Rosenthal is offline for the mo as hes suffering from a stomach ulcer the size of africa.
Dont worry though...he has vowed to drink through it and resume his writing duties.
Sunday 25 April 2010
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Transmissions from North Korea
Transcript 5
‘Having been beamed down from the imaginatively titled – Revolving Restaurant – where such alien delights were had, I can solemnly swear that the likes of Gillian McKeith and her cronies would probably pass at analysing my shit come tomorrow, after demolishing anything from Kimchi to platters of raw meat. Kimchi readers is a kind of pickled foodstuff, which can be classed as anything from spicy pickled cabbage to scallions to chopped radish, flavoured with more fucking spice, ready to play pinball with my still damaged guts from Benidorm. Side dishes are incessant arriving in silver tins in a smorgasbord of culinary fodder Jabba the Hut would serve at his outpost banquet before attempting to slay Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo. In fact even a Jedi mind trick couldn’t tame whatever was swimming around in what can only be described as semen smelling stock and readers don’t try to claim for one second you don’t know the smell of spunk, either female or male, this was a concoction of both. Luckily on hand was a bottle or two of Soju was to wash this taste sensation down with, a kind of Korean vodka if you like readers. The locally concocted firewater a welcome cleansing material to discard the taste of rubber gloves, left over from the Korean offerings. There seemed to be more meat floating around these parts than a Ron Jeremy alternative ending. And to make things worse, a load of out there travellers, thinking it was fucking clever to visit such countries as North Korea, Iran, Somalia and the likes of Turkmenistan, in an attempt to conquer the last remaining regions not affected by the tourist trail, decided to gatecrash the party with me and Huey and Duey. After a few glasses of local mouthwash, I instructed these travelling gnomes to swap Pyongyang for Southend or Maidstone or Wolverhampton, in fact there were plenty of places in England, where tourists never dare to tread. Get real man, you come all this way to a communist hot spot, where people walk around like moomins and if one takes a wrongful glance, the great leader could have a sniper take you out, and all this just to say you’ve been and ate fresh dog here. This is a full time job, not for snap happy computer geeks. Rant over, broadsword on his way downstairs for a game of blackjack’.
Transcript 6
I suppose one should really elaborate on descriptive denotations of this place, after all I am here to relay the first hand narrative, straight from the horse’s mouth so to speak. Broadsword here, sitting in my armchair, window open, yes window open on the 34th floor, overlooking the banks of the Taedong, dozing on and off, in and out of sleep, prone to jet lag, my body unsure of which time zone I reside in, if any at all. It is around 0550 hours and whilst most major cities would be slowly cranking up to the rig moral of the rat race, Pyongyang still lies dormant like a mothballed colliery, in fact the last time I witnessed anything on this scale was when I was last on a military camp. The troops all settled in their pits, only essential on duty staff awake through the night, the sleeping masses awaiting the sound of buglers to start their day. Here it is the same. Asleep the great leader’s brainwashed nation stands silent, until around seven am, well actually it’s dead on seven am, precise, there’s no ifs or buts about this place, all done on precision, in keeping with the military theme. At seven, the air raid sirens sound, the rodents awake, and the city comes alive. For now though it’s at peace and I like it, perhaps the whole of North Korea is actually just a military concentration camp, perhaps it belongs to South Korea, or rather the US and it’s the west’s way of keeping criminals in this region from causing an uprising, who knows? Outside it’s fog that conquers the streets, the river mist, bringing a sea fret to the air and a lone tanker bobs along, obviously taking some supplies to fuel the great leader’s nuclear weapon plan, most probably a uranium tanker, but who cares, it’ll all belong to China in a decade when they takeover America. Quite apt really, this country is hiding something, yet it is the fog that hides the scenery, so at the end of early morning ramblings, the weather mirrors this Korean nation. If Huey and Duey and the great leader had their way, this place would be covered in fog all the time, not allowing us western rebels in, to that extent I’m surprised old Kim has designed his own fog machine rather than concentrate on the more predictable route of the evil leader’s nuclear obsession. Pass me the Beer, as I continue my peaceful muse, before all hell lets loose come seven bells. Broadsword out.
‘Having been beamed down from the imaginatively titled – Revolving Restaurant – where such alien delights were had, I can solemnly swear that the likes of Gillian McKeith and her cronies would probably pass at analysing my shit come tomorrow, after demolishing anything from Kimchi to platters of raw meat. Kimchi readers is a kind of pickled foodstuff, which can be classed as anything from spicy pickled cabbage to scallions to chopped radish, flavoured with more fucking spice, ready to play pinball with my still damaged guts from Benidorm. Side dishes are incessant arriving in silver tins in a smorgasbord of culinary fodder Jabba the Hut would serve at his outpost banquet before attempting to slay Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo. In fact even a Jedi mind trick couldn’t tame whatever was swimming around in what can only be described as semen smelling stock and readers don’t try to claim for one second you don’t know the smell of spunk, either female or male, this was a concoction of both. Luckily on hand was a bottle or two of Soju was to wash this taste sensation down with, a kind of Korean vodka if you like readers. The locally concocted firewater a welcome cleansing material to discard the taste of rubber gloves, left over from the Korean offerings. There seemed to be more meat floating around these parts than a Ron Jeremy alternative ending. And to make things worse, a load of out there travellers, thinking it was fucking clever to visit such countries as North Korea, Iran, Somalia and the likes of Turkmenistan, in an attempt to conquer the last remaining regions not affected by the tourist trail, decided to gatecrash the party with me and Huey and Duey. After a few glasses of local mouthwash, I instructed these travelling gnomes to swap Pyongyang for Southend or Maidstone or Wolverhampton, in fact there were plenty of places in England, where tourists never dare to tread. Get real man, you come all this way to a communist hot spot, where people walk around like moomins and if one takes a wrongful glance, the great leader could have a sniper take you out, and all this just to say you’ve been and ate fresh dog here. This is a full time job, not for snap happy computer geeks. Rant over, broadsword on his way downstairs for a game of blackjack’.
Transcript 6
I suppose one should really elaborate on descriptive denotations of this place, after all I am here to relay the first hand narrative, straight from the horse’s mouth so to speak. Broadsword here, sitting in my armchair, window open, yes window open on the 34th floor, overlooking the banks of the Taedong, dozing on and off, in and out of sleep, prone to jet lag, my body unsure of which time zone I reside in, if any at all. It is around 0550 hours and whilst most major cities would be slowly cranking up to the rig moral of the rat race, Pyongyang still lies dormant like a mothballed colliery, in fact the last time I witnessed anything on this scale was when I was last on a military camp. The troops all settled in their pits, only essential on duty staff awake through the night, the sleeping masses awaiting the sound of buglers to start their day. Here it is the same. Asleep the great leader’s brainwashed nation stands silent, until around seven am, well actually it’s dead on seven am, precise, there’s no ifs or buts about this place, all done on precision, in keeping with the military theme. At seven, the air raid sirens sound, the rodents awake, and the city comes alive. For now though it’s at peace and I like it, perhaps the whole of North Korea is actually just a military concentration camp, perhaps it belongs to South Korea, or rather the US and it’s the west’s way of keeping criminals in this region from causing an uprising, who knows? Outside it’s fog that conquers the streets, the river mist, bringing a sea fret to the air and a lone tanker bobs along, obviously taking some supplies to fuel the great leader’s nuclear weapon plan, most probably a uranium tanker, but who cares, it’ll all belong to China in a decade when they takeover America. Quite apt really, this country is hiding something, yet it is the fog that hides the scenery, so at the end of early morning ramblings, the weather mirrors this Korean nation. If Huey and Duey and the great leader had their way, this place would be covered in fog all the time, not allowing us western rebels in, to that extent I’m surprised old Kim has designed his own fog machine rather than concentrate on the more predictable route of the evil leader’s nuclear obsession. Pass me the Beer, as I continue my peaceful muse, before all hell lets loose come seven bells. Broadsword out.
Friday 16 April 2010
important alert
author rosenthal's work confiscated by korean authorities...
the remainder of the north korean transcripts have been seized by korean officials until further notice citing spying and insults to Kim Jung II.
We will endeavour to bring these tapes back into the public light.
the remainder of the north korean transcripts have been seized by korean officials until further notice citing spying and insults to Kim Jung II.
We will endeavour to bring these tapes back into the public light.
Monday 12 April 2010
Transmissions from North Korea
Transcript 4
‘How to cope with potential disaster – possibly the greatest title I have ever come across for a hotel’s information booklet, more often than not looking at the darker side of life, should the establishment shudder in an earthquake, fall prey to a bomb attack from the US, or become a victim of fire – all and more are covered in this noble of in house publications, complete with a photo of the said Wankado Hotel gracing the front cover just for good measure. If you haven’t guessed by the sarcastic tones readers that it is Broadsword here once again, feeling slightly better now I’ve been supping on the quality draught beer from the bar downstairs ironically called The Tea Room. It will surely clash with the trommies taken earlier, but it has eased the irritation somewhat. I have also relieved the tension of the assignment by whacking golf balls into the Tsong River in the craziest driving range I have had the pleasure of playing at. I wouldn’t put it past the great leader forcing Huey and Duey into Frogmen diving outfits after dark in an attempt to retrieve my golfing shots from the bottom of the riverbed, ready to be recycled for the next club swinging foreigner, ready to impress. Another visit was had to the Pyongyang Casino, this time without Mister Mayagi checking my pulse. With a lack of punters in there as all other western rebels were being chaperoned on official cattle tours of the capital and no locals at the blackjack tables as they were banned from entering, the place took on the mantle of a derelict gambling den, jettisoned from the nineteen eighties, now I know where all the discarded fruit machines go, when retired from Vegas, as these fuckers still had the pulley handles dishing out the cash, if at all the bastard worked. I merely played for fun, not daring to feel the wrath of the house, although it was the only place that offered decent Tequila in these parts. Believe me readers this was like a ride through Tim Burton’s interpretation of a sinister Euro Disney. On one hand there were the facilities all seemingly genuine enough to use and enjoy, however containing dark undertones, whose proprietors were stage managed to give you what you want – except the bloody winnings in the casino, as if I were in my own world like Jim Carey in the Truman show. Was this the Rosenthal show being beamed across North Korea on its own communist People’s Education Culture TV, the great leader having a laugh at my expense and if true they can hear and see what I am doing right now – talking to you the reader.’ Subject pauses and can be heard tapping the wall for bugs and hidden cameras. ‘We’re safe readers and even if we are being filmed, we’ll never get to see it in the rebel western world, all I need now is for the sun to fall out of the sky and reveal itself as a huge lamp. Tea time will soon be upon us, along with the robots, still I have a bottle of fruit beer to supp and then it’s off to the revolving restaurant upstairs, it has been pointed out though not to become alarmed if it stops spinning halfway through its cycle – this is normal practice. Broadsword over for now.’ Tape ends
‘How to cope with potential disaster – possibly the greatest title I have ever come across for a hotel’s information booklet, more often than not looking at the darker side of life, should the establishment shudder in an earthquake, fall prey to a bomb attack from the US, or become a victim of fire – all and more are covered in this noble of in house publications, complete with a photo of the said Wankado Hotel gracing the front cover just for good measure. If you haven’t guessed by the sarcastic tones readers that it is Broadsword here once again, feeling slightly better now I’ve been supping on the quality draught beer from the bar downstairs ironically called The Tea Room. It will surely clash with the trommies taken earlier, but it has eased the irritation somewhat. I have also relieved the tension of the assignment by whacking golf balls into the Tsong River in the craziest driving range I have had the pleasure of playing at. I wouldn’t put it past the great leader forcing Huey and Duey into Frogmen diving outfits after dark in an attempt to retrieve my golfing shots from the bottom of the riverbed, ready to be recycled for the next club swinging foreigner, ready to impress. Another visit was had to the Pyongyang Casino, this time without Mister Mayagi checking my pulse. With a lack of punters in there as all other western rebels were being chaperoned on official cattle tours of the capital and no locals at the blackjack tables as they were banned from entering, the place took on the mantle of a derelict gambling den, jettisoned from the nineteen eighties, now I know where all the discarded fruit machines go, when retired from Vegas, as these fuckers still had the pulley handles dishing out the cash, if at all the bastard worked. I merely played for fun, not daring to feel the wrath of the house, although it was the only place that offered decent Tequila in these parts. Believe me readers this was like a ride through Tim Burton’s interpretation of a sinister Euro Disney. On one hand there were the facilities all seemingly genuine enough to use and enjoy, however containing dark undertones, whose proprietors were stage managed to give you what you want – except the bloody winnings in the casino, as if I were in my own world like Jim Carey in the Truman show. Was this the Rosenthal show being beamed across North Korea on its own communist People’s Education Culture TV, the great leader having a laugh at my expense and if true they can hear and see what I am doing right now – talking to you the reader.’ Subject pauses and can be heard tapping the wall for bugs and hidden cameras. ‘We’re safe readers and even if we are being filmed, we’ll never get to see it in the rebel western world, all I need now is for the sun to fall out of the sky and reveal itself as a huge lamp. Tea time will soon be upon us, along with the robots, still I have a bottle of fruit beer to supp and then it’s off to the revolving restaurant upstairs, it has been pointed out though not to become alarmed if it stops spinning halfway through its cycle – this is normal practice. Broadsword over for now.’ Tape ends
Sunday 11 April 2010
Transmissions from North Korea
Transcript 2
‘Its time for the revolution, it’s time for the revolution, or so it seems, Broadsword here and its 0700 hours. Air raid sirens have been going off signalling the worker ants to flee their houses and engage in their jobs, if only London called to the masses, rather than the uncontrolled rat race, overrunning Canary Wharf and its like. Breakfast is yet to be had, although I’m told to expect Offal on a waffle – not exactly awe inspiring, besides I’ve had three tromadols which I’ve managed to sneak into the country not that they’re illegal, they alone have taken my appetite away, whilst making me relaxed enough to cope with the revolution downstairs, not forgetting the rats constantly monitoring my movements. My alarm has gone off twice already trying to unearth the rebel alliance of these western guerrillas from their pits in line with strike command of the great leader. Huey and Duey will no doubt be up soon like a club 18 to 30 rep on speed. I’ve maybe got two or three more minutes max before my minders appear at the door, I hear you laughing but I kid you not, these fuckers are insatiable, relentless, programmed to spew out garbled mutterings about the great leader and how there is plenty of electricity and food to be had, when we all know that this country is lacking in both. How the fuck they can afford to play in the world cup, yet are unable to feed their brainwashed rats is beyond me. Err, I almost think that Huey and Duey maybe both robots, I might try and locate their tracking device or short circuits and pull the plug on their power. ‘ A knock is heard at the door.
