Sunday, February 28, 2010

Deep thought

Playing at rehabilitation

I have a PlayStation 2 - and, contrary to the lies of the Sun comic, prisoners are NOT given PlayStations, we have to save up our pennies and buy them - and I own several games for it. One of those games is called "Need For Speed - Most Wanted". The aim is to buy a car, win a couple of easy races and earn money with which to buy a faster car that allows us to win a few more races, get more dosh and buy an even faster car - and so on. Before long, the driver is breaking all manner of laws of the roads, and of course the police begin to chase the driver which causes severe crashes - and so on. By the time the game gets to the better or harder levels, the cars available are on a par with small jet fighters for speed, and the police have become extremely aggressive in their pursuits.

It is all quite exciting, in a minor sort of way, and is good for speed of thinking and co-ordination between brain, eye and hand - visuo-spatial ability I think it is called by the experts in this kind of thing (which does not include prison psychologists, I hasten to add, who are experts at nothing but negativity).

Another game I acquired, at great expense, is "Driver 3" which is similar, with the added opportunity of stealing cars from other road users, and police cars too, and to shoot anyone who gets in the way.

All good for my sentence planning and rehabilitation.

However, that's not what I have in my mind at all, not a bit. We have a library here and in that library there is quite a large selection of films, but for some reason it has been decided by the morons who run this place that big, bad, hairy-arsed thugs cannot watch any films designated "18 or over". Instead we are all fed a diet of "chick-flicks" which, to be quite honest, most of us find quite puerile and sickening - the vomit kind. I'm certain that there is a ready audience for such stuff, but let's be honest, it's not the fare for the hairy-arsed etceteras mentioned earlier. Most of us would prefer stuff from the History Channel or something like that. However, we ain't being asked about it - we never are, we just get what is given.

So, I will continue to chase police cars - sorry, run away from police, (not that there is much difference really) - and of course work hard on my rehabilitation.

What a wonderfully meaningless word that has become in the hands of those charged with delivering it - the psychology charlatans. Now, I fully understand that there are times when some of the things I say about psychologists may seem a wee bit harsh, but I just want to say that if I ever say anything that in any way offends or hurts the feelings then, with the greatest of sincerity, and a large slice of humble pie, I want to say that I couldn't give a fiddler's fart. They make uneducated and unwarranted decisions about people, destroying future for both prisoners and prisoners' families as they do so - and they never give a thought to the damage done. Given that, why should anyone care about their feelings?

Apparently, they suffer from stress! Stress! What have they got to be stessed about? They go home each and every night. People like me haven't been home in almost a quarter of a century but we are not allowed to suffer from stress. Prisoners suffering from stress is illegal! It is against the rules! Any prisoner found suffering from stress will be instantly carted off to the Segregation Unit and punished. Well, we have to be fair about these things. If prisoners are allowed to suffer from stress who knows where it might end? The next thing we know, prisoners will want to be regarded as human beans, and that will never do. (The beans is deliberate, by the way, so please don't start writing in to complain - or sending me dictionaries.)

Oh well, I suppose I'd better go and get chased by the police or they will feel left out and stressed too!

Wasting away in the wilderness


Someone once said to me, "You are like a voice, crying out in the wilderness" - and that's where I get the title for this blog from. Just in case anyone is wondering. Of course it is originally biblical but I don't think I have to attribute sources in that direction any more - the copyright on the Bible ran out a while ago.

So, there I was, sitting in my little kennel - the 'Lizzie Windsor Suite' - and contemplating things in general and nothing in particular, when it crossed what I call my mind (that vast emptiness between my ears which is currently being crossed by two men and a camel, all wondering where they are) that I was really wasting time. Or was I? A line from a Pink Floyd song crossed my mind too:

We fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way.
We do too! Some may say that sitting here in pensive and philosophical contemplation is not time wasted or frittered, and that may well be true - but surely I should be doing something better! I mean, to what end? What's the point? Let me put it in the words of Douglas Adams in "The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy":
What is the meaning of life, the universe, everything?
The bloody answer may as well be "Forty-two" for what sense it all makes (which, incidentally, was the answer given by the greatest computer in the universe - "Deep Thought").

Forty-two. I used to be forty-two. It went on for a whole year in fact - to the day! Three hundred and sixty-five of them, every one of them spent as a guest in the "Lizzie Windsor Suite". In the corner I have a washbasin and a toilet, so in reality I am living in a khazi - a bog, a loo, a shit-house. Mind, some people think I AM a shit­house, but we don't listen to such malicious things these days. Prisoners are sensitive after all, with feelings apparently - but only when it suits the authorities to appease the reformists.

So - here I am, a sensitive prisoner, sitting in a shit-house, contemplating my navel, thinking philosophical thoughts as I fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way.

Please don't misunderstand me. I am not complaining - what have I got to complain about? I am warm, fed, clothed and have a bed to sleep in (in my cosy little toilet). There are people a whole lot worse off than me in this world. Carping on about the fact that I shouldn't be here at all is just ungrateful - so I won't say anything on that subject - but I must say that I could, given some time for thought, think of somewhere I might rather be.

Oh, I don't know, somewhere much better than this like, er... lying in the accident and emergency department of some hospital with all of my bones broken. That would do for a start. It's got to he better than this - and, once I recovered, the nightmare would be over. This nightmare will never end, despite the platitudes I feed myself from time to time:

Don't worry, Frank. Nothing lasts forever.
Who am I kidding?

So, I may as well continue to fritter and waste the hours. Well, it gives me something to do - and the best part is that nobody can take it away from me. They have taken everything else after all. The ubiquitous "THEY" - the encouragers of fritter and waste.

The Voice In The Wilderness

1 comment:

chris said...

Message to Frank from Les.Stay positive mate.Who knows when the winds of change may blow.xx