Dear friend,
My name is Bob Powell, Until recently I was manager of a large goat farm in the southed part of England. Unfortunately the kind man who owned the farm and the eleven thousand goats of which I was so proud to look after on a daily basis has died of an overdose of cheeseburger and left me and my poor goats in a very poorly and destitute state.
I am writing to you in great confidence because I know you are a good person and you love goats as much as I do. My situation is delicate as you realise that goats are prized in England and the UK border is controlled very strictly to prevent our livestocks being whiffled out of the country by any old Toms Dicks and Harrys.
I am preparing to send all eleven thousand one hundred fifty nine good goats to a cruel goat farm in the hills of Iceland so you see all papers are done for export but my lovely goats will alls be roasted in some awful volcano powered Icelandic factory who has no more cods to render.
At great risk to myself I am prepared to sends these goats to you instead. Please dear friend. If you are a good lover of goats and can think of a use for these poor unfortunate beasts just send me your address and they are yours. To verify the exact address for uk customs please include your bank address, account number, sort code and any PIN codes that you may have in your possetion.
Yours truly, in faith and peace,
Mr Bob.
