Justice for Frank Wilkinson - The Voice In The Wilderness

Any idiot can face a crisis

2012-02-01T16:29:00.000Z

The other day I had occasion to speak with my personal officer here at the Home for Gay Sailors and, during the course of that discussion, he said that he had noticed the change in me since I came here to North Sea Camp. He said that when I arrived the tiredness was etched on my face and I looked like a tired, old man. On reflection, it's true too! I was unshaven, with stubble as grey as a badger's arse, wearing clothing that gave me the appearance of an unsavoury 'hoodie' and trudging about the place like a man looking for somewhere to lay a weary head.

Can't deny any of that.

However, since then over a month has passed, and every day, no matter what the weather, I've been out in the fresh air for several hours each day (and/or night), wandering as the fancy took me, chatting here and there to various folk. Naturally I bought myself some clothing more befitting my age group, cleaned myself up with the aid of a razor and the soft water of the area - and it appears that a transformation has taken place.

Personally, I didn't notice it, although several people (on reflection) mentioned here and there that I was looking very smart.

To get back to the conversation mentioned earlier with my personal officer. He said - and I paraphrase - that it had been noticed, of course, that I was now clean, smart and striding about the place like an upright citizen. Not a negative word had been said about me by anyone, and I was living a very level life, well under the radar.

Clearly I am doing nothing that I haven't done for years - the big difference being that here at the Home for Gay Sailors I am getting better and fresher food, more fresh air and a freedom of movement that clearly agrees with me. Oh, I am perfectly sure that Long Lartin, the Lazy L, will have fully expected (and probably wanted) me to make a bollix of it all and bugger off at the first opportunity. Well, that clearly hasn't happened. Here I am, still sitting here in North Sea Camp, more than content with the progress I am making and not a crisis in sight. Surely that must show that it is the very nature of the oppressive regime of the high security estate which causes the stress levels to be so high!

It sort of reminds me of the words of Anton Chekhov when he said:

Any idiot can face a crisis. It is the day-to-day living that wears you out.

It's true too. All of those pointless years spent wearing myself out for no good reason, and it has all been washed away by just a few short weeks of a more relaxed lifestyle. Surely there is a lesson to be learned there!

So, where do we go from here? Well, I had a letter from The Wallace, who informs me that there is to he a decision made in a couple of weeks' time (15th February) as to my suitability for day releases and overnight releases - AND she is supporting me in that. Of course there are obstacles to overcome - there always are - but nothing very difficult to sort out. I shall (when the time comes) wander down to see the sea for my first day release. That's all I want to do - nothing fancy or ambitious, just see the sea.

My second one will be a meander around the shops in Boston, just to see how the folk in the real world live and to ensure that the crowds and traffic don't turn me into a basket case.

The third one will be an overnighter somewhere approved by The Wallace. And after that? Well, the search will begin for a hostel where I can live in peace and quiet while I write a few things, read a few things, get used to having a dog again perhaps, and put the past quarter century where it belongs - into the capsule of forgotten nightmares, along with all of the other memories that are better forgotten, and concentrate on the future.

The mill cannot grind with the water that is passed.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Coming out for a walk?

2012-01-24T16:32:00.003Z

Here we are at the Home for Gay Sailors (as someone is fond of calling it) and we are now well into the year's start, so things appear to have settled down and everything is back to normal. Having said that, what's normal these days? Some folk think that dropping bombs on people is normal, so it's purely a personal perception, normality.

However, here at North Sea Camp, normal seems to consist of people going out of the prison to work, organising their days out and generally getting themselves into the correct mindset for their eventual and inevitable release.

It's a very strange situation that I find myself in because, after so many years in high security, something about this situation strikes me more forcibly than all of the other new experiences, and I'll explain that remark.

In the Lazy L I was surrounded by men - most of them young men too, in their twenties - who were going nowhere. Some of them were facing twenty, twenty-five, thirty years or more in prison and, in amongst all of the diverse topics of conversation, there was one which very rarely got mentioned, if mentioned at all - and that was the topic of release from prison. Those fellows (like myself) who were coming to the end of their time of incarceration didn't want to remind those just in the early years of theirs exactly what they had in front of them. Consequently there were few mentions, ever, of getting out of prison.