‘Wait one Huey!’ Subject is now severely whispering... ‘Readers, I’m afraid that’s it for now, Broadsword out, the robots have arrived and you thought I was joking’. Tape is paused.
Transcript 3
Its half three in the afternoon. I have slipped upstairs for some more money and to file my latest report away from the attentions of Huey and Duey, but I can only stay for five minutes, ten maximum, as the robots will become suspicious of my broadcasts to the rebel alliance back on earth. Well what can I say? First of all I’m pissed off...turns out that septic tanks are allowed into the great leader’s den after all, the goalposts have been moved and through an improvement of international relations, Americans can enter the Northern peninsula for longer than the five day period, previously allocated to coincide with the great leader’s people’s games. Therefore Corey could be sat here right now, dictating notes back to civilisation, instead of being shacked up in London with my lunatic cousin. Note to self ring the septic later to see how he is but use code so the rats can’t understand. I can imagine the conversation...’Hey champ hows Korea?’ ‘Fucking great it’s like A Clockwork Orange without the rape scenes and classical music’. Second note to self remember to remind the admin people back at the magazine what fucking imbeciles they are, in fact they will hear my discontent when I play this fucking tape back to them. The sad thing is that my American friend would have whole heartedly enjoyed his time over here, despite it not quite possessing the lavish qualities of say Paris or Brussels. I have managed to square things away with Huey and Duey, the double act aren’t so bad after all, in fact they have allowed me to stay in the hotel all day despite having a rigid itinerary the great leader endeavours for them to stick to. The fact that I told them I wasn’t too well helped my cause although a visit from a local quack didn’t figure in my own personal strategy. Huey must really care! There I was minding my own business in the Pyongyang casino when an elderly man in stereotypical white jacket minus the stethoscope tapped me on the shoulder, gave me the once over and concluded with a jar of ointment for whatever condition he thought I was suffering from. Apparently something for my residuary system would do the trick, or so this con artist said. He obviously didn’t detect my ageing heart and its angina deficiencies, still I was hotel bound for another day or so, although by then even I may consider wandering into downtown Pyongyang. I suppose as a journalist I should want to inquire in this rare opportunity, yet the rest is most welcome after Angola and Benidorm. Anyhow I digress; the Tromadols I have been so intently relying upon now and again a sparse routine are beginning to backfire on me. I only tend to use them every so often as my body builds up immunity to the dreamy stoned effects. For now they are making my skin itchy, my brain irritable, all in all uptight as fuck. Maybe the shift in extremes of reality as I visit vastly different areas of the globe has caused some kind of quantum gap in my logic of thinking. God knows what’s going on. I need to clear my head at least I can open my window on the 34th floor take in some communist air ‘because that will really help. Broadsword out for now.’ Subject can be heard pouring a drink. Tape ends.
‘Its time for the revolution, it’s time for the revolution, or so it seems, Broadsword here and its 0700 hours. Air raid sirens have been going off signalling the worker ants to flee their houses and engage in their jobs, if only London called to the masses, rather than the uncontrolled rat race, overrunning Canary Wharf and its like. Breakfast is yet to be had, although I’m told to expect Offal on a waffle – not exactly awe inspiring, besides I’ve had three tromadols which I’ve managed to sneak into the country not that they’re illegal, they alone have taken my appetite away, whilst making me relaxed enough to cope with the revolution downstairs, not forgetting the rats constantly monitoring my movements. My alarm has gone off twice already trying to unearth the rebel alliance of these western guerrillas from their pits in line with strike command of the great leader. Huey and Duey will no doubt be up soon like a club 18 to 30 rep on speed. I’ve maybe got two or three more minutes max before my minders appear at the door, I hear you laughing but I kid you not, these fuckers are insatiable, relentless, programmed to spew out garbled mutterings about the great leader and how there is plenty of electricity and food to be had, when we all know that this country is lacking in both. How the fuck they can afford to play in the world cup, yet are unable to feed their brainwashed rats is beyond me. Err, I almost think that Huey and Duey maybe both robots, I might try and locate their tracking device or short circuits and pull the plug on their power. ‘ A knock is heard at the door.
‘Wait one Huey!’ Subject is now severely whispering... ‘Readers, I’m afraid that’s it for now, Broadsword out, the robots have arrived and you thought I was joking’. Tape is paused.
Transcript 3
Its half three in the afternoon. I have slipped upstairs for some more money and to file my latest report away from the attentions of Huey and Duey, but I can only stay for five minutes, ten maximum, as the robots will become suspicious of my broadcasts to the rebel alliance back on earth. Well what can I say? First of all I’m pissed off...turns out that septic tanks are allowed into the great leader’s den after all, the goalposts have been moved and through an improvement of international relations, Americans can enter the Northern peninsula for longer than the five day period, previously allocated to coincide with the great leader’s people’s games. Therefore Corey could be sat here right now, dictating notes back to civilisation, instead of being shacked up in London with my lunatic cousin. Note to self ring the septic later to see how he is but use code so the rats can’t understand. I can imagine the conversation...’Hey champ hows Korea?’ ‘Fucking great it’s like A Clockwork Orange without the rape scenes and classical music’. Second note to self remember to remind the admin people back at the magazine what fucking imbeciles they are, in fact they will hear my discontent when I play this fucking tape back to them. The sad thing is that my American friend would have whole heartedly enjoyed his time over here, despite it not quite possessing the lavish qualities of say Paris or Brussels. I have managed to square things away with Huey and Duey, the double act aren’t so bad after all, in fact they have allowed me to stay in the hotel all day despite having a rigid itinerary the great leader endeavours for them to stick to. The fact that I told them I wasn’t too well helped my cause although a visit from a local quack didn’t figure in my own personal strategy. Huey must really care! There I was minding my own business in the Pyongyang casino when an elderly man in stereotypical white jacket minus the stethoscope tapped me on the shoulder, gave me the once over and concluded with a jar of ointment for whatever condition he thought I was suffering from. Apparently something for my residuary system would do the trick, or so this con artist said. He obviously didn’t detect my ageing heart and its angina deficiencies, still I was hotel bound for another day or so, although by then even I may consider wandering into downtown Pyongyang. I suppose as a journalist I should want to inquire in this rare opportunity, yet the rest is most welcome after Angola and Benidorm. Anyhow I digress; the Tromadols I have been so intently relying upon now and again a sparse routine are beginning to backfire on me. I only tend to use them every so often as my body builds up immunity to the dreamy stoned effects. For now they are making my skin itchy, my brain irritable, all in all uptight as fuck. Maybe the shift in extremes of reality as I visit vastly different areas of the globe has caused some kind of quantum gap in my logic of thinking. God knows what’s going on. I need to clear my head at least I can open my window on the 34th floor take in some communist air ‘because that will really help. Broadsword out for now.’ Subject can be heard pouring a drink. Tape ends.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
Transmissions from North Korea
Transcript One
‘Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy – message over’
‘The great leader could be listening to this Dictaphone message at anytime, in fact I may have to end this conversation right now...’ tape noises suggest subject is running to the door with muffled noises of the subject tapping the walls.
‘No it’s ok readers, we are ok to continue with this transmission. I am back in my room now, perched on the 34th floor of the Yangakdo Hotel, in the heart of downtown Pyongyang, North Korea. I am talking quietly not only to fool the great leader and his totalitarian regime, but also as there is no traffic noise outside – fuck knows why, it’s quite an eerie scene, something to be experienced for the traveller. After spending two nights in Beijing, China, flying with their national carrier – Air China, then sitting for three hours waiting for my visa to be sorted, then taken for the rollercoaster ride that is Air Koryo – North Korea’s airline, then meeted and greeted by my guides for the entire stay and this call sign is struggling to keep up with it all.
Hang on readers, whilst I just turn the shower on to confuse the enemy’ background noise of bathroom appliances being switched on and sniggering of the subject.
‘That will give me five minutes extra without the great leader becoming suspicious. I have been told by fellow inmates that the reason this hotel is handpicked for tourists is the fact that it is perched on an island in the middle of a river – the Tsong or whatever it’s called, I don’t give a fuck. Anyways the fact it’s on an island means no fucker can escape without Huey and fucking Duey downstairs checking up on me, escorting me here, gently pushing me to selected spots of the North Korean capital. Others in the hotel have strict itineraries, however I have already mentioned to Huey and Duey about the fact that I would be more than happy to stay put inside the Yangakdo, now known as the Wankado. It has after all its own casino, bar and gentleman’s club – fuck me I could be in Benidorm or Antwerp or Amsterdam, never mind North Korea. Besides if I stay indoors theres less chance of me causing a diplomatic incident –taking the wrong photo of Kim Jung getting out the wrong side of bed, or one of his foot soldiers wielding George Bushes’ axis of evil in his hand. The Wankado even has its own golf course – not that I’m one for the game but I’ll give it a go seen as no one else seems to be playing. Readers it sounds luxurious but it aint, but It’ll do. That’s it for now before the great leader sends his henchmen up to my room. Broadsword out’. Tape is paused.
