Cast your mind back to September 2016. I’m coaching a residential in Moscow, teaching GG. As long-time readers are no doubt well aware, I don’t really teach anymore. It’s not that I lack enthusiasm for it, but rather I find coaching sits uneasily with my self-image and my medium term goals. The problem comes down to this: I’m prone to grandiosity. The PUA world is outrageously grandiose and coaching tends to feed a man’s urge to hoover up all available sources of narcissistic supply.
A grandiose man loves to feel separate from and above the world around him. He feels special. Deep down he knows he has no innate special-ness and that his achievements probably don’t support his grandiose self-image either. Nonetheless, the more people he can find who will buy into his false idealised self, the more narcissistic supply he has to support that image. Think of the many opportunities for grandiosity offered to the PUA coach:
- A blog chronicling his larger than life adventures, weaving his thoughts and world-view artfully into each post
- A YouTube channel showing him jetting off around the world doing all kinds of adventure sports, seeing cultural sights, and chatting up birds.
- A phalanx of young enterprising men modelling their own lifestyle upon his, and using a lexicon to describe it that he invented.
- Internet comments telling him how awesome his life is and how cool he is.
Once I’d identified grandiosity as a central weakness in my own character, as amply outlined in A Deplorable Cad , I vowed to be very very careful about engaging in any activities that would feed it. I want to be tied to the real world, not a delusional version of it. The thought of someone paying £5k to follow me around for a week, hanging on my every word, doing whatever I tell them, and conscientiously trying to implement whatever changes in their psyche I encourage them to….. well….. such power is dangerous 
I received this email in July 2016
Hope this email finds you well. It’s GG (you put me in touch with Skeletor, and we last met at the Outlaw event).
The last few months I’m been targeting higher quality of girls. Unsurprisingly I’ve reached a plateau (with the occasional success). Coaching with a competent daygamer would be beneficial in speeding up the learning process.
Hence, I’m contacting you to enquire if you’d consider doing residential coaching?
Normally I don’t reply to such mails but I’d met GG a couple of times and was impressed by the massive change between the meetings. In less than a year he’d gone from typical Paki to sorted man. He also told me he’s half-white. So I reply. Five weeks later.
Hey boss, glad to hear from you again. I’ve only just replied because I’ve been avoiding coaching queries lately. However, I’m looking to do one or maybe two more residentials this year so if you’re still interested, let me know which dates you can do and we’ll see how it fits in.
I’m not cheap, mind.
We agreed a week in Moscow for September and it’s on the second day of coaching that this story picks up steam. We’d gotten off to a good start because the weather was fine, our vibe was on, and the girls were receptive. While walking through an underpass at Tverskaya late evening I see a blonde girl coming down the steps. She gives a pretty strong IOI so I do a demo set for GG 
Her English is weak but she ticks the usual check-boxes. Smiles, laughs, flirts. All that boring stuff you read about in Daygame Mastery  so I take her number. She’s just graduated and started a PR job. Twenty-one. Pretty. A solid seven, possibly an eight. Then GG and I do a few more sets and the next day I send a feeler text.
Nastya is not a texter. Everything is short and functional.
It takes a week to get her out, by which time it’s raining heavily every day, my vibe has gone to shit, and I’m now sharing an apartment in Arbat with another
hanger-on friend from London. Nastya meets me at Smolenskaya station and not ten metres across the path is a quaint English pub serving proper beer. We get a pint each and head upstairs. Nastya has that peculiar quality of saying very little and just following my lead: a good sign. Halfway through the pint I sit her next to me and begin escalating. It’s all very easy, she’s already a done deal. We make out and after the pint I walk her to my apartment.
We roll around on the bed then she tells me she can’t have sex because she’s on her period. That disgusts me so I don’t press the issue. We watch some YouTube and I wave her goodbye at the Metro. There’s still a week remaining so I’m optimistic. Giving her four or five days to become normal again, I get her out for another drink. By now I’m in a pokey private room in a Hostel by Kamergirsky and running on empty.
We meet at Red Square and walk around looking at all the pretty tourist stuff twinkling in the evening darkness . She’s dolled up nice with heels, tights, form-fitting dress, and real care in her make-up and styling. She hangs onto my arm and wants to take selfies together. She’s so obviously come to fuck. I walk her to an underground rock bar on Kamergirsky that I’d been meaning to try. Unfortunately it’s expensive and whiskey plus her wine sets me back a tenner.
Her phone rings and her face drops. Within a minute of chatting her mood sours. She starts complaining about the drink, then the bar is too loud (it isn’t), and then she goes silent on me for ten minutes. I have so little patience with bad behaviour nowadays that I’m tempted to walk out  but instead I down my drink, reach over to snatch her half-finished wine out of her hand and neck it in one gulp, then walk her to my hostel.
I have no desire to humour her shitty mood but I do intend to fuck her. We walk back in silence, not looking at each other. I say a few words as I unlock the front door and walk her up the stairs but she doesn’t reply. Then she follows me into the bedroom, takes off her jacket and heels then sits on the bed with a prissy look.
“Did you get bad news on the phone call?” I ask
I push her backwards and we start making out. She halfheartedly plays along and doesn’t quibble as I undress her. Finally, she’s naked but for her panties and I’m pulling them down 
“No. I can’t” she says, then quickly dresses. “I want to go”
We walk in silence to the Metro and exchange frosty goodbyes. That’s the end of that one. Silly cunt.
If you like stories about failing to have sex with girls you’ll love
Death By A Th… my memoir Balls Deep available for just ten notes.
 Yes, that’s a subtle up-sell
 There’s an additional coaching problem that most students are twats or no-hopers, but let’s park that for now 
 Or brown men chasing white women. When the Day Of The Rope comes, I don’t want to be known as a daygame coach who cucked on immigration and taught the invaders to molest white women. I certainly won’t be forgetting the traitors. I don’t wish to be one of them.
 Or at least that’s what I told him it was. A demo set. For his benefit not mine.
 Or its shameless rip-offs. Wait… hang on… was that grandiosity again?
 Which I find rather boring, having spent probably a hundred hours in or around Red Square on this trip
 Evidently, not that tempted
 Yes, I’d already gotten my dick out