A letter from the Invisible Man

Well, it's more of an address than a letter really, so let's start again:

An address from the Invisible Man

Ladies and Gentlemen (and anybody else who hasn't got the sense not to read this drivel), greetings. (I've always wanted to say that. I've also always wanted to say, "Run out the guns Mister Bush! Run our colours up the yard-arm and stand by to fire!")

Where was I?

Ladies and Gentlemen, it would seem that things are on the verge of coming to a head (whatever that means). In fact, they seem to be reaching a conclusion on several fronts. I suppose it's a bit like Corporation buses (busses? buses?) - you wait all day and they all come along at once.

My prison solicitor, Manchester's answer to Ironsides, has finally got fed up with the prison telling lies, being misleading and generally less than cooperative. He has given them until 4pm on the 24th of May to reassess my categorisation or he will institute a Judicial Review into their intransigence and unreasonableness - sounds fair to me. They have been blatantly misleading and often downright lying for over six months now. The trouble with the Prison Service is that they lie to prisoners with impunity on a daily basis and the prisoner has little or no recourse. They have become so used to lying and fobbing people off that they think they can lie to anyone they like. 

Wrong. Lying to solicitors serves several purposes: 

• It gives grounds for a Judicial Review. 
• It exposes them as being less than truthful. 
• It pisses people off.

Now, prisoners can't do much about it - as I say, they have little or no recourse - but solicitors can, and do.

I've been dealing with this intransigence for over twenty-five years now, and kept calm. That fact in itself should adequately demonstrate my personal control, not that the Prison Service will recognise that fact of course; that would be reasonable - they don't do reasonable.

So, that's the 24th May. On Thursday 26th May I am finally in front of the Parole Board starting at half-past ten in the morning. Knowing the solicitor who will be representing me, she will ask for two things: either release into the community or, failing that, open conditions. We've got the ammunition and the justification so there are great expectations.

All of the protagonists involved will be present, although no one from the Prison Service as such. There will be no dissenting voices as far as we can tell, which means that an open prison will be the most likely outcome. I think personally that it is unrealistic to expect release - this ain't Hollywood. However, the downgrading recommendation would make a complete nonsense of the prison's refusal to downgrade me. (See above.)
 
Finally, a story:

A drunk sits down next to a Catholic priest in the departure hall of Heathrow Airport and starts to read a newspaper. After a few minutes the drunk leans against the priest and says, "Hey! Hey! Father! What causes arthritis?"

The priest eays sanctimoniously, "Too much drinking, cavorting with loose women and drug-taking."

"Oh!" says the drunk. "Right." And goes back to reading.

After a while the priest feels remorse and says, "Excuse me, I spoke a little hastily there. Drink and drugs and women do not cause arthritis."

"Oh!" says the drunk. "I wondered about that. I was just reading about the Pope having arthritis see!"

Boudica isn't happy with the warm weather - she doesn't care for it at all. It comes from living so close to the cold winds coming in off the North Sea - straight from the Urals, apparently. I'll probably get the blame for the hot weather - I get the blame for everything else.

The Voice In The Wilderness