‘Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy – message over’
‘The great leader could be listening to this Dictaphone message at anytime, in fact I may have to end this conversation right now...’ tape noises suggest subject is running to the door with muffled noises of the subject tapping the walls.
‘No it’s ok readers, we are ok to continue with this transmission. I am back in my room now, perched on the 34th floor of the Yangakdo Hotel, in the heart of downtown Pyongyang, North Korea. I am talking quietly not only to fool the great leader and his totalitarian regime, but also as there is no traffic noise outside – fuck knows why, it’s quite an eerie scene, something to be experienced for the traveller. After spending two nights in Beijing, China, flying with their national carrier – Air China, then sitting for three hours waiting for my visa to be sorted, then taken for the rollercoaster ride that is Air Koryo – North Korea’s airline, then meeted and greeted by my guides for the entire stay and this call sign is struggling to keep up with it all.
Hang on readers, whilst I just turn the shower on to confuse the enemy’ background noise of bathroom appliances being switched on and sniggering of the subject.
‘That will give me five minutes extra without the great leader becoming suspicious. I have been told by fellow inmates that the reason this hotel is handpicked for tourists is the fact that it is perched on an island in the middle of a river – the Tsong or whatever it’s called, I don’t give a fuck. Anyways the fact it’s on an island means no fucker can escape without Huey and fucking Duey downstairs checking up on me, escorting me here, gently pushing me to selected spots of the North Korean capital. Others in the hotel have strict itineraries, however I have already mentioned to Huey and Duey about the fact that I would be more than happy to stay put inside the Yangakdo, now known as the Wankado. It has after all its own casino, bar and gentleman’s club – fuck me I could be in Benidorm or Antwerp or Amsterdam, never mind North Korea. Besides if I stay indoors theres less chance of me causing a diplomatic incident –taking the wrong photo of Kim Jung getting out the wrong side of bed, or one of his foot soldiers wielding George Bushes’ axis of evil in his hand. The Wankado even has its own golf course – not that I’m one for the game but I’ll give it a go seen as no one else seems to be playing. Readers it sounds luxurious but it aint, but It’ll do. That’s it for now before the great leader sends his henchmen up to my room. Broadsword out’. Tape is paused.
Monday 5 April 2010
High Ridiing on the great Football Safari
I come to my senses strewn across the hotel bar back seat, hanging all over it like a dirty slut. Corey and Tarzan were nowhere to be seen, the bar was still closed and empty, as I reared my head to see if any form of civilisation was about and to recall the time. It was mid afternoon and a storm was brewing outside, darkening the interior of the hotel lobby and reception.
My eyes felt as if they were hollowed out – a striking characteristic of an early all day bender, which somewhere along the line has burnt itself out, allowing the participants to mellow out, slowly falling into a deep afternoon coma, never fully recapturing the jovial mood of the day’s beginnings, with no livener at hand to bring the proceedings back to life ready for the nighttime’s entertainment. And now I was sleepy, ready to knock out some more zeds and retreat back up to the room, when random flashbacks entered my frayed mind, it was all the leaves’ doing.
The situation ended in narcotic laughter, Tarzan leaving with all three of us crying, the instigating one liner of ‘Tarzan arrives, eats, shoots and leaves’ implying heavily on the pun of our great African warrior both chomping on these wondrous bitter to taste drug induced plants, whilst simultaneously exiting the building...priceless banter in this drunken conversation. I also remember downing more drink and enjoying loud telephone crack via Tarzan’s mobile.
Ah yes now I remember...it was fucking Ernie – the hack from Cameroon on the line. I remember arranging some future rendezvous, which was somewhat interrupted when the mobile I was holding turned into a lizard – that will be the leaves again then? I threw the beast at Corey in a fit of surprise more than anything else.
There is a knock at the door. ‘Sam, Sam – you there pal?’ – It was Corey.
In two minds whether to answer, still in the realms of a transitional state of mind, I shouted ‘Be with you in an hour mate’ unsure of the time.
‘You’ll need to hurry, we’re meeting Tarzan and Ernie in fifteen minutes’ answered my American hack friend.
‘What fucking time is it like?’ I pondered.
‘Just after mid day, I’ve been knocking on your door all night and again this morning – you were totally out of it brother!’ he quipped.
Fuck me; I’d slept through from waking up in the bar, to reaching my hotel room. Bastards! I’d missed the first night of action through the chewing of those pesky leaves. It turns out Corey spent most of the night in the hotel bar watching the opening game of the tournament which ended in a 4-4 draw between the hosts Angola and Mali, I think.
Togo’s involvement in the games meanwhile had been on and off like an epileptic playing with a light switch. Captain, Adebayor appearing on TV in a fucking Arsenal shirt, having now signed for Manchester City from the Gunners and after nearly inciting a riot, by celebrating scoring for City, lauding it in front of the cockney contingent. What on earth was going on? Was it the Khat leaves playing tricks again? Never mind, I needed to pull myself together to meet Ernie downstairs, for something I had arranged doped up with this African natural amphetamine. I was both anxious and inquisitive at the meeting with my Cameroon friend.
There was a commotion downstairs in the lobby, I could hear it on every floor the lift stopped and opened its doors, echoes of Tarzan’s deep African bass tones reverberated through the open plan front of building, rising all the way up to the top floor. God knows what was going on down there. I was in two minds whether to abort the descent stop the lift and head back to the 20th floor and some realms of relative normality. When in Rome and all that, however we were in Luanda, Angola, half cut still from booze and crazy plants about to embark on a meeting neither Cory or I have any recollection of. For all we knew I could have organised our own personal firing squad through our local contacts, we could be two stops away from our death! He who dares, he who dares.
Ping. The elevator doors opened and there stood Tarzan, Ernie, an assortment of minions and hangers on and what looked like a big fuck off Python or Viper, squirming its way through Ernie’s palms. It was Tarzan and our mad Cameroonian who were at odds with each other; Tarzan not being a big snake fan and all. I would hasten to add that I was on the side of our local guide on this one. God chopped snake’s legs off for a reason for meddling around with the human woman, where she would inherit the punishment of child birth, the snake would forever spend its days slithering around causing mischief and shedding skin, or so the notion goes.
‘What the fuck is that?’ pointing to the slimy creature in question, I ask.
‘It is an Angolan Python my friend, found today, it bring us luck on our journey today’ proudly boasted Ernie, his smile beaming with excitement. ‘A beautiful specimen no?’ he asks.
‘I’m not a big fan of snakes to be honest Ernie, no offence and that...anyhow what journey are you on about?’ I dare to ask.
‘Ha ha, what journey am I on about? Man you arranged it all yesterday remember?
‘Err no Ernie, I had one too many drinks, whats been organised?’
‘You want to see the Indomitable Lions – I take you to go see ‘em’ he answers, raising the bemused snake aloft in the air.
Doing my research on the flight out, I understand the indomitable Lions to be the colourful nickname of the Cameroon football team and so put two drinks and two chews of Khat leaves together to make out that we are on about to put our faith into Ernie’s hands, to go watch his team play their first game of this tournament.
‘Come on maate’ – meaning his take on the English word – ‘mate’ – ‘let’s go our transport awaits’, Ernie now pointing towards the Hotel exit and out into the bright sunshine.
Transpires Ernest has a chopper booked, taking us from Luanda to Lubango to see Cameroon take on Gabon. My fear of snakes was about as comparable as my fear of the Angolan transport infrastructure, particularly their air travel’s health and safety record. However, I had already pissed on Ernie’s parade, insisting the fucking snake stays behind and after all I’d supposedly organised the whole trip, so what could I do?
‘We’d be delighted to accompany you up to Lubango to see your team Ernie, lead the fucking way my good man, are we bringing along any beer or Khat leaves?’
We arrived at Luanda Airport to have it revealed that the mode of transport was a Super Puma, normally reserved for oil workers travelling to and from offshore, at least the thing had plenty of flying hours – this country’s main bags of dosh lay in those oilfields. Victor the pilot seemed to know his business – an ex Angolan Air Force elitist, or so I’m told. I was unaware there was such a thing as the Angolan Air Force. I feel someone, somewhere is telling me lies, but if the story gets covered then lets fucking crack on.
I’m not the best of flyers, be it planes of choppers, it was probably mainly to do with the enforced tactical landings during the Iraq war, in which the RAF’s Hercules transporter aircraft, often nosedived towards the deck, leaving one’s innards in mid air, whilst the rest of your body was drawn to the floor. And so when I was somewhat startled at the fumes filling the cabin prior to take off, I put it down to my personal paranoia and decided not to point out this obvious safety hazard to any of the other wayward imbeciles on board.
Using the luxury of hindsight, I wished I had raised my hand and asked Victor just what exactly the fuck was this gagging, intoxicating smell, especially when all manner of alarms kicked off like British holidaymakers in downtown Ibiza. We were an hour into the flight, when all hell let loose. I had until then been sat in a bewildering trance, buzzing off the precarious situation we had agreed to let ourselves in – just what the fuck were we doing on an oil workers’ helicopter, dashing over barren wasteland, accompanied by hyper African journalists and a minder called Tarzan? The moment didn’t last long, as the smell came back in abundance, then the alarms, then smoke, then the smell of panic, more worryingly that Victor the cool as fuck, laid back pilot, was the biggest culprit of fear.
Fortunately, his navigator was the typical placid African man, yet poised at the same time to take control. We needed an airport and fast, I can only imagine the horror on everyone’s face must have matched my own facial features. The sweat soaked my clothes, especially so down my back and off my nose, I could smell the toxins releasing from my pores. If this was Ernie’s idea of cold turkey treatment, then surely this was a tad extreme.
‘Lubango, Lubango’ Ernie shouted across the cabin through all the chaos. ‘It’s OK, we’ll ditch at Lubango airport’ I was impressed at his optimism, if not choice of words, the ditching element not sounding too up my street and weren’t we going to fucking Lubango anyway?
I could see the outline of the airport runway ahead of us through the smoke, through the cockpit windows. It was like the sight of an oasis to a desert traveler, like a spoonful of warmed up skag to a junkie and it filled me with an illicit sense of joy, if we were to crash, at least we’re not far from civilisation, from aid. The cry of ‘brace, brace’ was aired, the same catchphrase you hear on charter flights to the Costa Del Sol, the same pairing of words you ignore on a business flight to Brussels, all too real now, never before listened to and carried out more significantly. And that was all I could think of as I stared at the cold grey metallic floor of the chopper, which could cave in and come crashing up towards me at any second, should fate decree this to be my final flight. All I could think of was the sheer guilt trip of not listening all those times on standard flights, when pretty young trolley dollies flashed their skills, amidst plastered on makeup, I promised to myself and the hand of fate that I would in future be listening in surround sound, the next plane I stepped on, if I were allowed to survive this episode, knowing full well it was a fake gesticulation and that I’d been scanning through the selection of on board drinks, next time the cabin crew talked through the safety spiel.
The engines by now were on their last legs, sounding like a bag of hammers, tossing the copter from side to side. A couple of the locals on board were saying hail Mary’s and therefore not helping matters and then a screeching sound pierced the ear drums, the chopper now scraping along the deck, with a seamless mix of shudders, jolts and bumps. I was strapped in holding on for life, as we turned onto the side, kicking up ploombs of dust, gravel and asphalt, making it hard to see what was happening outside the cabin, perhaps it would be better not to see death come knocking for you. I prayed for the whole drama to stop, but the torturous saga continued, sliding along on our side.
Eventually, the aircraft came to a standstill. After everything that had occurred in the last five minutes – the noise, the dust, the fear – just as quickly everything became still. The rotors had long snapped off, thank god, meaning everyone could escape without the knowledge that a wrong turn would chop one’s head off. I looked over to Corey, he was motionless. I unstrapped myself and fought my way across the sea of carnage that were bodies exiting the interior of the Puma to the septic.
‘Oi, Corey, hey you OK mate?’ shaking the moron violently, as if the poor sod hadn’t had enough violence for one day.