Here at the Home for Gay Sailors it is entirely different - and quite rightly so, I suppose. Without exception everyone is looking to go home in next to no time at all. They are organising days out down to the local towns, some go out each day to work and many can tell you precisely how many weeks they have to serve before they are released. Many are released weekly and that in its turn provides empty places for new people to arrive, which of course means that there is a fairly robust turnover of clients for the local shopping trade.

All of this brings me to a rather curious observation, because the other day I was talking to three fellows who came here from the prison in Nottingham and none of them have any more than a couple of months left to serve. That's not unusual in itself, but two of them have only been in prison a matter of a few weeks! All three have never been in prison before and the longest sentence between them is six months. This means that in reality each is taking up a space that someone who has been in prison for donkey's years (as like as not) has been waiting six or eight months for! Don't misunderstand me - I do not condemn these short sentence fellows, not a bit of it, but I do wonder about the criteria being administered by whoever is responsible for these things. I'm perfectly sure that it is probably all to do with operational difficulties and only so many long sentence cons being allowed into places such as this at any one time, but it all seems a bit curious to me for all that.

On a personal level, I seem to spend all of my time these days out in the fresh air - over four hours of it yesterday in the wind and rain. I would go out for an hour with someone, come back and then another would arrive:

Frank! Are you coming out for a walk?

Well, after the years I've spent sitting on my arse in an uninviting environment, unable to walk anywhere unfettered, I don't need inviting twice - and it's nice to know that enough fellows want to go for a walk and a chat with me as a person.

Four times it happened yesterday - over four hours out in the inclement weather - and I enjoyed every minute of it. In fact, I recommend it as a career choice instead of running around the streets annoying the gendarmes and upsetting the populace.

It shouldn't be too long before I can start going down to the local town myself - a bit of shopping, stuff like that. I have already applied for my bus pass. I can't wait to get on a bus. I haven't used a bus for such a long time - some time in the 1960's in fact - it's going to be an experience in itself.

Oh well, my flatmate has just arrived and wants to go for a little drive about - who am I to argue?

The Voice In The Wilderness

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past

2012-01-17T16:28:00.001Z

There is absolutely nothing nicer than getting up at the crack of dawn (in this case, about a quarter to seven) and making a cup of tea, then going outside to sit on the step with the hoar frost decorating the grass and every other surface in sight.

As I sit there in the dark, slowly catching hypothermia, I can see a waning moon in the clear sky above me along with a few die-hard stars that are still glittering for my personal entertainment. Off to my right, in the direction of the dyke that is protecting me from the sea, I can see various navigation lights of vessels, big and small, as they go about their early morning sailings or dockings.

There is, of course, the odd call from a blackbird and the cooing of the isolated ring-necked dove, but the birds won't really get into their stride until daylight. I can even hear the very comforting bleating of a sheep somewhere nearby.

Personally, I think it's wonderful, especially after the last quarter of a century - but that's over now, so I won't go on about it. It kind of surprises me that some fellows take it into their heads (for whatever reason) to decamp, run away, bugger off from this place. I don't understand their logic. Having said that, if their thinking patterns were up to scratch, they wouldn't be in jail in the first place - and I am no different in that respect. Howsomever, I would like to think that my thinking patterns have improved a good deal since those early days.

I've had a sort of interesting week, because on Wednesday just gone I went for a little chat with the internal probation officer here at the Home for Gay Sailors, and I spent a very pleasant hour in the company of two quite nice young women. Well, let's face it, at my age everyone else is young. It was merely a sort of "getting to know you" meeting, and they were wondering why I had so much difficulty getting along with the Offender Management lot at Long Lartin. All I could tell them was that Long Lartin seem to be stuck in their high security mode and couldn't adjust to my particular situation in that they had no experience of dealing with a Cat D prisoner. Still, all that is water under the bridge - the mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

We discussed the fact that my parole hearing will be in May of this year and consequently I will have to sort of hurry up to fill the criteria of days out and things of that nature. One asked me what plans I had for my days out and I think I quite surprised them when I said that the first thing I intended to do was nothing more exciting than go down to the beach, wherever it is, and watch the sea for an hour or so and then wander back. I think one of them said she wouldn't mind coming with me. I've got no mad desires to go running about in Boston, shopping like an insane shopaholic with thirty minutes to go to closing time prior to Christmas - not me.

