Follow Geoff on Twitter

Friday, 21 January 2011

Ian, Geoff here. It's gone beyond tits up over here, the tits have gone so far up they're about to reach a critical mass and start raining back down on us. Coulson's left the building with his balls in a cardboard box and the rest of the bloodhounds from Number Ten are sniffing round like a bunch of Japanese businessmen looking for a schoolgirl's soiled knickers. I don't know what's happened to you but I need you to break your radio silence and tell me what's happened to the money in the Caymans. John Holt's shitting bricks the size of Marble Arch and if anyone finds out I leaked the stuff about the phone hacking I'm finished here. Get in touch you fucking nonce.

Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

Hi Geoff,

Great news about the health reforms going through. Can you imagine, trusting someone like me with all that cash?! Ian said something about the Cayman nest egg hatching in a hurry though? My money will be safe, won't it? I only ask because I remember what happened in Macau, and Melissa's never really forgiven me for selling that wedding ring. Are we still on for squash next week?


John Holt M.D.
Manor Surgery
4, The Cinnamons
Brocklehampton Manor

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Ian, Geoff here. There's a bit of a shit storm brewing over here which I need you to plug before the brown cloud bursts all over my head. Turns out some okra-chewing limp-wrist Guardian hack found out about my little conversation with the lad from Defence in the clubhouse on Sunday. I leaked a few more details on the whole Coulson phone hacking thing to buy us a bit of time before he spills the lentils, but we need to clear our dollars out of the Caymans otherwise he's going to follow the paper trail all the way up my chutney. Can you and Tina Turner find some way to make it disappear over there? If the worst comes to the worst just head over to the casino, knock back a few brandies and work your magic on that blackjack table. Remember that night in Macau when you stuffed all the chips down your arse crack while the croupier was wiping the vomit off his shoes? Like that, but try not to get deported this time.

By the way I spoke to your parents like you asked, they said they'd have to find your adoption certificate before they can fill out those forms. You did know you're adopted right?

Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

Thursday, 6 January 2011

Geoff, Ian here,
  Actually, I won't be back in any U.K. taxable regions for another week. Phil's set me up in Monaco with his wife Tina. Those U.K. Uncunts have made everything a bit more complex for him, and the tax-man is sniffing round Phil's privates more than Cameron did at the '09 Tory fund-raiser. Basically, he can't give any more taxable income to his wife, so he's legally adopting me as his son.

I'll be honest, I was a little worried at first, but it's all hand-jobs and Martinis over here. Tina's a right fucking laugh. The other day she vomited a day's worth of vodka onto her dinner, and then forced one of the little waiter chaps to eat it! Classic.

Attached are a few legal documents for Mum and Dad. If you could just get them to sign it and send them back. If Mum won't do it then just get her declared legally insane again.

Great news about Cleese. Schoolboy error. Primary schoolboy. Yup, send the pics over. Have you got any videos? Tina loves that shit.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Ian, Geoff here. Just heard you're back from Switzerland, cock in hand and ready to plug into the deficit reduction glory hole I hope? I can't believe it took you so long, that place was already being sucked down the shitter when I left and that was way back before the election! Anyway I'm glad my little chat with Phil convinced him that you're ready to win big over at Arcadia. I know retail is a bit of a step down for you, but then so was your wife after that French bird left you for your brother. I wouldn't worry your coke-smashed little brain too much though, Phil's got his thumb in a big slice of government pie now, and with my help you'll be able to force it a little deeper.

Coulson's doing my fucking nut in over here, he keeps rewriting my press releases because he says words like 'scum' and 'illegals' are 'no longer acceptable political currency in the modern ideas exchange'. I mean, what the fuck does that even mean? I'm not sure I'm really suited to this job, not at my age. Back when I was in PR at Shaft we pretty much sent the Guardian envelopes stuffed full of £50 notes that we'd wiped our arses on. Still, it's a means to an end I suppose. I'm playing a couple of rounds at the Lunsbury with one of Liam Fox's guys on Sunday, so our little joint venture should see a few contracts coming its way before too long. If there's one thing I can invest in and not feel guilty about, it's laser guidance systems. Every time I see one of those news reports with some street in Pakistan covered in blood, all I can think about is buying that yacht and mooring it off St Tropez, sitting out on the deck with a glass of Burgundy in one hand, copy of the FT in the other.

Anyway ding me when you're up and running, we'll have to have a large one at the Wharf to celebrate. Not to celebrate your return, to celebrate the fact that Cleese is back in prison. I'll text you the photos. Seven years old this time. SEVEN.

Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld