Having said that, there are a couple of little signs that just maybe something may happen before the Olympics. Actually I’m thinking about putting my name down for one of the events - the Not Moving A Muscle and Doing Fuck All marathon. I think I’m a certainty for double gold.
The other day they came to see me and asked me to sign a paper which said that I agreed to share a cell on arrival in North Sea Camp (if it should be necessary), so I signed that. There was also a question on the paper for this prison which asked:
“Would you accept Prisoner back in the event of a Serious Open Conditions Failure.”
and of course this place has agreed. They are not too keen on letting me go but they will have me back at the shake of a rat’s whiskers. I’m informed that the document was faxed back to North Sea Camp on Wednesday 10th and that I would know what was oing on within a week - so this next few days should provide something definite at last and I’ll believe it when I see it. Next week’s "Voice" should be interesting.
Has anyone noticed that when any of us (human beans, that is) is in a pensive or thoughtful mood we have a tendency to relax and go off into a daydream. Our faces completely relax and turn to rubber, sagging and drooping I expect. The overall effect can be of having a miserable countenance. We ain't (miserable, I mean), but that’s the perception of a casual observer.
The other day, I was leaning on the railing outside of cell, (well, it stops me from falling to the floor if I lean) and I was thinking of cabbages and kings, off in a world of my own I expect, miles away. My face must have looked even more miserable than usual because one of the female kangaroos came to lean next to me and asked, “Are you all right? Frank.”
Well, you know me, never miss a trick, never spurn a chance at a good joke, that’s me.
“No,” said I. “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked she, all concerned and walking right into it.
“Well,” said I, “it’s my brother, Cecil.”
I haven’t got a brother called Cecil - nobody has.
“What’s the problem?” asked Florence Nightinga1e.
“Well,” I settled down to fool her. “He’s a lot older then me and he’s been living in sheltered accommodation for a few years now. The thing is, nobody had seen him for a few weeks and the warden at the sheltered housing place got a bit concerned so he contacted Social Services about it. They arrived with the police and they all started knocking on the door of the flat but couldn’t get any answer. In the end they had to break the door down and when they got inside they found the curtains all closed and all over the place there were opened and half eaten tins of Chum dog food and there were spoons in some of the tins. They searched the flat and every room had these half eaten tins of dog food everywhere."
“What about your brother?” asked Miss Gullible 1962.
“They found him lying on the kitchen floor,” said I, sadly. “Oh my God! Was he dead?”
“No,” said I “But he had broken his neck trying to lick his own bollocks.”
She just looked at me and finally said, “You are a very sick man,” and burst out laughing.
Well, you know what Julius Caesar said just before the Senators perforated his torso:
“Coppula eams se non posit acceptera jocularum.”
(Fuck them if they can't take a joke.)
The Voice In The Wilderness
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