She asked me how I was coping with my arrival here and all of the unaccostomed freedom and seemed surprised that I not only wasn't struggling but was actually loving it. When I do go down into Boston, I may be a little surprised by the traffic, but I can't see me having any difficulty with the teeming hordes, if Boston has hordes. We got on quite well, but then again I can get on with anyone really because, contrary to popular belief, I actually LIKE people generally. I like the energy of youth, but only in small doses - they tire me out. I like people, so I rarely have a problem getting on with anyone - and if I do, then the reason is generally because there is something wrong with them, not with me.

So, things are settling down nicely here at North Sea Camp. I see no icebergs on the horizon so my ship should sail sedately on until, like those lights I see at the crack of dawn, I come to a safe haven - in my case, freedom from durance vile. Until then, I'll simply sit with my feet in the frosty grass, drink my tea, listen to the birds - and wait patiently.

The Voice In The Wilderness

I must go down to the sea again...

2012-01-11T16:31:00.000Z

John Masefield had it right when he wrote:

I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and sky...

He went on to add the parts about tall ships, waves breaking sails shaking and the rest, but they don't apply here, so I won't bother with that part.

The lonely sea and sky... wonderful. When they told me that I was going (or coming) to North Sea Camp (or, as a certain person of our acquaintance would have it, the Home for Gay Sailors), I was as happy as a little fat puppy dog lying in front of a fire. So, when I arrived here on the shores of The Wash, in that limbo period between Christmas and the New Year, I had a plan. That plan being to perambulate sedately down to the sea shore and to stare vacantly at the waves whilst carefully avoiding the seagull shit.

It hasn't happened. Ha! Go down to the sea! We can't even see the bleedin' sea! There is a huge dyke between me and the water, and that is just as well because if it wasn't there I'd have to grow webbed feet and learn how to swim, both beinq equally impossible for me. (Having said that, a set of webbed feet might improve my chances in life - apparently normal people are passed over for the weird and talentless these days. However, I have no intention of wandering down that particular road at the minute so forget I even brought the subject up at all.)

So, here I am in the wilds of Lincolnshire and not very far from Skegness - a thriving resort in the summer months apparently. I've been given to believe that sooner or later I will be able to actually go and see Skegness on one of my days out and THAT'S going to be an experience in itself after so long staring at nothing but grey walls and barbed wire.

There are many things to be said about open prison, and no doubt I'll say them over the coming weeks and months - wandering around completely unfettered and unregimented for a start. I was walking slowly along the road the other day, talking cobblers with one of my new contemporaries, and we were rambling so slowly and leisurely that we were passed by a fellow in a wheelchair! He was being pushed by another feller and, as they passed, one was heard to remark, "We haven't got a decent lung between us!" I wonder if that was a reflection on the speed that my contemporary and I were travelling at.

I digress again. To get back to the theme - the most striking thing about this place so far (from my point of view) is the number of fellows who take it into their heads to run off! It makes no sense to me at all - not a smidgen. They have probably spent many years in security situations, albeit maybe not as many years as me, and they have managed finally to get to a place where they can simply wander around - no walls, no security, no limitations on freedom - and yet they run off! Not being very bright, they are invariably caught pretty quickly and are instantly returned to high security prison and automatically have years more added to their sentence for no good reason at all. Makes no sense to me. One fellow buggered off the day I got here and apparently there are several every week. I don't even begin to understand it.

Speaking personally, all I can say is that I have spent a quarter of a century waiting and trying to get myself into the position I now find myself in and nothing or no one is going to be allowed to make a mess of that for me - not under any circumstances.

Besides, I am like John Masefield - I must go down to the sea again - and that counts more with me than anything else. Or, as that well-known typing error Mike Spilligan would have it:

I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and sky.

I left my shoes and socks there,

I hope that they are dry.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Beside the seaside

2012-01-04T16:49:00.001Z

Well, let me begin by wishing all and sundry a very happy and successful New Year. This is when we all start on the nation's favourite sport - breaking New Year resolutions that we never had any intention of keeping in the first place.

