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Tuesday, 2 August 2011

Ian, Geoff here. It’s in the bag, when you land get your arse over to Heathrow, we’re flying all the way to Grand Cayman and there’s a big pot of gold at the other end with the words “Dollars, Truffles, Fanny” written on the side in great big gold fucking letters. We might even have time to get ourselves barred from the business class lounge again before our flight if you hurry. See you soon mate.

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From: Iain Shaft (
To: Geoff Hunt (

Geoff! Great news, we were getting ready to sell your shares off to the Chinese. So glad I don’t have to now, I know it’s old fashioned but I just don’t trust foreigners with money. Can’t wait to get down to business and start working with you, but more to the point I can’t wait to get involved in a bit of that famous banter. Dad used to tell me what you guys got up to after work when I was a kid, it was kind of his version of a bed time story. Such an inspiration, I wouldn’t be where I am today without it. Danny will pick you up from the airport, you’ll love him, cut from the same cloth as you guys. He just got back from doing a deal in Rio, apparently he went skinny dipping on Copacabana Beach at 4 in the morning, got arrested for taking a shit in a bin. Classic.

See you soon,


Iain Shaft
Shaft Futures
From: Geoff Hunt (
To: Iain Shaft (

Iain, Geoff here. I haven’t got time to fill you in on the details, but me and Swanton need to take up those directorships rather sooner than we had previously planned. It seems the UK is no longer open for business for Geoff and Ian. If we fly over tonight can you start setting things up? And while you’re at it, put a few bottles of Perrier-Jouet on ice and tell your team to take the day off tomorrow, the Shaft boys are having a reunion!

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Ian, Geoff here. I do remember him, Marko I think his name was, looks a bit like a giant plastic mannequin of Ross Kemp that’s melted? That night was both the first and last time I ever saw a man drink 24 cans of Red Bull and then punch himself in the head hard enough to put himself in a coma for three weeks. Top lad. I’ve just spoken to John Holt, apparently the rozzers found a collection of smut on Cleese’s computer that would make Gary Glitter blush. I’m not sure the Lunsbury is safe, apparently that Polish girl on reception got arrested this morning, you know the one you knocked up? She was there that day when I snorted a shot of Bailey’s and started giving out Andy Coulson’s mobile number at the bar, I think they might be trying to put something else together to pin on me. I’m going to get in touch with your namesake and see if I can sort out an exit strategy, I’ll be in touch. Oh, and it sounds like MDMA you bought. Enjoy your flight.

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Geoff, Ian here. I’m in Spain, some turdpan of a town called Algeciras. I’ve just bought some chuff off a couple of kids, doesn’t look right, it’s kind of pink, more like crystals than a powder, burns your nozzers to fuck. Anyway it must be something because I feel fucking off-colour mate, if I don’t find a toilet in the next 10 minutes my arse is going to explode out of my trousers. Mind you, I bet my ring won’t chafe as much as yours must be right now after a month being Ian Huntley’s shower bitch. As regards the ‘how come I’m not dead’ piece, basically your friends in high places sent some east European knucklefist to finish me off, but I gave him some coke and got chatting, turns out he’s a mate of Saif Gaddafi, apparently you got the two of them completely winehoused in Mahiki one night when you were teaching at LSE? Anyway I’ve been living in Tripoli with the Colonel, bloody top banter mate, although he does go a bit weird when he’s had a drink. They put on a leaving party for me on Sunday night and he drank half a bottle of raki straight, then he made the band stop playing, pinned me down, held the microphone to his backside and farted on my balls. It was like George Osborne’s wedding all over again. Anyway I’ve got to go, I’m driving to Gibraltar, Phil’s lending me his Learjet so I can fly back to Biggin Hill. Probably best we meet somewhere discreet - Lunsbury at 5?

Sent from my Sent from my Sent from my >>>>>>>>>>>>>
From: Derek Montoya (
To: Renegade Spear (
CC: Artful Dodger (; Rapunzel (b_100711); Green Mist (; White Velvet (w_100711); Alpha (a_100711)
Tue, 1 August 2011 @ 11.58 BST

Hi all,

The shit has hit the fan so hard it’s come out the other side like brown piss. Swanton has popped up in Morocco and Hunt has been released, they’ve got some dirt on Jabba. Cleese has been dealt with, but this is now a code black, we’re shutting the whole thing down, make sure you delete everything. Steve at Google will make these accounts disappear, don’t try and use them again. Full deniability on this, none of this ever happened. When the shit starts getting in your hair, you know you’ve put your head too far into the bowl.

Ian, Geoff here. What the fuck happened to you, I thought they’d put a couple of bullets in the back of your fat pink head and dumped you at the bottom of the Med? That greasy fuck butler Cleese has got something to do with this, I saw him being dragged out of a van in bracelets this morning as I was leaving, he was shouting something about James Murdoch and buttplugs. I think they might have stitched him up as well. Anyway, good work on the Ken photo, they’ve dropped all the charges against me, although I hope you cropped my bell end out of that photo before you sent it to John. Are you coming back to London? We need to get together over a few brandies, a couple of cigars and the Telegraph business section and work out where we go from here.

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Geoff, Ian here. I’m in Tangier, just bought a new BlackBerry off some bloke with a monkey on a string at the market. I’m not sure what I found more disgusting, him or the monkey. I’m not sure if it’s fully genuine either, it keeps translating everything into Arabic and turning itself off. Anyway, I’m up to speed on everything that’s been going on, but I’ve been a bit... out of the loop, as it were. I’ve just sent Big John at the Mail that picture you sent me of Ken Clarke, so you should be out of Bumrape Alcatraz in no time, drop me an email when you’ve got your BlackBerry back.

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