Alice, what the hell have you done?

Okay, I knew this was going to be a thing.

Look, I know that what you told me was in confidence,

but there's two reasons that you tell somebody's secrets, okay?

One is idle, senseless chit-chat,

but the other is because of the

greater good, to do the right thing and to live by a moral code. And I know you might not like me,

but I hope you respect me. You got that information out of me by getting me drunk. Have you ever

considered what the effect on me is going to be? My life is going to be hell now. So please help me understand how on earth this is for the greater good.

Okay, I guess, to put it in simple terms, the adulation and the praise of strangers by telling them

gossip about you means more to me than this friendship?

When you put it like that, actually, it does make sense.

But I don't understand the public interest in you telling everyone that I wear Popeye pyjamas.

People are weird. Not you, they're cool.

19th of June 2012, 8am, Knightsbridge, London. Julian Assange throttles the engine of his Honda CB 500, adjusts his black leather jacket and helmet,

as he leans in to take a corner on the otherwise empty West London Street.

He glances in the mirror, checking if he's being followed, and pulls up outside the Ecuadorian Embassy.

He jumps off the bike, races up to the large black door and

presses the buzzer. He starts to speak. I have a package, then checks himself for the ambassador.

For the purposes of the tape, I presume that he has switched accents rather than you've just taken a funny turn.

Yes, this isn't me workshopping.

This is Matt doing Assange doing his natural Australian, then doing Cockney.

...