By the way, I'm in North Sea Camp now - an open prison on the edge of The Wash and near Boston in Lincolnshire. I don't think it's very far to Skegness - that Mecca of donkey rides, candy floss and "fun". Not that I expect to see any of them - not for a while anyway. I can't even see the sea here because there is a dyke in the way. There's nothing else between me and Holland apart from a large ploughed field and the dyke - and that's only there to prevent the sea from flooding the place.

I was brought here on Thursday 29th December, the day after my birthday - my first day of official retirement. They came for me in my little cell in Long Lartin, took me down to reception and searched every nook and cranny of my person - including my ex-interesting bits. Not a millimetre was missed. I pointed out that I was now to be considered a Cat D prisoner, the lowest security level!

"We've got to do our jobs," said one with clearly about as much imagination as a caravan site. "We have to look for illicit items."

I just let them get on with it - how do you talk sense to someone who not only isn't listening but who wouldn't be able to understand what is being said anyway?

That wasn't the end of it. They double handcuffed me and then put me in a high risk security van with little individual cells inside - a sweatbox.

I said, "You do know that I'm a Cat D, don't you?"

The response - "We do what we are told."

I decided to save my breath.

So, off we went, me rattling about in a tin box and wondering if I really was going to open prison - or was I on my way clandestinely to a less welcoming destination?

We drove to Leicester police station! However, nobody wanted to charge me or question me. They just transferred me from one sweatbox to another in a little security compound, and off we set again.

So - all the way across the country, chained up like a dog, until we arrived at North Sea Camp, where all fetters were finally removed and, in the blink of an eye, I was able to wander about to my heart's content. No walls, no fences, no restrictions - nothing at all.

Nothing has happened between then and now, it being the holiday season, and nothing will happen until Tuesday January 3rd.

The next few weeks should be interesting to say the least. I might even get my sense of humour back - we will see.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Move over, Aldous - this is my brave new world!

2011-12-30T07:14:00.004Z

There was a certain amount of reluctance to tell me, of course - there always is. In fact, there is always a certain amount of reluctance to tell anyone anything at the very best of times at the Lazy L. But they told me in the end.

At first it was, "You will be transferred in the week commencing 15th January but we don't know where to yet..." - a curious statement to make for several reasons, not the least of which being that they don't do tranfers on a weekend. Be that as it may, wait a minute - if they know THAT much then they have to know precisely when! And if they know when then they must know where to. I mean to say, they aren't just going to shove me in a taxi and tell me to bugger off and find a prison that will have me - so they know!

I mentioned this, of course, and pointed out that on leaving the entrance gate I would be a Cat D prisoner and not a Cat A and as such there was no security reason why I shouldn't know.

Er... Um... Er... Um...

They came back and told me that actually I would be transferred to North Sea Camp "before the end of next week.." - still at it then, the unnecessary secrecy.

I said, "Well, I don't have to be a scientist to work it out, do I? There are no transfers on Monday or Tuesday - they are Boxing Day and a Bank Holiday. You don't do transfers on Fridays because your escorts don't want to be away and travelling back on Saturday. That leaves Wednesday and Thursday."

Er... Um... Er... Um...

I am now informed that I am being downgraded to a Cat D prisoner and transferred to North Sea Camp on Thursday 29th December. So we finally got there at last - they finally told me something.

However, getting to this point and actually getting to North Sea Camp is another matter - there is many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. Still! Provided that nothing goes wrong, and the taxi firm stays in husiness, I should be on my way to a Brave New World on 29th December - so move over, Aldous Huxley, let the rabbit see the dog.

Jails are made of bricks and passions,
Broken dreams and ribald men.
Evesham's own Long Lartin prison
The likes I'll never see again.

I'll be able to go for an unfettered walk. I'll be able to go and look at the sea! I'll be able to wear suitable clothing instead of being forced to dress like a fifteen year old. I'll be able to relax back into steady writing again. But most of all I can start to relearn how to be a human bean at last. Now that's not a bad Christmas and birthday present at all - not bad at all.

By the time anyone reads this it will be New Year, of course, and I'll be gone from this place. I have no idea what's in front of me, but I do know one thing - it will be an adventure for me, an experience. Almost twenty-six years of high security nonsense and obstructions - all gone. I will be facing a brand new world that I'll have to learn to live in - and I'm looking forward to the challenge so much, I really am.

