of the time, something I could see very plainly for myself.

As we talked and drank our tea (mine fortified with a nip or two of brandy from my hip flask to ward off the cold), another Cessna arrived at the airport, this one landing on the equally moist runway number 2. As the little aircraft taxied round to the hangar, Mr Murray asked if I had seen everything I wanted to see, and seemed rather anxious that I should leave, saying that he was very busy. However, I was curious to see who was landing in the second aeroplane, so I told him I would stick around for a while longer if he didn't mind.

This Cessna did not contain any passengers; there was only the pilot, plus cargo. I watched as Mr Murray helped the pilot unload the cargo - large, transparent packages of white powder and what looked like compressed herbs, all with 'Columbia' stamped on the side - and carry it through into the hangar. There were so many packages in the plane that I even lent a hand myself. Mr Murray explained that the airport had started importing Columbian flour and herbs from an Amsterdam-based business, to supply the British catering trade.

Two people unloading large packets of white powder in a dark warehouse

Mr Murray and the pilot unloading the Columbian flour

This is all very enterprising, I am sure you will agree - especially given the number of business people who are complaining about how difficult it is to trade with Europe since Brexit. I think it is marvellous to see a local business doing so well.

I have to say, since visiting Gypping Airport, my views on the need for a third runway have softened considerably. As had the ground in the car park when I returned to my car: I had to call a farmer friend to bring along his tractor to tow it out of the mire. Before my visit to the airport, I was firmly opposed to the idea of a third runway; now, I am not so sure. I would be interested to hear more people's opinions on the idea.

On a completely different note, I am pleased to report that Mr and Mrs Murray (no relation), the owners of 'World of Wicker' at Gypping Mill, have just taken delivery of a very large consignment of wicker, and are about to start work constructing the wicker bunny for this year's May Day Wicker Bunny Burning. They have promised that this year's bunny will be the biggest yet. The bunny is due to be installed in the churchyard at Easter, and I for one cannot wait to see it.

Gilbert Murray MP

A man and a woman standing next to a large pile of wicker in a dusty old mill

Mr and Mrs Murray (no relation) about to start work on the wicker bunny

22nd February 2025 - A most uncomfortable meeting, and the release of a new archive of historical photographs of Gypping in the Marsh

Having spent the previous week entirely in Gypping in the Marsh, recovering from my not entirely stress-free trip to Moscow, it was a pleasant contrast to spend last week in my London apartment. I enjoyed immersing myself once more in the buzz and excitement of the big city, and I relished the chance to catch up with Ivanya.

All has not been sweetness and light though; I was called in for a meeting with the Parliamentary Security Department to "discuss the company you have been keeping and implications for national security". This did not sound like a meeting to look forward to.

I turned up to the meeting as scheduled, in a back room in the Houses of Parliament, to find myself facing a very grim-looking team of people indeed. Unfortunately, they had scheduled the meeting for 3 o'clock in the afternoon, and anyone who has had even the most passing acquaintance with me should know that the post-lunch period is not the time at which they will find me at my best. The parliamentary bars had been open for some time by then, and I had spent a very convivial lunchtime with some ex-colleagues from the Conservative party, rubbishing Starmer and his painfully pathetic attempts to cosy up to Trump. As a result of this, by the time I turned up to the meeting, I was more in the mood for a good refreshing nap than an incisive interview.

Five stern-looking men in suits sitting behind a desk

My interrogators from the Parliamentary Security Department

The meeting did not go well. For a start, my interrogators - I use the word deliberately, for an interrogation is what it turned out to be - did not introduce themselves, even when I asked them to, which I considered to be the very height of rudeness. They merely stated that they were "in the business of national security" - whatever that means - and proceeded to give me an intensive grilling, mostly focussing on my relationships with my Russian friends: Georgy, and the delightful Ivanya. I suspect that this meeting had been precipitated by Georgy and Ivanya's disgraceful forced exit from the Houses of Parliament the other month, when the parliamentary authorities got quite the wrong idea about what the two of them were up to and accused them of all sorts of wrongdoing. But it did not end there. No; for some reason they also wanted me to tell them everything I knew about the landlord of my London apartment in Cairncross Gardens, Mr Maclean... then they started asking questions about my relationship with Toni, the proprietor of Blunt's restaurant. They even asked about Philby, the electrician who carried out work on my London apartment and Hemlock Cottage. Why on earth they wanted to know about these people, I have not got the first idea. They are all jolly fine fellows, and I told them as much.

