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Sunday, 21 March 2010

Ian, Geoff here. Just got back from Paris, had a bloody shambles of a weekend, and I do mean in a good way. Marsh got us some tickets for the rugby, so we drove up there in George Bumford's Veyron, sold the tickets for five times what they were worth to some Oxbridge tosswipes on the Champs Elysees and spunked all the euros on ropey hookers, top end blow and enough champagne to drown a giraffe. Top fucking banter mate, you should have seen the look on Cleese's face when me and Bumford whipped out our todgers and doused his feet in hot piss while he was trying to get reception on his iPhone outside Notre Dame. Not to mention the look on that gendarme's face after Bumford broke his nose. Honestly, if you thought Cleese was a racist wait till you go out drinking with George, he makes Bernard Manning look like a Guardian-reading lefty. Speaking of the Guardian, one of their hacks has been sniffing around trying to dig up some dirt on what happened when Shaft went up its own tits last year. Whatever you do, don't tell anyone about that night at the casino. What happened there stays between you, me, and Robert Peston. He's certainly not going to say anything, his career's going down the Gary Glitter if anyone finds out about that midget that ruined him with the strap-on. Anyway I won't be in the office tomorrow because I've got to pick up Bumford's car from the garage, he let me drive on the way back when we got to the Alps and I had a bit of a mishap involving 12 shots of Jagermeister, a hairpin bend and a stray dog. We tried to scrape it all out of the radiator grill but there was just too much. See you on Tuesday.

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Monday, 8 March 2010

Geoff, Ian here.
  Right, David Ballcott asked me to have a word after your little 'performance' down at the Kaufleuten Lounge last night. The staff were threatening to call the police. It cost us a pretty penny to get them to calm down and they'll be cleaning that stuff off the walls for weeks.
  Tony Marsh might be an arse gumming tosser, but the arse he gums is that of your ex-wife (and that is literally true; we all saw his Powerpoint malfunction at the shareholders meeting). You need to take a good firm grip of your balls, along with the front part of your gooch and a bit of cock, stand up straight, drink a good single malt whiskey, possibly a Laphroaig, possibly a Glenfiddich, look yourself square in the face, in a mirror, and get the hell over it.
  Tony may have stolen your wife and posted pictures of him rear-ending her all over the company Bebo account (that'll be Cleese again...). He may have, occasionally, put sleeping pills in the brandy and paid prostitutes to piss on you. Hey, he may even have sometimes tried to push you out of a moving car on the way back from an all day team building exercise in Kent.

But that, my friend, is the Marshster. He isn't going to change for you, or for anyone else. He's a mate, and a bloody good mate at that. So, pack up your fanny in your old kit bag, put your tits back on the hanger, and we'll see you at the Kronenhall at 8.

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Tuesday, 2 March 2010

Ian, Geoff here. No fucking idea what your last email said, my BlackBerry keeps translating everything into German. That prick Cleese dropped it in my pint the other night at the pub after I asked him if his iPhone had an app for grooming 7 year old boys. He didn't manage to bring over any China either, although he did give me this plant food stuff all the kids are using back in Blighty (he'd know wouldn't he...), apparently it's completely legal. All I know is I had a couple of lines and it was the first time in seven years that I've found my wife attractive. Just a shame she left me for that arse gumming tosser Tony Marsh. Mind you I'd been drinking absinthe since breakfast, I couldn't get a hard-on for toffee, tried to shake one out but it was like giving CPR to a baked bean.

Anyway I'm glad you're finally here, it's all go on the AIG-Prudential double ended finance dildo and they want us to act as a middle man. You'll need to use your contacts over in Shanghai to make sure we don't end up bleeding from both holes. Oh and if anyone asks why that Lithuanian cleaner's got a black eye, just tell them she got her head trapped in the lift. She can barely speak a word of English, let alone German, and I made up some bullshit about my Russian mafia contacts who know where her family lives. Honestly, these Eastern Europeans may be cheap but they've got a lot to learn about how a service economy works. Squash on Thursday?

Von meinem drahtlosen BlackBerry®-Handheld gesendet.

Monday, 1 March 2010

Geoff, Ian here,
That Dejan's a good lad. I didn't know you were allowed to carry automatic weapons here, he let me hold it. Well, he made me put it in my bag when the police stopped us. Good lad. The UBS boys were on the plane on the way over, they say when Credit Suisse get here we should be swimming in the white stuff. Apparently they've been paid in truffle oil, sock garters and coke since '08.
I heard Paul Cleese went clean since he was in the slammer? I frankly don't give a shit whether he's fiddling kids or expenses but I do hope he hasn't lost his taste for Chateau Lafite and some frankly appalling racist banter. I've got some more photos hanging around on my hard drive that we can whip out if he's prannying around saying he's off the talcum. I know why Cameron's so fucking eager to get him on side, Cleese has got a video of him dressed up as Thomas the Tank Engine with his todger sellotaped to his wrist, singing along to Keane at the last Bullingdon reunion.
Jenny won't be arriving for a few months. In an... administrative error she thought we were moving to Swaziland, rather than Switzerland and she's shipped the kids and all our stuff over there. I'm getting some shut eye and a bottle of brandy in before the big meet and greet. See you in the A.M.

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