People often say that the New Year is a time of new beginnings - out with the old, in with the new - and countless other platitudes along those lines. But this coming year in my case it is actually true! So, may I simply say to all and everyone, I hope that your New Year is as challenging and interesting as mine will be and I sincerely hope that it brings everything we all want or aspire to.

Move over, Aldous - Frankie is coming!

The Voice In The Wilderness

A Christmas story

2011-12-22T18:52:00.001Z

Not a great deal has happened during the course of the last week, and as for any news concerning my transfer in January, not a thing has been said that we didn't already know. Having said all that, I had a video-link with The Wallace on 14th to discuss her report for the Parole Board. Not that she can say much, really, because the simple fact is that I should have been gone from this place months ago. The reports should really all be being written by whatever open prison I should be in. Be all that as it may, the situation is that I'm here and that's what we have to deal with.

As a matter of interest, I am supposed to have the parole dossier in my hands by 27th of this month at the latest, and that is in eight or nine days' time, so we will see what is said then. I think William Wallace's descendant is going to make a few enquiries into a hostel for me in the south of the country, and if there is a suitable place for me... who knows?

So, it's Christmas, more or less - or it will be by the time this vignette reaches the ether. Christmas in prison - my twenty-sixth and none of them have been particularly memorable. Well, there is only so much Christmas cheer to go around at this time of year inside a prison - even a good prison, if there is such a creature. A prison is a prison, however you look at it really.

This year will be no different to the previous years, I shouldn't think. One or two die-hards will go around the place trying to be cheerful; some will be as miserable as sin, of course; but the majority of us will simply treat it as just one more day to be got out of the way as quickly as possible. The days of the drinking sprees that started on Christmas Eve and lasted until New Year's Day have long gone. In those days cons made dustbins full of "hooch" and staff looked on benignly as cons fell down a lot and music blasted out all over the place, more tran a few being as sick as dogs into the bargain. All of those days are gone. Oh there will be the odd furtive sip taken here and there, and of course the dragon-chasing fraternity will be at it, they always are, but nothing of any import will take place. Ha! I could tell a few tales of days gone by - but I won't, if for no other reason than to protect the guilty.

Still, Christmas isn't Christmas unless there is at least one Christmas tale told, so it is incumbent upon me to do that. Many years ago there was a fellow who lived and worked in Devon, although originally he hailed from the frozen wastes of Leeds. So, one Christmas he decided to rent a car, fill it up with nice presents, get himself up to Leeds on Christmas Eve and cheer up his whole family. All day he drove until, late in the evening, he arrived in Leeds at about nine at night. He drove to the suburb where his mother lived and, as he turned his car onto the road leading to his mother's street, it began to snow gently. Suddenly he ran into a solid wall of traffic. Not a thing was moving, everything was gridlocked and the spaces between the cars were full of people just milling about and looking toward his mother's street, a couple of hundred yards away. The fellow got out of his car and saw ahead, through the traffic, that there were cars and ambulances, cops with guns, all manner of things more in tune with some terrorist activity. He grabbed a nearby fellow and asked, "What's going on?" The fellow said, "There is some sort of seige going on." The hero of our story decided to climb up onto the bonnet of his car for a better look and, just as he got up there, he heard a terrific crackle of static from a loud-hailer and then a voice boomed out "THIS IS THE POLICE! WE DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR NAME IS! GET THAT REINDEER OFF THE ROOF!"

I hope everyone has a good Christmas and that the New Year brings everyone all of the good fortune they desire for themselves.

The Voice In The Wilderness

What's in a word?

2011-12-17T13:14:00.000Z

And so we come to the end of yet another week at HMP Inertia - or, as it is better known to the Idle Fraternity, the Lazy L. There was a rumour going round during the week that one of the FORTY-THREE governor grades had opened his eyes, but it turned out that he was just looking for his teddy-bear and went straight back to bo-peep, bless him.

So, another week gone by. Wonderful. Another week to the day when I shall finally depart these unforgiving shores. I want to do one of me poems (as Pam Ayres would say).

Long Lartin, full of fear and pain,
Standing grim in the wind and rain -
Enough to drive a man insane -
I'm glad I'll never see your face again.

