I have never been one of those late-middle-aged right-wing men who, at night, hunkers down over the computer to pleasure himself while staring at photographs of Vladimir Putin. He doesn’t do it for me – not even that picture of him riding a horse semi-naked through a river with a very resolute expression on his stern Asiatic face. This may put me in a minority among people of my age and gender, for I understand that Vlad has legions of admirers among my peers. It is an admiration which tends to speak its name only after a few drinks have been taken and stems largely from Putin’s commendable detestation of what the West, especially the USA and UK, has become.
There is also, I suspect, a hankering for Putin’s strength of leadership, which is both numinous and absolute – and a concomitant absence of western-style prevarication, dithering and decadence.
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