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.