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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