OK, Brian - if your reading of the unpunctuated instructions is allowed - I might try...
George MacDonald Fraser
Hauled from the comforts of the ladies’ section of his retirement home’s Turkish Baths, where that snivelling ninny Blair’s envoy had found him, and thrust apparelled in extremely unbecoming, muddy looking workmen’s overalls, which appeared to be all that contemporary Field Marshals were allowed – no wonder the pathetic buggers couldn’t pull wenches even in Kabul’s most indulgent bazaar – Duke Flashman, VC and bars, squinted over the silk cushions and past the gossamer of this accommodating dusky lady’s yashmak at the screen of his scrambled satellite telephone thingy. '2' pills – still there and functioning, '11' – length of old man, not bad, age considered, '38-27-43' – best ever since Lola Montez – and '54' most in one night with little Narreeman. Good God! They’d come up. His Highness deflated. How much? Squillions of Europoly mazoomahs. Might not look heroic, but why not just buy the Taliban and their opium? Now, there was an idea.
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