‘Easy buddy, easy, are we alive then?’ the perplexed Septic asked.
‘I fucking hope so son, I hope so, we’ve still got the match to get to yet.’ I offered some crumbs of comfort.
The Puma, had just come short of the runway at Benguela airport, luckily for us halfway between the capital Luanda and our required destination of Lubango, a back of beyond airport which serves the nearby coastal port city. Personally, it could have been the underground layer of Bin Laden, I was alive and anything else was a bonus.
There were UN staff nearby, busy loading a light aircraft, who had made their way over in their brilliant white land rovers, complete with gigantic black lettering – UN – on the side. We would make the remainder of the trip by road, it was agreed, with Ernie spouting some local lingo shit about me and aborting the hotel snake’s trip, after all the little blighter was a good luck charm.
‘Fuck off Ernie, you can’t tell me that ‘cos we left the fucking python, the chopper crashed! More likely shoddy fucking workmanship of the thing, you wouldn’t get this in England’, I snapped back at the mumbling prick. Maybe this was both our ways of dealing with the near death incident, but before long it was all forgotten and we were drinking beers on the back of a safari jeep on the way to the game, although we’d be late for the start, we were alive.
Ernie’s day got gradually worse, as we arrived at the Estadio Alto da Chela, not exactly brimming with people, around 5,000 seats spare and with Gabon already one goal to the good, Daniel Cousin breaking the deadlock and Cameroonian hearts, with what turned out to be the only goal of the game, still our friend was gracious he still had all his wits about him after our helicopter encounter.
Corey and I made a conscious decision that we must abort this fucking dreaded mission in Angola. The Togo team had been shot at, with several dead, they had withdrawn from the tournament and subsequently ludicrously banned from entering for years to come. Our transiting chopper had crash landed on the way to our first game and whilst the people here had a welcoming charm about them and the Khat leaves were fucking good stuff to munch on, the yank and I did not have a warm feeling about the remainder of our stay. We felt that someone or something was telling us not to stay and there was a bit of bad feeling about the place.
We headed for Lubango airport after the match, our ad hoc flight back on an internal route was delayed 24 hours, but we were too exhausted to care, a feeling of acceptance had washed over us, our African mission was over, but we’d tell the sheikh at a later date. Lubango airport was like an airfield from the 1950’s, complete with Sailors and waving girls and ancient aircraft from that era. Two Soviet built Mig fighters brought us up to at least the 1980’s and the realms of Top Gun. Corey had promised himself a whore to celebrate cheating death and his opportunity came as we arrived back in Luanda for our final nights’ stay at the Presidente.
Two hookers graced the hotel bar and they were instant targets for the pair of us and why not, we had life to celebrate and what better way to start than by kicking these dirty sluts’ back doors in, even if we had to pay for the pleasure. Dressed up to the nines, these two pro’s were suited and booted for instant loving, complete with glittery tight mini skirts, wrapped around tight toned thighs and slutty boob tubes that screamed filth. Marina and Dexy weren’t your average local names, but they could have been called Frank and Doug, as long as they had tits and slit and were rotten in bed, such was my enthusiasm for having some casual intercourse.
A few shots of Wild Turkey and a bottle for the room and we were sorted, Corey and I going our seperate ways, him with Marina and me with dirty Dexy and her midnight runners. All things considered it was just what we needed to round off our trip; at least we’d leave Africa with decent memories and something to tell the young ‘uns down the boozer. Not even the sight of a stray tapeworm, creeping its way out of Dexy’s bottom, slithering out for a look to see what all the commotion was, before heading back inside to the warmth of this night ladies’ insides, was enough to put me off, as I ploughed on regardless, double bagged with padlocks tied to me knob, of course.
We were out of Africa and off to Spain, but a trip to Blighty first to see a man about the plane ride over, now how hard could that be?
My eyes felt as if they were hollowed out – a striking characteristic of an early all day bender, which somewhere along the line has burnt itself out, allowing the participants to mellow out, slowly falling into a deep afternoon coma, never fully recapturing the jovial mood of the day’s beginnings, with no livener at hand to bring the proceedings back to life ready for the nighttime’s entertainment. And now I was sleepy, ready to knock out some more zeds and retreat back up to the room, when random flashbacks entered my frayed mind, it was all the leaves’ doing.
The situation ended in narcotic laughter, Tarzan leaving with all three of us crying, the instigating one liner of ‘Tarzan arrives, eats, shoots and leaves’ implying heavily on the pun of our great African warrior both chomping on these wondrous bitter to taste drug induced plants, whilst simultaneously exiting the building...priceless banter in this drunken conversation. I also remember downing more drink and enjoying loud telephone crack via Tarzan’s mobile.
Ah yes now I remember...it was fucking Ernie – the hack from Cameroon on the line. I remember arranging some future rendezvous, which was somewhat interrupted when the mobile I was holding turned into a lizard – that will be the leaves again then? I threw the beast at Corey in a fit of surprise more than anything else.
There is a knock at the door. ‘Sam, Sam – you there pal?’ – It was Corey.
In two minds whether to answer, still in the realms of a transitional state of mind, I shouted ‘Be with you in an hour mate’ unsure of the time.
‘You’ll need to hurry, we’re meeting Tarzan and Ernie in fifteen minutes’ answered my American hack friend.
‘What fucking time is it like?’ I pondered.
‘Just after mid day, I’ve been knocking on your door all night and again this morning – you were totally out of it brother!’ he quipped.
Fuck me; I’d slept through from waking up in the bar, to reaching my hotel room. Bastards! I’d missed the first night of action through the chewing of those pesky leaves. It turns out Corey spent most of the night in the hotel bar watching the opening game of the tournament which ended in a 4-4 draw between the hosts Angola and Mali, I think.
Togo’s involvement in the games meanwhile had been on and off like an epileptic playing with a light switch. Captain, Adebayor appearing on TV in a fucking Arsenal shirt, having now signed for Manchester City from the Gunners and after nearly inciting a riot, by celebrating scoring for City, lauding it in front of the cockney contingent. What on earth was going on? Was it the Khat leaves playing tricks again? Never mind, I needed to pull myself together to meet Ernie downstairs, for something I had arranged doped up with this African natural amphetamine. I was both anxious and inquisitive at the meeting with my Cameroon friend.
There was a commotion downstairs in the lobby, I could hear it on every floor the lift stopped and opened its doors, echoes of Tarzan’s deep African bass tones reverberated through the open plan front of building, rising all the way up to the top floor. God knows what was going on down there. I was in two minds whether to abort the descent stop the lift and head back to the 20th floor and some realms of relative normality. When in Rome and all that, however we were in Luanda, Angola, half cut still from booze and crazy plants about to embark on a meeting neither Cory or I have any recollection of. For all we knew I could have organised our own personal firing squad through our local contacts, we could be two stops away from our death! He who dares, he who dares.
Ping. The elevator doors opened and there stood Tarzan, Ernie, an assortment of minions and hangers on and what looked like a big fuck off Python or Viper, squirming its way through Ernie’s palms. It was Tarzan and our mad Cameroonian who were at odds with each other; Tarzan not being a big snake fan and all. I would hasten to add that I was on the side of our local guide on this one. God chopped snake’s legs off for a reason for meddling around with the human woman, where she would inherit the punishment of child birth, the snake would forever spend its days slithering around causing mischief and shedding skin, or so the notion goes.
‘What the fuck is that?’ pointing to the slimy creature in question, I ask.
‘It is an Angolan Python my friend, found today, it bring us luck on our journey today’ proudly boasted Ernie, his smile beaming with excitement. ‘A beautiful specimen no?’ he asks.
‘I’m not a big fan of snakes to be honest Ernie, no offence and that...anyhow what journey are you on about?’ I dare to ask.
‘Ha ha, what journey am I on about? Man you arranged it all yesterday remember?
‘Err no Ernie, I had one too many drinks, whats been organised?’
‘You want to see the Indomitable Lions – I take you to go see ‘em’ he answers, raising the bemused snake aloft in the air.
Doing my research on the flight out, I understand the indomitable Lions to be the colourful nickname of the Cameroon football team and so put two drinks and two chews of Khat leaves together to make out that we are on about to put our faith into Ernie’s hands, to go watch his team play their first game of this tournament.
‘Come on maate’ – meaning his take on the English word – ‘mate’ – ‘let’s go our transport awaits’, Ernie now pointing towards the Hotel exit and out into the bright sunshine.
Transpires Ernest has a chopper booked, taking us from Luanda to Lubango to see Cameroon take on Gabon. My fear of snakes was about as comparable as my fear of the Angolan transport infrastructure, particularly their air travel’s health and safety record. However, I had already pissed on Ernie’s parade, insisting the fucking snake stays behind and after all I’d supposedly organised the whole trip, so what could I do?
‘We’d be delighted to accompany you up to Lubango to see your team Ernie, lead the fucking way my good man, are we bringing along any beer or Khat leaves?’
We arrived at Luanda Airport to have it revealed that the mode of transport was a Super Puma, normally reserved for oil workers travelling to and from offshore, at least the thing had plenty of flying hours – this country’s main bags of dosh lay in those oilfields. Victor the pilot seemed to know his business – an ex Angolan Air Force elitist, or so I’m told. I was unaware there was such a thing as the Angolan Air Force. I feel someone, somewhere is telling me lies, but if the story gets covered then lets fucking crack on.
I’m not the best of flyers, be it planes of choppers, it was probably mainly to do with the enforced tactical landings during the Iraq war, in which the RAF’s Hercules transporter aircraft, often nosedived towards the deck, leaving one’s innards in mid air, whilst the rest of your body was drawn to the floor. And so when I was somewhat startled at the fumes filling the cabin prior to take off, I put it down to my personal paranoia and decided not to point out this obvious safety hazard to any of the other wayward imbeciles on board.
Using the luxury of hindsight, I wished I had raised my hand and asked Victor just what exactly the fuck was this gagging, intoxicating smell, especially when all manner of alarms kicked off like British holidaymakers in downtown Ibiza. We were an hour into the flight, when all hell let loose. I had until then been sat in a bewildering trance, buzzing off the precarious situation we had agreed to let ourselves in – just what the fuck were we doing on an oil workers’ helicopter, dashing over barren wasteland, accompanied by hyper African journalists and a minder called Tarzan? The moment didn’t last long, as the smell came back in abundance, then the alarms, then smoke, then the smell of panic, more worryingly that Victor the cool as fuck, laid back pilot, was the biggest culprit of fear.
Fortunately, his navigator was the typical placid African man, yet poised at the same time to take control. We needed an airport and fast, I can only imagine the horror on everyone’s face must have matched my own facial features. The sweat soaked my clothes, especially so down my back and off my nose, I could smell the toxins releasing from my pores. If this was Ernie’s idea of cold turkey treatment, then surely this was a tad extreme.
‘Lubango, Lubango’ Ernie shouted across the cabin through all the chaos. ‘It’s OK, we’ll ditch at Lubango airport’ I was impressed at his optimism, if not choice of words, the ditching element not sounding too up my street and weren’t we going to fucking Lubango anyway?
I could see the outline of the airport runway ahead of us through the smoke, through the cockpit windows. It was like the sight of an oasis to a desert traveler, like a spoonful of warmed up skag to a junkie and it filled me with an illicit sense of joy, if we were to crash, at least we’re not far from civilisation, from aid. The cry of ‘brace, brace’ was aired, the same catchphrase you hear on charter flights to the Costa Del Sol, the same pairing of words you ignore on a business flight to Brussels, all too real now, never before listened to and carried out more significantly. And that was all I could think of as I stared at the cold grey metallic floor of the chopper, which could cave in and come crashing up towards me at any second, should fate decree this to be my final flight. All I could think of was the sheer guilt trip of not listening all those times on standard flights, when pretty young trolley dollies flashed their skills, amidst plastered on makeup, I promised to myself and the hand of fate that I would in future be listening in surround sound, the next plane I stepped on, if I were allowed to survive this episode, knowing full well it was a fake gesticulation and that I’d been scanning through the selection of on board drinks, next time the cabin crew talked through the safety spiel.
