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.