Right then, that's got THAT out of the way. Having said all that, I did have some news of a sort this week. I had a letter from the solicitor in which he enclosed a letter he had received from the Ministry of Justice about me. They get my name right to begin with, and even get my number right too! But, as usual, they soon lose the thread and refer to me as a Mister Wright - maybe some female working there knows more than I do.

The letter informs us that prisoners are being moved to open prisons in batches or groups of fifty although the same somebody clearly sees himself (or herself) as extremely erudite (or wants us peasants to think so at least) because they don't stoop so low as to use such a mundane (and sensible) word 1ike "group" or "batch". Oh no, they use the word "TRANCHE"! Now, I know words - I've been introduced, so to speak - and the word "tranche" to me has always meant a portion, or a slice, generally referring to food. It's from the French of course, these words usually are. So I looked it up and this is the entry from the Chambers Dictionary:

TRANCHE: noun, a slice, a block, a portion, especially of an issue of shares. (French, slice - trancher, to cut).

Still, what's in a word, eh?

All of that notwithstanding, I am in the fourth "tranche" and that means that I will be allocated to my open prison at some point this month (December) and will be transferred to the receiving establishment in January.

So, hacking my way through the hyperbole of the sad and pseudo intellectuality of someone who got a thesaurus last year for Christmas, it seems that I shall heading for greener pastures in January. No idea where to of course - apparently there is no option in the matter - but I can't say that I care, anywhere will do as long as I can get some fresh air and go for a walk without being smothered by concrete.

What's it like to touch grass and walk on it? I've forgotten. I might take my shoes and socks off to feel the earth beneath my feet - then again, I might not, who can tell?

I've got a video-link booked for Wednesday 14th with The Wallace of Clan Wallace, (The Wallaces were actually part of the Amadon clan as far as I know) so I shall look forward to that. Perhaps she can shed some light on things, but I doubt it - I think she is as much in the dark as I am these days.

Ah, the blissful ignorance of mankind. Adam and Eve have got a lot to answer for ever since that day in the Garden when Adam said to Eve, "Hey, I've got a good idea! Turn over, let's try it in that other hole!" Eve replied, "Bugger off! You'll fill the world full of people!"

The Voice In The Wilderness

Two conversations

2011-12-10T13:29:00.001Z

Prison is a strange place, really, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being that every day is basically Groundhog Day - something I have said several times before. In the last couple of days I have had two different conversations with two diverse fellows and it occurs to me that I've had the very same conversations umpteen times before with only slight variations. However, that's prison for you.

After all of these years, there is nothing I haven't heard or seen so many times before. In fact, I was recently accused of being a bit reclusive by one of my contemporaries - but ignore that, I've been accused of many things over the years, most of them total cobblers. But I have to admit, reclusivity is quite attractive recently. Well, I've heard it all before!

However, as usual, I digress. Two conversations in recent days demonstrate the Groundhog Day thing that I mentioned earlier. Now, I'm not a policeman, so my recall of these conversations can only be seen as approximations, not verbatim. Only policemen have such prodigious memories that they can recall every word that was said to them months after the event. In fact, their memories are so good that they can actually remember things that were never said in the first place.

Again, I digress. I was sitting in my little kennel the other day, Thursday 1st I think, when one of our misunderstood junkies came knocking on my door, cap in hand. This is how it went:

"Frank, can you do me a favour and help me out?"
"Oh yeah?" said I. "What did you want?"
"Well," says he, getting comfortahle to tell me lies - that's what they do, "my mother has got some money for me that she is sending in..."
By this time I had stopped listening - the same old attempted con job that I've seen a thousand times. But if it's true that God loves a trier, then this fellow was assured of his place at the heavenly drug dealer's outlet. He was going on.
"...so if you can lend me twenty-five quid from the canteen, my mother will send you a nifty fifty, but I'll need the stuff from the canteen next week."
I said, "Listen, if your mother has fifty quid to send in, why don't you have it sent in to yourself?"
By this time he was starting to wonder how I had seen through his little subterfuge so easily - it would have fooled bim! Mind, junkies can convince themselves of just about anything.
I then said, "Do everyone a favour, there's a good little dragon chaser, and go away. I'm getting old, not stupid."

So, that was the first conversation, or near enough to it.

