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.
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