I have to say, I was not a happy man. For my part, I demanded to know how it was that they knew so much about my doings. It seems to me that they have been spying on me - which, if you ask me, is outrageous! Me, a humble public servant, doing the best I possibly can to serve my constituents, being spied on by unaccountable spooks, by the look of it! It's absolutely intolerable - and I made my feelings very clear to them. Not that it made the slightest bit of difference; they just sat there emotionless, taking notes about everything I said.

And then - just as I was beginning to hope that my ordeal was over - they demanded to know exactly what I had been doing in Moscow with Georgy the other week. For obvious reasons, I did not want to go into too much detail about exactly what went on during my visit - especially about what went on during my last night in the hotel. Probing me about Moscow was the final straw. I am somewhat ashamed to say that I lost my rag. I ranted. I raved. And all the while they sat there, staring at me impassionately.

"Have you quite finished?" one of them said, when I had finally sat down and composed myself a little.

"Yes," I replied, mopping my brow with my handkerchief. And that was when I realised that I seriously needed to use the lavatory: the brandies and red wines I had enjoyed over lunch were making their presence felt very strongly in the old bladder. I asked to be excused, and to my relief, they declared that the meeting was over. But as I left, one of them told me - rather ominously, I thought - that they would be wanting to see me again, and that I should "be careful" who I speak to.

That night, over a few bottles of Burgess, sitting in our usual booth at Blunt's, I chatted to Georgy about the whole affair. He was very interested to hear all about it - he has such a healthy interest in British politics, bless him - and I have to say that I felt considerably better once I had poured out the whole story to him.

A burly man with a large beard drinking a large glass of red wine in a restaurant

Georgy listening to me recount my ordeal in Blunt's

After leaving the restaurant, I invited Ivanya to my apartment for a nightcap. She too was fascinated to hear about what had happened to me that day, and after I had told her everything in the fine level of detail that she always demands, she was able to console me even further. What a grand thing it is, to have true friends in whom one can confide.

A concerned-looking, slim woman with a glass of white wine

Ivanya concernedly hearing my tale of woe

On a happier note, I am very pleased to announce that the Gypping in the Marsh village website has started to make available a rather wonderful series of historic photographs of the village down the years. The photographs - some of which date back to the early days of photography - give a marvellous insight into how the village and its people have changed over the years. Click here to view the photographic archive. I can highly recommend it.

A black and white photograph of a policeman walking down a village street in the 1920s while three women look on

Constable Flanagan on the beat, High Street, 1928

It is worth noting that the webmaster of the village website has put a call out for more historic photographs of the village, so if you have any photographs that you think would make a decent addition to the archive, please contact the webmaster with details.

Gilbert Murray MP

27th February 2025 - UFO fever grips Gypping in the Marsh!

It has been a very odd few days here in Gypping in the Marsh. If you recall, last week I wrote about the new archive of historic photographs of Gypping in the Marsh that has recently been made available. Response to the photographic archive as a whole has been very positive, but I do not think anyone could have expected the reaction that the photographs relating to the infamous 'Gypping Marsh UFO' caused.

In case some of you are unaware of the story behind the 'Gypping Marsh UFO', I will summarise it here. Way back in 1975, a local chap, Mr Cartman, was out walking his dog on Gypping Marsh in the early evening, when he allegedly saw a flying saucer. He took a rather blurry photograph of the UFO and publicised it. The story quickly made its way into the national newspapers and Gypping in the Marsh became a magnet for UFO enthusiasts for months afterwards.

A black and white, blurry photograph of a saucer-shaped craft hovering above a marshy landscape

The infamous 'Gypping Marsh UFO', 18th September 1975

Debate raged over what exactly the photograph showed. Was it an alien spacecraft? Was it an experimental aircraft from a nearby airbase? Was it a frisbee? Was it for real, or was the whole thing a hoax?

Mr Cartman always maintained that the photograph was genuine and what is more, speaking to the newspaper reporters, he claimed to have 'lost' three hours on the evening on which the photograph was taken. As time went by, his claims became ever more outlandish. By 1977, he was claiming that he had been 'probed internally' by aliens and that as a result he could receive BBC World Service radio directly in his head. He started wearing a helmet made out of tinfoil at all times 'to block the alien transmissions'. If you ask me, the man was plainly bonkers.

Having repeatedly warned anyone who would listen that the aliens would come back for him one day, Mr Cartman disappeared one night in 1978. Did the aliens return and take him away? Personally, I think his wife's preferred explanation - that he had 'buggered off to Great Yarmouth to shack up with his fancy woman' - is much more likely. Regardless of the truth of the matter, Mr Cartman was never seen in Gypping in the Marsh again. I wish I could say that he was missed.