The second chat was on Friday, the next day, and I was sitting waiting for my din-dins with one of the young Moslem fellows who has got about thirty years to serve, and he didn't look too happy.

"Frank," says he during our little chat about cabbages and kings, "Frank, how long have you been in prison now?"
"Twenty-six years in March coming. Why?"
"It's a long time," he mused ruefully.
"Oh it is that," said I.
"I wasn't even born when you came to prison," said he. "How old were you when you started?"
"Thirty-nine," I replied.
Then he asked, in a sort of small voice, "Did it go quick?"
Now, I was tempted to tell him the truth but got hold of myself in time to say, "Do you remember when you first went to school? Your very first day?"
"Yeah," said he, "a bit."
"Well," said I, "think about the time between then and now," and I clicked my fingers under his nose. "It's gone like that! CLICK! One minute you were going to school. CLICK! Now it's gone in a flash. That's prison for you too - one minute you are sitting just starting a long sentence. CLICK! Then you are thinking about going home soon. It passes - everything passes, nothing lasts forever."
He was quiet for a while then said, "You are going to open prison soon, aren't you?"
"January, as far as I know."
"You'll soon be home," said he, and I didn't have the heart to be rude.
"So will you," said I. "Before you know where you are, you'll be sitting here and some young lad will be asking you if the time has gone quickly. You'll click your fingers under his nose and tell him exactly what I've just told you." I didn't add that he would also be getting on for sixty years old, that would have been cruel, even for me.
He grinned at me. "I will, won't I?"
"You will," said I. "Let's go and get our din-dins, the shutters are going to open any minute."

Two conversations, both equally as sad as each other in their own way. Every night these young men (and the older ones too) will be lying on their beds and the regrets will be running through their minds, poor decisions made. Will they learn from their errors? Well, the vast majority of them will - in fact the vast majority could probably be released right now and would never darken the doors of a court again. There will be exceptions of course, there always will be.

Coo! That's all a bit serious for me - I almost allowed the world to see into the sensitive inner sanctum, that'll never do.

A fellow takes his new bride on honeymoon to Acapulco and on their last night at the hotel Tom Jones is appearing as the cabaret. Before Jones the Voice comes on, there is a warm-up act of a fellow with a huge lion. The lion does tricks and all that kind of thing and, as a finale, the fellow calls for absolute silence in the audience while he performs a very dangerous trick. He then pulls open the lion's mouth as far as he can, takes out his willy and rests it on the lion's bottom teeth. He then picks up a mallet and hits the lion as hard as he can right between the eyes. The lion lets out a terrific roar of pain and clamps its jaws shut but stops a millimetre from the fellow's willy. The fellow puts his willy away and says to the stunned audience, "Is there anyone here who thinks they can do that?" The honeymoon bride calls out, "I'll have a go, but you better not hit me as hard as you hit that poor fucking lion!"

The Voice In The Wilderness

One-track Olive

2011-11-29T16:06:00.001Z

It goes without saying that there is no further news about any sort of transfer, but that's to be expected I suppose. We know that I am scheduled to be shoved into a taxi during the month of January and I can't see anything changing that. It is the end of the month in three days and we will be into December, so January isn't so far away. I can wait patiently. Let's put it this way, after getting on for twenty-six years, what's a few more weeks?

Now, everyone knows that my parole reports have started, although I am assured that these reports will not be allowed to interfere with my transfer - so that's reassuring. On Thursday gone (24th Nov), I had to go to the office because a young female from the OMU (Offender Management Unit) wanted to see me. Everyone will remember that the OMU is where the Smiling Assassin used to do her villainy, although she's been moved off that job now. Come to think about it, I bet I am getting the blame for that - I get the blame for everything else around here. The Smiling Assassin won't see that it was her own fault for poor report-writing - no snowflake ever feels responsible for an avalanche. No, she will blame me for having the effrontery to question her abilities. Anyway, this new girl came to see me and, as is my custom, I have to give her a name - because I am not allowed to use her real one. I'll need to think about that.

