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?
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