A day in the life: Julian Assange

by articulatedsheep

Occasionally we ask a prominent public figure to explain what they do on a typical day. This time, it’s the turn of WikiLeaks founder Julian Assange, currently holed up in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London.

“Every day at the Embassy starts bright and early at 8.30am. Thanks to a complex system of bells and pulleys, from my bed I have immediate access to all the embassy staff, and as soon as I wake up I ring for the ambassador. Yesterday I had to give him a bit of a hard time because my egg had been over-boiled – I’m an easy-going guy and I don’t want to make a big thing out of it, but ultimately he has to understand that he has to be held accountable for his mistakes. I was, however, pleased with the warmth and texture of my toasty soldiers.

After a quick shower I start work for the day. I need space to carry out my vital duties as the world’s last, best defence against tyranny, and while the top two floors of the embassy are pretty poky, they just about suit my needs. At first some of the embassy staff complained that this, necessarily, meant that they were being confined to three rooms on the ground floor, but frankly that’s just the way it’s got to be.

After answering e-mails from my many millions of well-wishers, there’s just time for me to leap into the shower before a press interview. Engaging with the press is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, they are a vital democratic bulwark. On the other hand, some of them have had the temerity to mildly criticise me. I have no time for such disloyalty, which is borne purely of envy and jealousy of my beautiful, flowing hair. Newspaper editors are notoriously ill-coiffed and it is this, I am sure, that forms the basis of this hatred.

This interview is a case in point. The guy is from the Paddington and West End Gazette and wants to know my views on the enforcement of Controlled Parking Zones in the Bayswater area. I tell him that ultimately the western military-industrial complex is to blame – citing the evidence of diplomatic cables (which I personally ferreted out with no thought for my own personal safety from the USA’s high security databases). Westminster Council, who are in cahoots with shadowy figures in the CIA, Mossad and the Swedish state prosecutor, have imposed these draconian parking regulations specifically to limit the ability of my legions of supporters to visit me to offer their personal support.

After a quick shower, I notice the impact of this outrageous, anti-democratic policy when I go to make my daily address to my supporters from the embassy’s balcony. Once again, I have no audience. I can only presume that the police and British Army have set up a cordon in the surrounding streets, stopping the crowds of people who wish to hear my words from entering the area.  

After a light lunch and a scrub in the shower, I sit down to write an excoriating article for my personal blog. Now that WikiLeaks is being infiltrated by rogue agents intent on destabilising my position at its head, I have to make my voice – the voice of freedom – heard somehow. Today I write an impassioned piece, highlighting the nature of my personal suffering and the temerity of the world’s so-called democratic states in making trumped up charges of rape and sexual assault against me. In many ways, this is identical to the trials that Jesus was forced to endure in his forty days in the desert. However, since I have been an unwilling prisoner in this embassy since June last year, a period of nearly nine months, it means that my suffering has been nearly eight times as significant as that of Christ himself – a point which the so-called “free” press have studiously chosen to ignore.

After finishing my writing, there’s just time for a 4-hour “power nap” and a quick shower before I take a phone call from a guy in America called Bradley. He’s one of my biggest fans, always calling me up. When I single-handedly accessed the US archive of diplomatic cables Bradley agreed to take some of the heat for me – which was really kind of him. It’s tough, because now the two of us are in the same position as prisoners of conscience. Admittedly he is in a military prison, held in solitary confinement and facing the prospect of a death sentence, but in a way, am I not facing the same fate? No, I mean metaphorically.

After a frugal supper of pheasant, a haunch of venison and beef wellington – which I notice to my disgust has been overcooked by nearly seven minutes – followed by a relaxing shower, I retire to bed. I drift off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that my virtue and constant struggle to selflessly open up the governments of the world to increased transparency will mean that my name will ring down the ages, uttered by future historians in the same breath as Leonardo, Socrates and Confucius. This is a humbling and embarrassing position to be in, both because I do not seek such accolades, and because my accomplishments – and my natural sexual magnetism, which means that no woman can resist me – will make the combined efforts of those so-called “great thinkers” seem puny in comparison.”

 

 

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