The engines by now were on their last legs, sounding like a bag of hammers, tossing the copter from side to side. A couple of the locals on board were saying hail Mary’s and therefore not helping matters and then a screeching sound pierced the ear drums, the chopper now scraping along the deck, with a seamless mix of shudders, jolts and bumps. I was strapped in holding on for life, as we turned onto the side, kicking up ploombs of dust, gravel and asphalt, making it hard to see what was happening outside the cabin, perhaps it would be better not to see death come knocking for you. I prayed for the whole drama to stop, but the torturous saga continued, sliding along on our side.
Eventually, the aircraft came to a standstill. After everything that had occurred in the last five minutes – the noise, the dust, the fear – just as quickly everything became still. The rotors had long snapped off, thank god, meaning everyone could escape without the knowledge that a wrong turn would chop one’s head off. I looked over to Corey, he was motionless. I unstrapped myself and fought my way across the sea of carnage that were bodies exiting the interior of the Puma to the septic.
‘Oi, Corey, hey you OK mate?’ shaking the moron violently, as if the poor sod hadn’t had enough violence for one day.
‘Easy buddy, easy, are we alive then?’ the perplexed Septic asked.
‘I fucking hope so son, I hope so, we’ve still got the match to get to yet.’ I offered some crumbs of comfort.
The Puma, had just come short of the runway at Benguela airport, luckily for us halfway between the capital Luanda and our required destination of Lubango, a back of beyond airport which serves the nearby coastal port city. Personally, it could have been the underground layer of Bin Laden, I was alive and anything else was a bonus.
There were UN staff nearby, busy loading a light aircraft, who had made their way over in their brilliant white land rovers, complete with gigantic black lettering – UN – on the side. We would make the remainder of the trip by road, it was agreed, with Ernie spouting some local lingo shit about me and aborting the hotel snake’s trip, after all the little blighter was a good luck charm.
‘Fuck off Ernie, you can’t tell me that ‘cos we left the fucking python, the chopper crashed! More likely shoddy fucking workmanship of the thing, you wouldn’t get this in England’, I snapped back at the mumbling prick. Maybe this was both our ways of dealing with the near death incident, but before long it was all forgotten and we were drinking beers on the back of a safari jeep on the way to the game, although we’d be late for the start, we were alive.
Ernie’s day got gradually worse, as we arrived at the Estadio Alto da Chela, not exactly brimming with people, around 5,000 seats spare and with Gabon already one goal to the good, Daniel Cousin breaking the deadlock and Cameroonian hearts, with what turned out to be the only goal of the game, still our friend was gracious he still had all his wits about him after our helicopter encounter.
Corey and I made a conscious decision that we must abort this fucking dreaded mission in Angola. The Togo team had been shot at, with several dead, they had withdrawn from the tournament and subsequently ludicrously banned from entering for years to come. Our transiting chopper had crash landed on the way to our first game and whilst the people here had a welcoming charm about them and the Khat leaves were fucking good stuff to munch on, the yank and I did not have a warm feeling about the remainder of our stay. We felt that someone or something was telling us not to stay and there was a bit of bad feeling about the place.
We headed for Lubango airport after the match, our ad hoc flight back on an internal route was delayed 24 hours, but we were too exhausted to care, a feeling of acceptance had washed over us, our African mission was over, but we’d tell the sheikh at a later date. Lubango airport was like an airfield from the 1950’s, complete with Sailors and waving girls and ancient aircraft from that era. Two Soviet built Mig fighters brought us up to at least the 1980’s and the realms of Top Gun. Corey had promised himself a whore to celebrate cheating death and his opportunity came as we arrived back in Luanda for our final nights’ stay at the Presidente.
Two hookers graced the hotel bar and they were instant targets for the pair of us and why not, we had life to celebrate and what better way to start than by kicking these dirty sluts’ back doors in, even if we had to pay for the pleasure. Dressed up to the nines, these two pro’s were suited and booted for instant loving, complete with glittery tight mini skirts, wrapped around tight toned thighs and slutty boob tubes that screamed filth. Marina and Dexy weren’t your average local names, but they could have been called Frank and Doug, as long as they had tits and slit and were rotten in bed, such was my enthusiasm for having some casual intercourse.
A few shots of Wild Turkey and a bottle for the room and we were sorted, Corey and I going our seperate ways, him with Marina and me with dirty Dexy and her midnight runners. All things considered it was just what we needed to round off our trip; at least we’d leave Africa with decent memories and something to tell the young ‘uns down the boozer. Not even the sight of a stray tapeworm, creeping its way out of Dexy’s bottom, slithering out for a look to see what all the commotion was, before heading back inside to the warmth of this night ladies’ insides, was enough to put me off, as I ploughed on regardless, double bagged with padlocks tied to me knob, of course.
We were out of Africa and off to Spain, but a trip to Blighty first to see a man about the plane ride over, now how hard could that be?
Friday 2 April 2010
Hangover in Angola
January 2010 – Hangover in Angola
I open my eyes, forgetful for a minute of where I was. For that split second, I could have been back in New York after a heavy night on the booze, back in Blighty on a rare mission in the homeland, scraping up the remnants of last night’s Mutton madras, but no, my skull aches as though it has been mothballed by a heroin addict, a gentle numbing pain, secreting occasional sharp twinges every so often. I’m in Angola – Fuck, what am I doing here? The penny had dropped, all along this assignment seemed to good to be true, like it would never happen, yet here it is, although Ang fucking gola to start, the country wasn’t even on my global radar some weeks back.
The news from back home is that most Premier League matches are postponed due to snow. No fucking chance of that here. The only postponement would be due to some dark voodoo magic, conjured up by a local witch doctor. Not too misguided from the truth either, according to Four Four Two football magazine. I read their preview of the African Nations Cup with giddiness and dread. The average African football fan – in fact there is no average, each one is bonkers.
The phone goes...its Corey. ‘You heard the news? The Togo team bus was shot at man...one dead, loads of injured. Thank Christ Togo aren’t in the World Cup!’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘Cos we would have been there covering the story, dodging bullets too!’ came the reply.
Bollocks. The shite whiskey from last night drained from my head in an instant, as this sobering thought entered the fray. I sat with my head in my hands, eyes closed, mulling over the tight predicament we found ourselves in. I switch on the portable TV to see what all the fuss is about and there it is plastered all over the news in the native tongue, yet I recognize Emmanuel Adebayor, used to playing in Manchester in some distress, being comforted by other players and passers by – Jesus!
There was several quarts of Whiskey left in the bottle and even though I was ball bagged beyond belief, I necked the whole lot, trying in vain to allude to some kind of plan b, in which we could meet some fans bound for the World Cup and bugger off on the first flight out of here.
Our Angolan guide and ‘fixer’ – Tarzan was loitering in the lobby, I knew it was him, even though I’d never met the bloke before. I guess it was the fact he had our names plastered all over a scruffy piece of cardboard that gave the game away.
‘You must be Tarzan I take it?’ I ask, offering my hand in a welcoming gesture.
‘Mr Rosenthal, Sir at your service’ this man beast answered. 6ft 7, the width of the Thames and built like a brick shithouse, or I guess round here a brick mud hut, to say I was more than happy to see this giant would be a grave understatement.
‘What’s the crack with this ambush carry on?’
‘It’s the fuckin F.L.E.C. boss, tryin to fuck us over. Is bad news...very bad news, we must keep a low profile for now, play it safe’ Tarzan advised us, his hands still clutching the big fuck off sign as he spoke, totally contradicting his last comment.
‘The F.L.E.C. are?’
‘The Liberation of Enclave of Cabinda – a small terrorist group, trying to start off the civil war. Don’t worry boss, stick wit me and will be ok’, Tarzan now patting my back with his huge palms – an instrument I wouldn’t like to get in the way of.
Without my list of ‘Pharmacy’ drugs to keep me sane and protect me in the form of numbing everyday life, free from mental pain, more Wild Turkey is to be acquired and issued asap, in order to enable me to digest street life outside the comfort zone of the hotel and that was the only comfort on these premises, let me tell you...the zonal benefits, barricading us from depths of outside life on the street.
Meanwhile back at the Angolan bat cave, Tarzan is riding the train of thought that he is to take us to the main press conference for the day, focusing on tomorrow’s inaugural game of this ill advised tournament. I quickly inform him that we are here merely to meet and greet the five African nations that are involved in the forthcoming World Cup. My words fall on deaf ears, as Tarzan ploughs through a side street market, crammed with fruit stalls, a flash dance of colours jump out at me dazzling my intoxicated brain, causing my eyes to bulge, crammed with trying to process too much visual information for this time of morning.
Now this is a real market, none of those mundane market town affairs back in the UK, or regional cook off cum Billy boy drag races in the States. Smells orientate their way to a hot chilli fragrance, wafting from a street vendor, and sizzling Chicken kebabs in a way the Portuguese settlers here would have been proud of. My nostril hairs are stood to attention, saluting this aroma in all its awe. For a moment I forget where I am, forget I’m on my way to a meeting of hacks I do not need to be at, forget that three or four people lie dead after a machine gun attack down the road, forget about the tense atmosphere here today and that the tension is only about to increase at this bloody conference, forget that the whole tournament could be off, forget that this could have a bearing on the world cup, forget that I could be next in line for a firefight.
In their unorganised wisdom, GFOM missed the deadline for official press applications and therefore we find ourselves camped away from the remainder of the world’s media, currently enjoying themselves in a special venue, reserved for their use. More to the point, a secure compound for journalists to go about their everyday business, sound in the knowledge that they have safety in numbers. They are the Antelopes crossing the river in numbers, avoiding the lying wait of the Crocodile ambush. We are the stray wandering Buffalo, ready to be picked out at will, as we stroll through the bush unaware of any danger lurking around the corner. I shall be having words with the Sheikh later about the option of danger money for this trip.
The GFOM outcasts are lodged at the Le Presidente, in downtown Luanda, a single high rise block, daubed in depressing battleship Grey, formerly a Le Merdien chain of hotels in the 1970’s and unchanged since, still charging top dollar, reminiscing about its halcyon days, I’m sure. Perhaps the thinking behind that is, if they charge the high end rates, then this will kid the guests into thinking they have the facilities to match. At $295 a night, I would at least expect a Jacuzzi and Wi-Fi. The hotel’s saving grace is the rather pleasant bar, which I have yet to frequent.
We finally arrive at the media circus, with carnage already taking place. African press wetting their pants, arguing with each other about the current status of the Togolese squad, arguing about the rights and wrongs of travelling in this country. Foreign journalists taking a back seat to it all, adding their words of wisdom at ad hoc intervals, Reuters and the associated press spokespeople denying the Togo keeper has died of his wounds, local football officials trying to calm the atmosphere, stating that everything is in order and that the tournament will go ahead as scheduled.
I’ve seen nothing like it in my writing days; it certainly beats pre meditated run of the mill US military public speaking, in which the war on terror is always reaching its targets, no matter how many body bags return from the badlands of Iraq and Afghanistan. I love it, organised chaos and nowhere better to see it firsthand than the world’s representatives at organised chaos – Africa.
I collar a journo not involved with this mass verbal brawl, a chubby faced chap, adorned with a sleazy pimp moustache, a cigarillo perched on his lower lip, rounded glasses, pinstripe shirt complete with ghoulish braces, holding up a pair of beige nylon trousers, separating his strides from his well worn creased slip ons. This guy was a morph of Don King and Mike Bassett and his crack didn’t disappoint.
‘Look at these imbeciles’ he points towards the bustling crowd ‘they give these parts a bad name, I tell you’ in strong Afrikaan dialect.
