View of The national flag of the Russian Federation with view of The Moscow Kremlin's Walls and St Basil's Cathedral at sunny day in Moscow, Russia
Long before Vladimir Putin ordered Russian troops to invade Ukraine, I’d experienced just how the devious minds inside the Kremlin work. And it was unnerving, to say the least.
Don’t get me wrong. When Villa faced Spartak Moscow in the UEFA Cup in 1983, we were treated with the utmost respect by our hosts, even if there was a suspicion that we were shown only what they wanted us to see.
During our stay in the Russian capital, we were taken to see both the Kremlin and another famous landmark, Lenin’s Tomb. We were also offered the choice of a visit to the Bolshoi Ballet or a tour of the British Embassy. I opted for the latter, simply because I thought there might be an opportunity to phone home. Calls to the UK from our hotel had proved to be all-but impossible.
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After chatting with members of the Embassy staff, I asked if I could make a call to England. I was greeted by total silence. Then I was taken into a room where there was a desk with a red telephone. As I started to dial, I looked up to see a notice, in large bold letters, which read: BE CAREFUL – THIS CALL IS BEING LISTENED TO.
Quite what the KGB would have made of my conversation, I have no idea. “Hi love, Steve here, how are things with you? Just to let you know I’m okay and we’ve done a bit of sightseeing. Look forward to seeing you when I get back.” Something to that effect, anyway.
But looking at the warning sign on the wall made me wonder if even the Spartak secretary might be a member of the secret police. He had been subdued from the moment we were introduced and showed no inclination to engage in idle chat. You can imagine how I felt when he arrived at our hotel and said he needed to speak privately with me. My head was spinning with thoughts of how I might have offended him or the Russian hierarchy, but his stern look turned to a broad grin as he handed me a gift of a tin of caviar!
I had encountered something similar in another Communist country the previous season, when we played Dinamo Bucharest in the European Cup. Like my pal in Moscow, our Romanian hosts seemed keen to impress – they even introduced us to Nadia Comaneci, the gymnast who had won three gold medals at the 1976 Olympic Games – but they were reserved in the extreme.
The Dinamo committee members were constantly accompanied by stern-faced gentlemen to whom we were never introduced, and it occurred to us that these guys must be government security officers. It was very strange, then, when the officials arrived at our hotel on the day of the match without their dour, dark-suited shadows. We piled into a limousine and headed for the centre of Bucharest, but it was a surreal journey.
As we got closer to the city, and the heavier the traffic became, the faster we travelled, causing a couple of people to leap out of our way. Then, without warning, the vehicle screeched to a halt, and we were quickly ushered into a building before the limousine sped away again.
The chauffeur was clearly under orders to ensure that any secret agents who might have followed us were directed well away from where we were to be entertained.
The change in the demeanour of the Dinamo directors had to be seen to be believed. They had previously given no indication of being able to speak English but now they were laughing and joking with us over lunch and a few straight vodkas. At one point they were even dancing on the tables and by the time the party broke up, everyone was on first-name terms.
The joviality was short-lived. When we reconvened for the trip to the stadium, the security men were back, no doubt seething at being deceived earlier in the afternoon. Our hosts had reverted to a sullen mood, too, and a guy who had hugged me after our lengthy lunch showed no sign of even recognising me. We sat through Villa’s 2-0 victory without a single display of emotion – although it was a different story on the flight home!
The Steve Stride Column
We have signed up Steve Stride to write his memoirs of his time at at Aston Villa as the right-hand man of 'Deadly' Doug Ellis.
Join him on a journey through some of the liveliest times in claret and blue history - where there was certainly never a dull moment.
Introduction to the Steve Stride Column
Story one: Transfer dealings with Doug Ellis didn't always add up
Story two:Villa's boardroom battles and bundles of cash in car boot
Story three: Doug's embarrassing taxi gaffe and his first trip to McDonald's
Story four: Entranced by 'Uncle' Eric's brilliant Aston Villa stories
Story five:The inside story of David O'Leary's Aston Villa departure
Story six: George Best and the Aston Villa transfers that never were
Story seven:Aston Villa in Bermuda
Story eight: The Aston Villa players whose TV careers surprised me
Story nine:The real reason I left Aston Villa
Story ten: Getting the best of Brian Clough
Story eleven:Villa's first ever French footballer
Story twelve: My Aston Villa heroes
Story thirteen:The San Francisco welcoming committee
Story fourteen: Dr Jo was ahead of his time
Story fifteen:How a vacuum cleaner kept the beer flowing
Story sixteen: How I finally left Aston Villa boss Ron Atkinson lost for words
Story seventeen: The most hectic Aston Villa transfer there ever was
Story eighteen: Escaping Ron Saunders
Story nineteen:What it was really like working for Doug Ellis
Story twenty:Bruce Springsteen didn't just give me a headache at Villa Park
Story twenty one: I was set to become Sheffield Wednesday secretary in 1989
Story twenty two:Finally losing my temper with Doug Ellis
Story twenty three: Talking Turkey
Story twenty four: Minsk maniac
Story twenty five: The worst day I had at Villa Park
Story twenty six:Randy had good intentions.... but
Story twenty seven: Straight vodkas and table dancing