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 >>>>>>>>>>>>>