His name is Ernie, from Cameroon –result! I can progress with my probing about South Africa in the summer from his point of view, or so I thought.
‘How will this affect the World Cup?’
‘I tell you now my friend this is totally different, a different kettle of fish, its bout time Africa got some appreciation off FIFA, who knows we may even have a African winner too’, offered our optimistic friend. One could mistake this for arrogance; however it is only the way of these people. A proud people.
Ernie goes on to invite me over to Cameroon to ‘join our party’ – now I’m all ears, whether or not I can fit his party into my schedule we’ll have to see and so I take his business card for now and promise to make contact at a later stage...he may well yet come in handy for the remainder of this tournament, should it go ahead.
The remnants of my Yellow Fever inoculation are back with a vengeance, with the shakes taking over my hands. A stiff drink and sharp exit are required, besides I can make no sense of the squabble playing itself out in front of me. We’ve only been here half an hour or so, but I want to escape this scene. I grab a few press releases on our way out – all focusing on the Togo shooting incident.
I fear that a case of pigeon English has entered the fray; either that or a bigger news story is developing, for the CAF press release reads... ‘Paulo Kassoma tranquilized the President of the CAF, informing the government is providing total support and sympathy to the Togolese delegation’.
Fuck me, the football president in these parts has been put under sedation, I’ll have some of what he’s had to get me through these worrying times. I instruct Tarzan to take me back to the hotel via an off licence – or the local equivalent, whilst I gather my thoughts on our situation – the future of this tournament seeing as Togo are threatening to go home, how this affects the summer’s main event over yonder in South Africa and how we are going to capture the African contingent’s preparation, trying to travel around Angola safely, but at the same time keeping the Sheikh back in the states happy –he is after all funding our expedition. The last thing I need is to blow this huge payday in terms of travel and experience...not just yet anyway.
Corey and I mull things over in the hotel bar. It isn’t officially open, but then nothing is official over here. Tarzan has provided his contact numbers should we need him anymore today. I can only call from the hotel as my mobile signal doesn’t stretch as far as Angola. It has been pointed out that in fact two sim cards are required over here, as two networks cover various regions of the country. If my plan comes to fruition, the less travel in Angola the better, especially after the machine gun incident.
Apparently, the local authorities have warned everyone involved (including teams) in the tournament to travel from city to city, ground to ground, by air and in no circumstances is anyone to travel by road. It’s a bit late for that, as rumours are rife circulating on the fate of the Togo team, the conditions of the injured and in particular that of the goalkeeper shot by the militia. Some of his team mates have announced his passing away, whilst the football federations involved heavily deny this. It appears that the organised chaos witnessed at the press conference earlier, has seeped into the communication system, baffling the world’s media once more.
I have arrived not by choice in Angola to cover the entire African ensemble of teams, who are representing the region in the World Cup, yet I have spent more time discussing my own safety and the ambush on the Togo team – a side not in attendance come the summer. Hell that is the nature of the beast following football. That is definitely the nature of the beast following football in this climate...completely insane and there are elements in this concoction which are right up my street.
Corey turns out not to be the gimp I anticipated. True he has classic Americanisms in him that need to be ironed out, but come the end of this rollercoaster ride, I fully expect him to be a shell of the man that sits before me. I fear that I will have failed him the full blown on experience of hedonism, if the outcome turns out any other way. We share a bottle of potent local brew – a mixture Tarzan did explain to me, however I was concentrating on any suspicious activity heading anywhere near our mini bus, the slow seeds of paranoia firmly planted, the first shoots of which were displaying signs of blossoming into full blown panic attacks. Just where is my combination of pharmacy drugs when I need them? I fear I may require Tarzan to pick up some local ‘produce’ later in the day to quell this anxious spell, waiting on the horizon of my brain.
After four rounds of playing Shithead and bomb bursting my way through three packets of Lucky Strikes, dousing my flames of anxiety with shots of local shit and bottles of Carlsberg Export, I get round to making a plan. Whether it was the best one or not and whether it was the best frame of mind to make it in remains to be seen, but here fucking goes. We both agree that a visit Cabinda is out of the question. Neither of us plans on getting shot, for the sake of a dodgy football tournament, maybe for the European Championships or the World Cup, even the FA Cup, but not for this ramshackle get together. Sods law decrees that two teams we are here to cover – Ivory Coast and Ghana are based in the group centred around Cabinda – scene of the Togo shootings. We’ll have to take a chance on the pair of them getting through to the next round and we’ll take it from there. Either that or someone gets us a few shooters to take up there to even things up a little. Besides, we’ve still no transport (equating to no flights as no other form of travelling is advised in these surroundings) and at the moment look like we’re going nowhere. How does that sound for a plan? Well shit I know, but with these limited resources and the state of mind I’m in it’s the best I can do.
C’mon man, pull yourself together! You’re here to do a job in the middle of an assignment of a lifetime, get some bollocks and pull it out of the bag.
‘Get me fucking Tarzan on the blower!’ I yell across the bar, pointing to his number on a business card.
Half an hour later, our Angolan guide pitches up, firmly sticking to the instructions I supplied over the phone. The man mountain produces more booze, a map of the country and some local delicacies – to which I told him to use his imagination. The local delicacies are taken out of a plastic shopping bag, to reveal themselves as a bunch of leaves. I refrain from taking the piss, confident that this wise local can produce the goods and so I keep my mouth shut, even though it pains me to keep quiet.
‘And what do we have here my good friend?’ I ask, now fully on the way to intoxication.
‘Khat leaves boss, chew and swallow the juice...very nice indeed’ answered our new found connoisseur.
Fuck it, I take the advice, grab a bunch and chew away.
I open my eyes, forgetful for a minute of where I was. For that split second, I could have been back in New York after a heavy night on the booze, back in Blighty on a rare mission in the homeland, scraping up the remnants of last night’s Mutton madras, but no, my skull aches as though it has been mothballed by a heroin addict, a gentle numbing pain, secreting occasional sharp twinges every so often. I’m in Angola – Fuck, what am I doing here? The penny had dropped, all along this assignment seemed to good to be true, like it would never happen, yet here it is, although Ang fucking gola to start, the country wasn’t even on my global radar some weeks back.
The news from back home is that most Premier League matches are postponed due to snow. No fucking chance of that here. The only postponement would be due to some dark voodoo magic, conjured up by a local witch doctor. Not too misguided from the truth either, according to Four Four Two football magazine. I read their preview of the African Nations Cup with giddiness and dread. The average African football fan – in fact there is no average, each one is bonkers.
The phone goes...its Corey. ‘You heard the news? The Togo team bus was shot at man...one dead, loads of injured. Thank Christ Togo aren’t in the World Cup!’
‘Why’s that?’ I ask.
‘Cos we would have been there covering the story, dodging bullets too!’ came the reply.
Bollocks. The shite whiskey from last night drained from my head in an instant, as this sobering thought entered the fray. I sat with my head in my hands, eyes closed, mulling over the tight predicament we found ourselves in. I switch on the portable TV to see what all the fuss is about and there it is plastered all over the news in the native tongue, yet I recognize Emmanuel Adebayor, used to playing in Manchester in some distress, being comforted by other players and passers by – Jesus!
There was several quarts of Whiskey left in the bottle and even though I was ball bagged beyond belief, I necked the whole lot, trying in vain to allude to some kind of plan b, in which we could meet some fans bound for the World Cup and bugger off on the first flight out of here.
Our Angolan guide and ‘fixer’ – Tarzan was loitering in the lobby, I knew it was him, even though I’d never met the bloke before. I guess it was the fact he had our names plastered all over a scruffy piece of cardboard that gave the game away.
‘You must be Tarzan I take it?’ I ask, offering my hand in a welcoming gesture.
‘Mr Rosenthal, Sir at your service’ this man beast answered. 6ft 7, the width of the Thames and built like a brick shithouse, or I guess round here a brick mud hut, to say I was more than happy to see this giant would be a grave understatement.
‘What’s the crack with this ambush carry on?’
‘It’s the fuckin F.L.E.C. boss, tryin to fuck us over. Is bad news...very bad news, we must keep a low profile for now, play it safe’ Tarzan advised us, his hands still clutching the big fuck off sign as he spoke, totally contradicting his last comment.
‘The F.L.E.C. are?’
‘The Liberation of Enclave of Cabinda – a small terrorist group, trying to start off the civil war. Don’t worry boss, stick wit me and will be ok’, Tarzan now patting my back with his huge palms – an instrument I wouldn’t like to get in the way of.
Without my list of ‘Pharmacy’ drugs to keep me sane and protect me in the form of numbing everyday life, free from mental pain, more Wild Turkey is to be acquired and issued asap, in order to enable me to digest street life outside the comfort zone of the hotel and that was the only comfort on these premises, let me tell you...the zonal benefits, barricading us from depths of outside life on the street.
Meanwhile back at the Angolan bat cave, Tarzan is riding the train of thought that he is to take us to the main press conference for the day, focusing on tomorrow’s inaugural game of this ill advised tournament. I quickly inform him that we are here merely to meet and greet the five African nations that are involved in the forthcoming World Cup. My words fall on deaf ears, as Tarzan ploughs through a side street market, crammed with fruit stalls, a flash dance of colours jump out at me dazzling my intoxicated brain, causing my eyes to bulge, crammed with trying to process too much visual information for this time of morning.
Now this is a real market, none of those mundane market town affairs back in the UK, or regional cook off cum Billy boy drag races in the States. Smells orientate their way to a hot chilli fragrance, wafting from a street vendor, and sizzling Chicken kebabs in a way the Portuguese settlers here would have been proud of. My nostril hairs are stood to attention, saluting this aroma in all its awe. For a moment I forget where I am, forget I’m on my way to a meeting of hacks I do not need to be at, forget that three or four people lie dead after a machine gun attack down the road, forget about the tense atmosphere here today and that the tension is only about to increase at this bloody conference, forget that the whole tournament could be off, forget that this could have a bearing on the world cup, forget that I could be next in line for a firefight.
In their unorganised wisdom, GFOM missed the deadline for official press applications and therefore we find ourselves camped away from the remainder of the world’s media, currently enjoying themselves in a special venue, reserved for their use. More to the point, a secure compound for journalists to go about their everyday business, sound in the knowledge that they have safety in numbers. They are the Antelopes crossing the river in numbers, avoiding the lying wait of the Crocodile ambush. We are the stray wandering Buffalo, ready to be picked out at will, as we stroll through the bush unaware of any danger lurking around the corner. I shall be having words with the Sheikh later about the option of danger money for this trip.
The GFOM outcasts are lodged at the Le Presidente, in downtown Luanda, a single high rise block, daubed in depressing battleship Grey, formerly a Le Merdien chain of hotels in the 1970’s and unchanged since, still charging top dollar, reminiscing about its halcyon days, I’m sure. Perhaps the thinking behind that is, if they charge the high end rates, then this will kid the guests into thinking they have the facilities to match. At $295 a night, I would at least expect a Jacuzzi and Wi-Fi. The hotel’s saving grace is the rather pleasant bar, which I have yet to frequent.
We finally arrive at the media circus, with carnage already taking place. African press wetting their pants, arguing with each other about the current status of the Togolese squad, arguing about the rights and wrongs of travelling in this country. Foreign journalists taking a back seat to it all, adding their words of wisdom at ad hoc intervals, Reuters and the associated press spokespeople denying the Togo keeper has died of his wounds, local football officials trying to calm the atmosphere, stating that everything is in order and that the tournament will go ahead as scheduled.
I’ve seen nothing like it in my writing days; it certainly beats pre meditated run of the mill US military public speaking, in which the war on terror is always reaching its targets, no matter how many body bags return from the badlands of Iraq and Afghanistan. I love it, organised chaos and nowhere better to see it firsthand than the world’s representatives at organised chaos – Africa.
