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.

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

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.

Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

Geoff, Ian here.
  Right, David Ballcott asked me to have a word after your little 'performance' down at the Kaufleuten Lounge last night. The staff were threatening to call the police. It cost us a pretty penny to get them to calm down and they'll be cleaning that stuff off the walls for weeks.
  Tony Marsh might be an arse gumming tosser, but the arse he gums is that of your ex-wife (and that is literally true; we all saw his Powerpoint malfunction at the shareholders meeting). You need to take a good firm grip of your balls, along with the front part of your gooch and a bit of cock, stand up straight, drink a good single malt whiskey, possibly a Laphroaig, possibly a Glenfiddich, look yourself square in the face, in a mirror, and get the hell over it.
  Tony may have stolen your wife and posted pictures of him rear-ending her all over the company Bebo account (that'll be Cleese again...). He may have, occasionally, put sleeping pills in the brandy and paid prostitutes to piss on you. Hey, he may even have sometimes tried to push you out of a moving car on the way back from an all day team building exercise in Kent.

But that, my friend, is the Marshster. He isn't going to change for you, or for anyone else. He's a mate, and a bloody good mate at that. So, pack up your fanny in your old kit bag, put your tits back on the hanger, and we'll see you at the Kronenhall at 8.

Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Handheld

Ian, Geoff here. No fucking idea what your last email said, my BlackBerry keeps translating everything into German. That prick Cleese dropped it in my pint the other night at the pub after I asked him if his iPhone had an app for grooming 7 year old boys. He didn't manage to bring over any China either, although he did give me this plant food stuff all the kids are using back in Blighty (he'd know wouldn't he...), apparently it's completely legal. All I know is I had a couple of lines and it was the first time in seven years that I've found my wife attractive. Just a shame she left me for that arse gumming tosser Tony Marsh. Mind you I'd been drinking absinthe since breakfast, I couldn't get a hard-on for toffee, tried to shake one out but it was like giving CPR to a baked bean.

Anyway I'm glad you're finally here, it's all go on the AIG-Prudential double ended finance dildo and they want us to act as a middle man. You'll need to use your contacts over in Shanghai to make sure we don't end up bleeding from both holes. Oh and if anyone asks why that Lithuanian cleaner's got a black eye, just tell them she got her head trapped in the lift. She can barely speak a word of English, let alone German, and I made up some bullshit about my Russian mafia contacts who know where her family lives. Honestly, these Eastern Europeans may be cheap but they've got a lot to learn about how a service economy works. Squash on Thursday?

Von meinem drahtlosen BlackBerry®-Handheld gesendet.