A man wearing a tinfoil helmet and a t-shirt that reads 'They probed my anus'

Mr Cartman before his disappearance, 1978

Anyway, that was way back in the 1970s, and I - along with the rest of Gypping in the Marsh - thought all that UFO nonsense was over and done with. But apparently not. Following the publication of the original 1975 UFO photograph the other week, a new 'Gypping Marsh UFO' photograph has emerged, this one apparently taken just a few nights ago by a passing motorist, who claims that he saw strange lights in the sky just outside Gypping in the Marsh. He posted the photograph online, and it 'went viral', as so many things do nowadays. For anyone who has not yet come across the image, I reproduce it here:

A blurry photograph of a saucer-shaped UFO hovering over a marshy landscape at night, with a dim beam of light shining down from the bottom of the craft

The photograph taken last week of the new 'Gypping Marsh UFO'

The publication of the new photograph was not the end of the matter. Not at all; for the last few days, Gypping in the Marsh has been overrun by what I can best describe as tinfoil hat-wearing UFO wingnuts. They can be seen standing around all over the village, holding bizarre placards and staring up at the sky, eager for a chance to catch a sight of the new 'Gypping Marsh UFO'. I cannot believe it. All this excitement over a dim, blurry photograph of a bloody frisbee.

A group of people wearing tinfoil hats, holding placards that read 'Cartman was taken by Martians!', 'Beam me up and probe me, ET!' and 'We demand the truth about the Gypping Marsh UFO!'

Some of the UFO enthusiasts

I have tried talking to a number of these people in an attempt to understand what exactly they hope to achieve by lounging around and staring up at the sky. First of all, I tried to engage with a rather fetching young woman who was holding a placard that read 'I want to explore Uranus', but all I got for my efforts was a slap around the face. A classic case of misunderstanding. I attempted to talk to a number of others, but failed to get any sense whatsoever out of them. Looking at the state of these young people makes me despair for the future of our country.

A group of people wearing tinfoil hats, holding placards that read 'Fly me to the Moon!', 'I want to explore Uranus!' and 'We love you, scary alien kidnapping dudes!'

More of the UFO enthusiasts with their placards

However, I did manage to make a connection with one of these young weirdos the following day. Walking through the village, my eye was taken by a rather serious-looking - but very attractive - young woman holding a placard on which she had written a most beguiling proposal. It only goes to show how much times have changed: back in my day, people were not nearly so keen to publicise such proclivities. I imagine that her placard was aimed at alien beings rather than myself, but despite this, I saw in this young lady the potential for a civilised conversation with someone who perhaps shared one or two interests with yours truly.

A group of people wearing tinfoil hats, holding placards that read 'Cartman was taken by aliens!', 'You can probe my anus any time' and 'The Gypping Marsh UFO is real'

The UFO enthusiast with a most beguiling proposal

I managed to strike up a conversation with this extremely personable youngster. It turned out that she had travelled all the way from London to Gypping in the Marsh in the hope of catching sight of the UFO and of meeting an alien(!). Fortunately, she seemed to be happy enough making do with meeting me instead - in fact, she said that she was delighted to have met what she called 'a celebrity'! That is not how I see myself personally, but one should not grumble. Being an MP certainly has its benefits.

To cut a long story short, over afternoon tea in the village tearoom, we identified several shared interests that - back at Hemlock Cottage - kept us happily occupied for the rest of the afternoon, and well into the evening. Funnily enough, she insisted on keeping her tinfoil hat on at all times. It takes all sorts, I suppose. Anyway, we have exchanged telephone numbers, and I am hoping that we can arrange to meet up again down in London at some point in the not too distant future and carry on where we left off.

One can only hope that the influx of strange people into the village tails off over the next few days. Gypping in the Marsh has more than enough oddballs of its own in my opinion, and we certainly do not need to import any more from outside.

It is probably worth pointing out that absolutely nobody caught a sight of the supposed 'Gypping Marsh UFO', despite all their sky-watching. That says a lot to me.

On a positive note, the visitors have been very good for local business. But I do have a request: if you are thinking of coming along to Gypping in the Marsh to try and spot a UFO, please do leave your tinfoil hat behind. They tend to scare the local dogs and pensioners.

Hopefully we will have returned to some kind of normality by the time I come to write next week's blog.

Gilbert Murray MP

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Read more about the goings-on in Gypping in the Marsh in 'The Inventor, Gilbert's first encounter with an advance fee fraudster, in which he discovers that it is never a good idea to attach electrodes to the genitals of your assistant's pet dog. Especially when your assistant is as disturbed as Beaker...