I collar a journo not involved with this mass verbal brawl, a chubby faced chap, adorned with a sleazy pimp moustache, a cigarillo perched on his lower lip, rounded glasses, pinstripe shirt complete with ghoulish braces, holding up a pair of beige nylon trousers, separating his strides from his well worn creased slip ons. This guy was a morph of Don King and Mike Bassett and his crack didn’t disappoint.
‘Look at these imbeciles’ he points towards the bustling crowd ‘they give these parts a bad name, I tell you’ in strong Afrikaan dialect.
His name is Ernie, from Cameroon –result! I can progress with my probing about South Africa in the summer from his point of view, or so I thought.
‘How will this affect the World Cup?’
‘I tell you now my friend this is totally different, a different kettle of fish, its bout time Africa got some appreciation off FIFA, who knows we may even have a African winner too’, offered our optimistic friend. One could mistake this for arrogance; however it is only the way of these people. A proud people.
Ernie goes on to invite me over to Cameroon to ‘join our party’ – now I’m all ears, whether or not I can fit his party into my schedule we’ll have to see and so I take his business card for now and promise to make contact at a later stage...he may well yet come in handy for the remainder of this tournament, should it go ahead.
The remnants of my Yellow Fever inoculation are back with a vengeance, with the shakes taking over my hands. A stiff drink and sharp exit are required, besides I can make no sense of the squabble playing itself out in front of me. We’ve only been here half an hour or so, but I want to escape this scene. I grab a few press releases on our way out – all focusing on the Togo shooting incident.
I fear that a case of pigeon English has entered the fray; either that or a bigger news story is developing, for the CAF press release reads... ‘Paulo Kassoma tranquilized the President of the CAF, informing the government is providing total support and sympathy to the Togolese delegation’.
Fuck me, the football president in these parts has been put under sedation, I’ll have some of what he’s had to get me through these worrying times. I instruct Tarzan to take me back to the hotel via an off licence – or the local equivalent, whilst I gather my thoughts on our situation – the future of this tournament seeing as Togo are threatening to go home, how this affects the summer’s main event over yonder in South Africa and how we are going to capture the African contingent’s preparation, trying to travel around Angola safely, but at the same time keeping the Sheikh back in the states happy –he is after all funding our expedition. The last thing I need is to blow this huge payday in terms of travel and experience...not just yet anyway.
Corey and I mull things over in the hotel bar. It isn’t officially open, but then nothing is official over here. Tarzan has provided his contact numbers should we need him anymore today. I can only call from the hotel as my mobile signal doesn’t stretch as far as Angola. It has been pointed out that in fact two sim cards are required over here, as two networks cover various regions of the country. If my plan comes to fruition, the less travel in Angola the better, especially after the machine gun incident.
Apparently, the local authorities have warned everyone involved (including teams) in the tournament to travel from city to city, ground to ground, by air and in no circumstances is anyone to travel by road. It’s a bit late for that, as rumours are rife circulating on the fate of the Togo team, the conditions of the injured and in particular that of the goalkeeper shot by the militia. Some of his team mates have announced his passing away, whilst the football federations involved heavily deny this. It appears that the organised chaos witnessed at the press conference earlier, has seeped into the communication system, baffling the world’s media once more.
I have arrived not by choice in Angola to cover the entire African ensemble of teams, who are representing the region in the World Cup, yet I have spent more time discussing my own safety and the ambush on the Togo team – a side not in attendance come the summer. Hell that is the nature of the beast following football. That is definitely the nature of the beast following football in this climate...completely insane and there are elements in this concoction which are right up my street.
Corey turns out not to be the gimp I anticipated. True he has classic Americanisms in him that need to be ironed out, but come the end of this rollercoaster ride, I fully expect him to be a shell of the man that sits before me. I fear that I will have failed him the full blown on experience of hedonism, if the outcome turns out any other way. We share a bottle of potent local brew – a mixture Tarzan did explain to me, however I was concentrating on any suspicious activity heading anywhere near our mini bus, the slow seeds of paranoia firmly planted, the first shoots of which were displaying signs of blossoming into full blown panic attacks. Just where is my combination of pharmacy drugs when I need them? I fear I may require Tarzan to pick up some local ‘produce’ later in the day to quell this anxious spell, waiting on the horizon of my brain.
After four rounds of playing Shithead and bomb bursting my way through three packets of Lucky Strikes, dousing my flames of anxiety with shots of local shit and bottles of Carlsberg Export, I get round to making a plan. Whether it was the best one or not and whether it was the best frame of mind to make it in remains to be seen, but here fucking goes. We both agree that a visit Cabinda is out of the question. Neither of us plans on getting shot, for the sake of a dodgy football tournament, maybe for the European Championships or the World Cup, even the FA Cup, but not for this ramshackle get together. Sods law decrees that two teams we are here to cover – Ivory Coast and Ghana are based in the group centred around Cabinda – scene of the Togo shootings. We’ll have to take a chance on the pair of them getting through to the next round and we’ll take it from there. Either that or someone gets us a few shooters to take up there to even things up a little. Besides, we’ve still no transport (equating to no flights as no other form of travelling is advised in these surroundings) and at the moment look like we’re going nowhere. How does that sound for a plan? Well shit I know, but with these limited resources and the state of mind I’m in it’s the best I can do.
C’mon man, pull yourself together! You’re here to do a job in the middle of an assignment of a lifetime, get some bollocks and pull it out of the bag.
‘Get me fucking Tarzan on the blower!’ I yell across the bar, pointing to his number on a business card.
Half an hour later, our Angolan guide pitches up, firmly sticking to the instructions I supplied over the phone. The man mountain produces more booze, a map of the country and some local delicacies – to which I told him to use his imagination. The local delicacies are taken out of a plastic shopping bag, to reveal themselves as a bunch of leaves. I refrain from taking the piss, confident that this wise local can produce the goods and so I keep my mouth shut, even though it pains me to keep quiet.
‘And what do we have here my good friend?’ I ask, now fully on the way to intoxication.
‘Khat leaves boss, chew and swallow the juice...very nice indeed’ answered our new found connoisseur.
Fuck it, I take the advice, grab a bunch and chew away.
The Toolkit
My usual writing tools were absent from the Angola trip and so I had to make do with a dry trip, however I would be enlisting the local's talents in order for me to fully enjoy my stay.
The usual toolbox consists of:
INTERNATIONAL ASSIGNMENTS
1 x Typewriter (including spare ribbons)
1 x Bottle of Vodka
7 days worth of Tromadol capsules (a kind of mild ecstasy tingling sensation)
1 x IPod
1 x Laptop
A bottle of Tabasco sauce
1 x box of Imodium
2 to 4 spare Temazepam tablets
1 x pack of Nytol pills
A book of sorts – normally one of the greats i.e. Orwell, Burgess, Thompson et al
1 x Pack of Condoms (Ribbed)
1 x Random Fancy Dress ingredient – just for the crack
1 x Random Sexual Deviant Bedroom toy – you never know
A box of Aspirins
A Dictaphone
FOR DOMESTIC ASSIGNMENTS (UK & US INTERNAL TRIPS) PLEASE ALSO ADD:
A crate of Lager
1 x Bottle of Tequila
A selection of Porno DVDs
A sheet of Acid Tabs
A bottle of Poppers (merely to clear the head)
An array of Ecstasy pills
A few joints
My little black book
A packet of crumpets
A jar of marmite
A notepad and pen
A canvas and selection of acrylic paints and sketchpad
(On complex tours – a dash of Heroin)
The usual toolbox consists of:
INTERNATIONAL ASSIGNMENTS
1 x Typewriter (including spare ribbons)
1 x Bottle of Vodka
7 days worth of Tromadol capsules (a kind of mild ecstasy tingling sensation)
1 x IPod
1 x Laptop
A bottle of Tabasco sauce
1 x box of Imodium
2 to 4 spare Temazepam tablets
1 x pack of Nytol pills
A book of sorts – normally one of the greats i.e. Orwell, Burgess, Thompson et al
1 x Pack of Condoms (Ribbed)
1 x Random Fancy Dress ingredient – just for the crack
1 x Random Sexual Deviant Bedroom toy – you never know
A box of Aspirins
A Dictaphone
FOR DOMESTIC ASSIGNMENTS (UK & US INTERNAL TRIPS) PLEASE ALSO ADD:
A crate of Lager
1 x Bottle of Tequila
A selection of Porno DVDs
A sheet of Acid Tabs
A bottle of Poppers (merely to clear the head)
An array of Ecstasy pills
A few joints
My little black book
A packet of crumpets
A jar of marmite
A notepad and pen
A canvas and selection of acrylic paints and sketchpad
(On complex tours – a dash of Heroin)
Thursday 1 April 2010
introduction
Fear & Loathing In South Africa
Author’s Note
After accepting the assignment of a lifetime, complete with the style of a writing hero, little did I think I would be sat in the middle of an impoverished hellhole like Luanda, Angola, in the middle of fucking Africa. I retreat into the phoetal position on my hotel bed, ignoring the wild gunfire outside on the streets on downtown Luanda – the supposed capital of this god damn country and think of future sub assignments connected to this project.
Sipping on a freshly acquired bottle of Wild Turkey – a somewhat iconic luxury in these parts, which also seems to double as local currency – for which we have already ‘purchased’ underhand items to help one through this month long ordeal, however whether I last that long remains to be seen. Cholera, Ebola, HIV, poisonous snakes, murder or some hideous kidnapping lies in wait in this gun tottering country. I would even dare to suggest that the word country and the responsibilities connected to it – the running and implementation of laws and a care of duty to its citizens – is way past Angola’s means and therefore should return to a state of communal rule, should any nation aspire to want to control the fucker.
How on earth FIFA – Football’s governing body - chose this African backwater to stage the African Cup of Nations 2010, the third world’s equivalent of the European Championships is beyond me, then again what Sepp Blatter and his minions decide and dictate to us the football peasants fails to surprise even the most hardened of football followers these days. And so to Angola. The hierarchy at Greetings from Outer Mongolia (GFOM) – America’s newest ‘lifestyle’ magazine, launched from New York City decreed that in order to make a name for itself, only the ropiest, edge of the seat, controversial stories would suffice to make the publication cutting edge. The owner, the Sheikh, wants sales and me being the only Englishman on the payroll, I was to preside over the countdown to the biggest sporting circus of the year – The football World Cup in South Africa.
‘I wants opinions, rows, and contreversary, everything that’s bad about the world...but done in styles!’ came the challenge from the Sheikh. I was to visit every competing nation involved in the tournament and present it in a kind of Hunter S. Thompson style – I presumed I would receive a substantial budget to accompany it?
‘Yes of course my friend’ answered the Sheikh – nice fella, dodgy fake smile.
It was a dream job any aspiring writer could want. Even if one did not care for eleven hairy blokes kicking a ball around on a waterlogged pitch, surely this kind of assignment, the travel alone would turn the eye of any socialite. I suppose the Sheikh plumbed for me, my previous shifting the power of balance in my favour to produce these ripe juicy goods for his magazine. I was after all a failed Army Officer, dishonourably discharged over alleged drugs offences – never proven may I add, but someone had to become a scapegoat, well at least the charges didn’t stick and I can walk away, head held high, in more ways than one.
The Sheikh can probably see through me, see my soul through my narrow pupils. The sneaky fucker can probably see my vice, my weaknesses in life. Girls, narcotics, booze, more girls and my lust to travel, craving for nothing more than a good time, but then aren’t we all? We do when push comes to shove, only live once and life is no dress rehearsal, when I meet my maker, I want to look him straight in the face and know I’ve had no regrets.
The new virginal magazine made numerous mistakes in its inception, always trying to run before it could walk – needless to say it’s admin affairs were a nightmare, however when the Sheikh offered me this contract, his next words were to suggest that plane tickets, visas and schedules were already in hand – bloody good job seeing as North Korea had qualified for summer 2010.
