As an esteemed member of Her Majesty's press corps working for The Mirror, I came into my possession a Dictaphone containing many hours of recordings – all of the same voice, an educated middle-class Englishman who called himself 'Arthur Kirkland'. Initially, after listening to the first few recordings I assumed it was the ravings of a madman, however, to be on the safe side (as a journalist no evidence is dismissed and thrown away) I took a friend of mine from the Government's Foreign Office for a quiet drink. After a very liquid lunch and several whiskies, the official – let's call him 'Bob' (I never reveal my sources) confirmed that I should accept the recordings as a true and valid account. He advised me to burn them and that they should never have fallen into 'human' – his words, not mine – hands. However, as a member of the Free Press, I have transcribed the recordings verbatim and publish them here for the general public. My name remains anonymous. Take the accounts I publish here as you will – the ravings of a lunatic or the personal recollections of the human personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
The Diary of Arthur Kirkland (Aged 1000+ years) Transcript 1 - date unknown
Bloody blasting hell. Not happy, not happy at all. Why am I talking to this little box anyway, where's the pause button, oh hell. No tea in the house, another damn meeting to go to. If France tries to grope me again I will start another 100 years war and I don't care what my boss says.
My boss at the moment told me I should get all my frustrations out with a therapist. This was some hippy girl called Miriam who wore a long skirt, long earrings and obviously didn't know how to wash her hair. She scribbled a lot in her pad and then gave me some ink drawings to look at. I identified one as 'Francis', one as 'America' and one looked suspiciously like a pair of breasts. I suspect the woman needs a therapist herself. She told me to keep a note of my feelings. But as England, Great Britain, the great Nation, I can't just keep a diary here or there – it would be so easy for my enemies to get hold of. I told her this but she just raised an eyebrow, made another note and said something about 'Napoleon Syndrome'. When I told her I'd beaten that little French tart – of course with the aid of the magnificent Duke of Wellington – dear old Wellesley – another Arthur – how I miss him – she kept writing and then handed me a prescription for Prozac.
So I went out and bought this little box with so many buttons on it called a Dictaphone. Alfred would say I'm Captain Obvious again as I'm talking into you. Blast it all, where's that off...
Author's Note: The Mirror is a popular newspaper in the United Kingdom.