Dear George 6

23rd October 2016


Dear George,

Yes, yes, dear chap, I’m still here, and you should be as well. I can’t tell just how lovely the sunsets are especially after a decent G and T by the poolside. I could really get to like this. By the way, did you get your chaps to see to the mess in your hallway after that particularly foul issue with the sewage outflow? It must have been quite a bore to have been contacted in the middle of night at your little ‘pied a terre’ in Knightsbridge to then to be told that there was a pretty rank smell in your house in, which one is it now? Oh, never mind…and worse, that Boris was not to to blame this time.

Couldn’t resist that little joke.

I hear St Theresa is getting little miffed with the Troika she set up to handle the negotiations for, you know what. Well what did she expect? Her decision was akin to letting loose three starving dogs in a butcher’s shop and then expecting them to conjure up a Beef Wellington good enough for Heston fucking Blumenthal’s great Aunt Bessy (she of the Yorkshire puddings). Yes they know about meat, but they are hardly likely to go about the business with any finesse, forethought or familiarity with common decency. There will be blood, most of it theirs as they gorge on what remains of the sausage called the British Economy. I hear the Bank’s trade union spokesman is bluffing on about them taking their cash to the gnomes of Frankfurt or some other ghastly place. Her Saintedness had better get round there quick, flash a bit of tit, and make sure the bastards stay put. Christ the hours you and I spent in wining and dining the c*nts, for that is what they will be if they now desert you all in your hour of need. I lost count of the number of dinner jackets my chaps had to pop down to Savile Row to replace, and the interminal caviar stains like adolescent jizz down my shirt front. Not often I feel cheap as you know old boy, but by Eton’s fell waters, they could spend. I remember one chap, don’t remember if it was Chase, JP’s or Goldman’s, telling about buying a nice little property in Scotland for the weekend shooting. I thought he meant a country pile, like Sam’s pater’s, but bugger me he meant Perth and Kinross. All in secret of course, couldn’t let the Sweaties know. Bought it off a chap from China after a thrilling game of ‘chase the monkey’ in Gleneagles.

I didn’t know monkeys would wear gimp masks, but what do I know? Funny what you pick up at dinners in the City.

Well I hope she’s happy. Phil ‘face like slapped tit’ Hammond is the only one in the whole bloody outfit who has the slightest clue whats going on, but he is as about as affective as a row of daisies grown especially for stopping a panzer division on their way to a ‘lets kick the shit out of anything in our way festival’ during the glory days of the blitzkrieg. The troika will tie him up in knots and whip his testicles till they bleed his heart dry. They’ll have fun doing it while the City turns the currency into shite where the pound is worth no more than a polo (mint – not the car).

Sam’s preparing tonight’s dinner. Thankfully she brought the decent caterers with her this time, you know the ones. So the fizz is on ice, the oysters shucked and I’m on a promise methinks.

You really must pop over, I hear old Pip Green is at a loose end and might be in need of cheering up. Perhaps he’ll lend you that Lear he keeps near Windsor, tell him the wine is rather good, even over here.

Pip pip,


PS. Boris asked for demonstrators outside the Russian embassy, I assume he sold his shares in Gazprom then?


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