Aren’t you just sick to death of poncey London agency types looking down
on those of us who take the easy way out?
I mean, when you’ve pulled the chain on the cistern of destiny you’ve
just got to go with the flow. Right?
And how many of us, hand on heart, and let’s be honest now, can claim
that we haven’t drunk the best part of a bottle a day of whatever was
current for the past ten years? And, come on now, who hasn’t been fired
from at least one agency for sleeping with the creative director’s wife?
Happens all the time.
There was only one thing left to do. Take a tax-free job in an expat
playground. All right, I admit it. I took the easy way out. I rented out
the flat, stuck two fingers up at the taxman and jumped on a plane. But
I hear you, I hear you. I’ve got nothing to hide, so I’ll come clean.
I’m a socialist. There, I said it. And here I am with five servants and
not paying any tax. It makes you sick, right? I’m a filthy hypocrite and
I’m not denying it. How could I, when my seven-bedroom, double-fronted
villa on the beach stands out like a dog’s balls?
Fair enough, it’s true that I haven’t exactly done my best work out
here. But, come on, how can you when you’re up to your neck in birds,
Bentleys and Bollinger?
Plus, investment advisors. Who needs them? But I’ve got to spend at
least one morning a week thrashing out what to do with it all. You can’t
just let it pile up.
I’m telling you, it’s a tough life on the agency expat circuit. And
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