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Date Joined: 15 Nov 06
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Knowledge and inside information is power
SO the sands of time are slipping away like nobody’s business. Once again, it seems like forever ago that I last treated you to one of my blogs and a lot has happened in my life since then. Being the addictive personality I am, I’ve attracted a load of followers through the various social media channels over the last few months while becoming addicted to a number of things myself – booze, drugs, women and ‘the high life’ being the chief four. I don’t count gambling and spying as addictions – they’re simply a means to an end. How else am I supposed to keep three Astons on the road and pay the heating bills on two castles in Scotland?

I digress.

With my aforementioned Scottish hideaways in mind, there’s a fixture tonight that is worth a look if you fancy some easy money. Hibernian have been scoring as freely as I do when I’m judging Miss World contests, while their lowly opponents from Livingston would struggle to find the net in a cyber café. Take Hibs on the -1.5 handicap and wait for your wallet to bulge come 90 minutes plus time added on for stoppages.

A lot of you have written to me with requests for regular tips. Sadly, I’m unable to do this given the erratic nature of my job for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, but I can, however, share with you a brief anecdote about one of my recent missions. Obviously, I can’t give away too many details, but I was recently asked by the top brass to doss around the Bahamas for a few days – on full expenses of course – in order to find out how valuable their stash of guana was, while popping any low-life criminals I came up against on the way. Rather than dismissing the mission as a load of bat sh!t, I jumped at the chance at a bit of guaranteed weather and potential pagga.

When I arrived, I checked into the Grand Lucayan (owned by Lord Lucayan), did a quick sweep of my luxury suite for bugging devices, hitmen and tarantulas, then opted for a stroll around the sunbathing areas to ascertain which was the best of the three pools and to see if there were any rich-looking women sunbathing.
Boom. Five minutes later I was laughing and joking over a Vodka Martini (shaken not stirred) with a 36-22-36 bird with long blonde hair, blue eyes and a knife stuck down the side of her bikini briefs. She warned me that there were a few guana gangsters staying in the hotel who were partial to gambling and who wouldn’t take too kindly to a cool bast like me cleaning up on the craps table. I’ve never been one to shirk away from a challenge, so I bid my farewell and a few hours later, having had a hot shower, a cold shower and a packet of chilli nuts from the mini bar I breezed into the hotel casino.

Guana gangsters are easy to pick out among a casino crowd. They’re generally better dressed than most, but with worse haircuts and bad breath. Three of them were playing poker so I joined them and before long I’d cleaned them all out of Bahamian dollars. To say they weren’t best pleased is a bit of an understatement.

Predictably, they followed me out of the casino when I’d cashed in my chips and as soon as I exited the hotel foyer I darted into the shadows. One by one they came looking for me. The first, and fattest of the three, went down like a sack of bat sh!t when I took him out with a quick one-two using my right elbow and clenched fist. The second one, amusingly, tripped over fatty so while he was trying to right himself I booted him on the temple. The third was a slightly tougher nut to crack, but he made the mistake of trying to put me in a headlock and as he did so I gave him a quick one inch punch to the solar plexus. This lessened his resistance somewhat and while he was gasping for breath I butted him square on the nose, kneed him in the bollocks and for ‘Goodnight Grand Bahama Island’ I just leant against him on the way down, causing him to drop lifelessly into the pool to his left hand side.

Job done.

I was on the plane home the next day, having said my goodbyes to bikini bird, who we shall call Felicity Fletcher, enjoying another Vodka Martini and a further packet of chilli nuts. As I’m already in the mile high club, I simply committed the number of the best-looking air hostess to memory and gave her a solid slap on the behind.

Till next time.

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