‘Bollocks – hang on, I’ve got to visit every fuckin country? What about the North Koreans? Surely that’s off limits, especially fuckin journalists’, I proclaimed.
‘It’s all in hand Sammy boy, all in hand’ I was told and not to worry about the logistics of it all. As long as I report back once a week and produced the goods come the bitter end (after all this was to be published in a separate glossy brochure insert in a bid to woo the hearts of the American public into loving Soccer, riding on the crest of a wave that David Beckham created on his arrival to LA Galaxy) then all was dandy. I would be accompanied by an assistant – Corey – a gullible Yank graduate gimp, who was a stickler for organisation and would be my perfect foe, even if I would need to break him, then sculpt and mould the bastard into the English way of thinking.
And where better to start thought the magazine than fucking Angola, home of the African Nations tournament, or whatever the shambles was called. There lay Algeria, Cameroon, Ghana, Nigeria and the Ivory Coast or Coast D’Ivorie as it says on the Panini football stickers, killing five birds with one flight, save visiting the a fifth of the African continent, even though the hierarchy want an in depth spiritual insight into what makes these countries tick and their ambitions – both sporting and habitual, therefore visiting each country in turn. I may add that I need to visit the likes of Cameroon and Ivory Coast, for more research requirements, just for the hell of it like.
It was a decent initial idea for a baby magazine to come up with me trekking Corey and mine’s arses all the way over to visit the Angolans, but like I say, their admin leaves a lot to be desired – hence when we rolled up on arrival at Quatro de Fevereiro International Airport, Luanda, we both were forced to endure Yellow Fever vaccinations. Motherfuckers! At least the visas worked, but now I’m feeling rough, as I can only predict the effects of those ‘live’ ingredients they give to combat the disease, swirl and distribute their way around my body, resulting in this phoetal position, I now find myself in, held to ransom by the crucifying stomach cramps, I can only eye up a clear exit route to the shitter, ready to converse anally through sphincter talk with toilet bowl, shitting out my nice BA airplane meal, along with this Yellow fever vermin on the way.
I reach for another glug of Wild Turkey – Uncle Hunter would have been so proud – down some Imodium, the only listed drug I have taken along on this dry ride, for fear of retribution along with my Yellow Fever jab, or at the very least a strip cavity search, when touching down on Angolan soil (normally good friends Temazepam, Tromoadol and at the very least Co Dryamol would accompany me on my travels to global hotspots).
I remind myself I must take the rough with the smooth throughout the course of this assignment, drink some more whiskey and make myself ready to meet Tarzan – our guide in Angola – you couldn’t make it up, believe me.
Author’s Note
After accepting the assignment of a lifetime, complete with the style of a writing hero, little did I think I would be sat in the middle of an impoverished hellhole like Luanda, Angola, in the middle of fucking Africa. I retreat into the phoetal position on my hotel bed, ignoring the wild gunfire outside on the streets on downtown Luanda – the supposed capital of this god damn country and think of future sub assignments connected to this project.
Sipping on a freshly acquired bottle of Wild Turkey – a somewhat iconic luxury in these parts, which also seems to double as local currency – for which we have already ‘purchased’ underhand items to help one through this month long ordeal, however whether I last that long remains to be seen. Cholera, Ebola, HIV, poisonous snakes, murder or some hideous kidnapping lies in wait in this gun tottering country. I would even dare to suggest that the word country and the responsibilities connected to it – the running and implementation of laws and a care of duty to its citizens – is way past Angola’s means and therefore should return to a state of communal rule, should any nation aspire to want to control the fucker.
How on earth FIFA – Football’s governing body - chose this African backwater to stage the African Cup of Nations 2010, the third world’s equivalent of the European Championships is beyond me, then again what Sepp Blatter and his minions decide and dictate to us the football peasants fails to surprise even the most hardened of football followers these days. And so to Angola. The hierarchy at Greetings from Outer Mongolia (GFOM) – America’s newest ‘lifestyle’ magazine, launched from New York City decreed that in order to make a name for itself, only the ropiest, edge of the seat, controversial stories would suffice to make the publication cutting edge. The owner, the Sheikh, wants sales and me being the only Englishman on the payroll, I was to preside over the countdown to the biggest sporting circus of the year – The football World Cup in South Africa.
‘I wants opinions, rows, and contreversary, everything that’s bad about the world...but done in styles!’ came the challenge from the Sheikh. I was to visit every competing nation involved in the tournament and present it in a kind of Hunter S. Thompson style – I presumed I would receive a substantial budget to accompany it?
‘Yes of course my friend’ answered the Sheikh – nice fella, dodgy fake smile.
It was a dream job any aspiring writer could want. Even if one did not care for eleven hairy blokes kicking a ball around on a waterlogged pitch, surely this kind of assignment, the travel alone would turn the eye of any socialite. I suppose the Sheikh plumbed for me, my previous shifting the power of balance in my favour to produce these ripe juicy goods for his magazine. I was after all a failed Army Officer, dishonourably discharged over alleged drugs offences – never proven may I add, but someone had to become a scapegoat, well at least the charges didn’t stick and I can walk away, head held high, in more ways than one.
The Sheikh can probably see through me, see my soul through my narrow pupils. The sneaky fucker can probably see my vice, my weaknesses in life. Girls, narcotics, booze, more girls and my lust to travel, craving for nothing more than a good time, but then aren’t we all? We do when push comes to shove, only live once and life is no dress rehearsal, when I meet my maker, I want to look him straight in the face and know I’ve had no regrets.
The new virginal magazine made numerous mistakes in its inception, always trying to run before it could walk – needless to say it’s admin affairs were a nightmare, however when the Sheikh offered me this contract, his next words were to suggest that plane tickets, visas and schedules were already in hand – bloody good job seeing as North Korea had qualified for summer 2010.
‘Bollocks – hang on, I’ve got to visit every fuckin country? What about the North Koreans? Surely that’s off limits, especially fuckin journalists’, I proclaimed.
‘It’s all in hand Sammy boy, all in hand’ I was told and not to worry about the logistics of it all. As long as I report back once a week and produced the goods come the bitter end (after all this was to be published in a separate glossy brochure insert in a bid to woo the hearts of the American public into loving Soccer, riding on the crest of a wave that David Beckham created on his arrival to LA Galaxy) then all was dandy. I would be accompanied by an assistant – Corey – a gullible Yank graduate gimp, who was a stickler for organisation and would be my perfect foe, even if I would need to break him, then sculpt and mould the bastard into the English way of thinking.
And where better to start thought the magazine than fucking Angola, home of the African Nations tournament, or whatever the shambles was called. There lay Algeria, Cameroon, Ghana, Nigeria and the Ivory Coast or Coast D’Ivorie as it says on the Panini football stickers, killing five birds with one flight, save visiting the a fifth of the African continent, even though the hierarchy want an in depth spiritual insight into what makes these countries tick and their ambitions – both sporting and habitual, therefore visiting each country in turn. I may add that I need to visit the likes of Cameroon and Ivory Coast, for more research requirements, just for the hell of it like.
It was a decent initial idea for a baby magazine to come up with me trekking Corey and mine’s arses all the way over to visit the Angolans, but like I say, their admin leaves a lot to be desired – hence when we rolled up on arrival at Quatro de Fevereiro International Airport, Luanda, we both were forced to endure Yellow Fever vaccinations. Motherfuckers! At least the visas worked, but now I’m feeling rough, as I can only predict the effects of those ‘live’ ingredients they give to combat the disease, swirl and distribute their way around my body, resulting in this phoetal position, I now find myself in, held to ransom by the crucifying stomach cramps, I can only eye up a clear exit route to the shitter, ready to converse anally through sphincter talk with toilet bowl, shitting out my nice BA airplane meal, along with this Yellow fever vermin on the way.
I reach for another glug of Wild Turkey – Uncle Hunter would have been so proud – down some Imodium, the only listed drug I have taken along on this dry ride, for fear of retribution along with my Yellow Fever jab, or at the very least a strip cavity search, when touching down on Angolan soil (normally good friends Temazepam, Tromoadol and at the very least Co Dryamol would accompany me on my travels to global hotspots).
I remind myself I must take the rough with the smooth throughout the course of this assignment, drink some more whiskey and make myself ready to meet Tarzan – our guide in Angola – you couldn’t make it up, believe me.
Wednesday 31 March 2010
an author's note...
Dear Readers,
Remain calm as I delve into my ravaged mind to bring you a living account of the journalistic assignment I was tasked with in December 2009.
As staff writer for a new US lifestyle magazine, whom shall remain nameless for now as legal ramblings etc continue to dog our relationship, I was offered the chance of a lifetime. Being the only Brit on the payroll, I was duly asked to cover the forthcoming football world cup in South Africa. However, I was to visit with the fans and personalities of all competing nations, meaning a visit to 32 countries in theory, to find the lost enthusiasm and soul of the sport and of life in general.
Things have progressed since December and I will endeavour to pour out my findings on these web pages, after all I think people are sick to the back teeth of 'official' previews to the world cup, all kissing the corporate arses of FIFA and it's cronies.
But if youre not a football fan, don't worry! The majority of the time this is merely a reason why I am in a certain place, events outside of the game have taken control one way or another. In case you were wondering what's in store, have a look at the long list below, of the said events I have encountered thus far...
Shootings, drag queens,gun running, match fixing, tattoos, money laundering, riots, dogging, magic mushrooms, hookers, lesbians, heart attacks, muggings, witch doctors, snakes, helicopter crashes, temazepam, trains, gimp masks, booze, organised chaos, ecstasy, sepp blatter, robbery, gambling, a la carte, massage parlours, five star, one star, saunas, terrorists, threesomes, death threats, hooligans, hostels, stomach ulcers, deportation, pickled brains, diarrohea, tyrants, all inclusive, painkillers, communism, shrapnel wounds, local mafia, strap ons, ketamine, rats, djing, heroin, blackmail, c.i.a.,bleeding gums, torture, bingo, sex shows, planes, buggery, prison cells, banter, uppers, downers, LSD, warlords, fancy dress, paranoia, interrogation, porn stars and more...all on the road to the 2010 football world cup.
More to follow...
Remain calm as I delve into my ravaged mind to bring you a living account of the journalistic assignment I was tasked with in December 2009.
As staff writer for a new US lifestyle magazine, whom shall remain nameless for now as legal ramblings etc continue to dog our relationship, I was offered the chance of a lifetime. Being the only Brit on the payroll, I was duly asked to cover the forthcoming football world cup in South Africa. However, I was to visit with the fans and personalities of all competing nations, meaning a visit to 32 countries in theory, to find the lost enthusiasm and soul of the sport and of life in general.
Things have progressed since December and I will endeavour to pour out my findings on these web pages, after all I think people are sick to the back teeth of 'official' previews to the world cup, all kissing the corporate arses of FIFA and it's cronies.
But if youre not a football fan, don't worry! The majority of the time this is merely a reason why I am in a certain place, events outside of the game have taken control one way or another. In case you were wondering what's in store, have a look at the long list below, of the said events I have encountered thus far...
Shootings, drag queens,gun running, match fixing, tattoos, money laundering, riots, dogging, magic mushrooms, hookers, lesbians, heart attacks, muggings, witch doctors, snakes, helicopter crashes, temazepam, trains, gimp masks, booze, organised chaos, ecstasy, sepp blatter, robbery, gambling, a la carte, massage parlours, five star, one star, saunas, terrorists, threesomes, death threats, hooligans, hostels, stomach ulcers, deportation, pickled brains, diarrohea, tyrants, all inclusive, painkillers, communism, shrapnel wounds, local mafia, strap ons, ketamine, rats, djing, heroin, blackmail, c.i.a.,bleeding gums, torture, bingo, sex shows, planes, buggery, prison cells, banter, uppers, downers, LSD, warlords, fancy dress, paranoia, interrogation, porn stars and more...all on the road to the 2010 football world cup.
More to follow...
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