So Hugh's run off

somewhere. Last seen in that ridiculous hearse of his careening up the corniche toward Qanater with a half-empty liter bottle of Old Blackie on the seat beside him and a couple of Imbaba bints trussed up on the back seat. It thus falls to me to announce the newest addition to the news team here, Patrick Cromwell-Joyce, brought on to counter allegations that this newsletter has slipped away from the highminded ideals of its founders to become a vehicle for personal attacks and drunken rantings.

Fuck you Hugh, by the way. Wherever the hell you've gotten to. You saw me. Don't pretend that you didn't, and if that tree hadn't been there for me to climb, you could have taken my leg off. So I hope you've driven that death wagon into the fucking canal with those two little whores of yours.