We got seated, and it was quite clear from the very start that she had arrived with a set agenda, and that agenda had nothing to do with the facts or situation as we know them. Speaking to her was almost like taking part in my very first interview ever. I tried to point out and explain that we had moved on from her usual comfort zone - we were no longer concerned with whether I needed to do courses or anything else - the questions to be asked and answered for the parole reports were:

Have I been shopping in the local town successfully?
Have I used the hus without getting lost?
Have I been on home leave successfully?
And am I ready to be released in any particular form?

In fact, the simple case is that I shouldn't even be in this prison and the reports should really be getting done by whatever open prison I SHOULD be in. This didn't go down well - nobody likes to be told that they are irrelevant.

She wanted to talk about me still being innocent and denying my guilt. It was like stepping back years! She was even harping on again about why did I not want to go to a Cat C-D semi open. I finally informed her that whatever reports were done by this prison would probably be removed from the parole dossier and new reports would be added by the open prison when I got there.

That's it! I've got her name now! One-track Olive.

I told her that I'd be gone in January and she seemed to be a bit put out that I knew that.

Well, she finally went off to do her report, and I expect it to be completely negative. That's what the OMU seem to think they are there for, negativity.

An interesting sideshow was that when I came out there was a figure outside with her back to the passing pedestrians, almost as though it all had nothing to do with her. The Smiling Assassin! Oh yes - one last shot across my bows then. We will see.

So, One-track Olive went off to do her thing and I returned to the comfort of my kennel, shooting zombies, driving fast cars and generally adhering to my sentence plan.

Oh yes, that's what One-track asked me - "Why don't you ask if you can do your interventions from this prison?"
"I did," I told her. "I applied for home leave and I can't even get a sensible answer!"
"Why not ask the Number One?" was her response.

Yes, right - ask the man who didn't want me to go to open prison in the first place. Makes sense I suppose, from her twisted logical point.

Well, six weeks from today will take me to mid-January - I should be gone from this place by then or, if not gone, packing my goods and chattels with a taxi waiting at the door.

I'm not telling any jokes this week - Boudica says that I'm not funny. I could have told her that.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Laughter in the waiting room

2011-11-22T18:23:00.001Z

It's a strange thing, this business of waiting, especially in prison. That's all we ever do seemingly - wait. We wait for all manner of things - letters, canteen day, visits to arrive, our hair to grow We get so used to waiting, in fact, that after a while we start to wait for nothing. Speaking personally, I have lost count of the times that I have had that feeling that I am waiting for something, but if asked I would have had to say that I had no idea what I was waiting for. In fact that is the whole story of prison life - waiting - and the successful prisoner is the one who learns how to wait patiently. A lot of cons fall by the wayside, of course. They simply lose the plot with the frustrations of waiting and kick over the traces.

It's only stress brought on by the seemingly pointless waiting, but of course the prison service does not recognise that fact. Any prisoner who creates a disturbance or a fuss is punisbed FOR that disturbance or fuss - the causes are neither gone into nor cared about at all.

So we all sit and wait - all for different things, but that doesn't make the waiting any easier.

How is the waiting affecting me?

The main difficulty is that my sleep patterns have suffered. I don't get the sleep I need and most of the time I am dog tired.

But this perpetual waiting doesn't just affect the prisoner - it has stressful affects on others too, like family and friends. I have noticed over recent months that Boudica has changed gradually and my sense of humour isn't the only one that would appear to have taken an unauthorised leave of absence - hers is missing too. She is becoming a bit short with people and situations which, just a few months ago, she would have found funny and made fairly comical observations about.

Humour is the biggest aid to waiting and keeping down the stress levels that come from waiting. I use it all the time - sometimes quite offensively, as several people have noticed. I never intend to be offensive but it often comes out that way, so if I should say anything that anyone finds offensive, try to remember that prisoners are under a great deal of stress and that allowances must be made. Offence and malice are two different things. I often make quick responses to situations which are basically jokes designed for no other purpose than to amuse - but they can be misinterpreted.

Many years ago, in my salad days, when I was nobbut a callow youth, I was strolling down The Strand in London during one of my trips ashore, when I was a mucky little matelot - just strolling, taking in the sights and eyeing the passing ladies, as we did in our youth. I was stopped by a group of Japanese tourists and one said (in a Japanese accent), "Excuse me! You tell me way please, Marble Arch!"

I said, "You found Pearl Harbour on your own, didn't you?" See! Quick. Not intended to be offensive, just witty.

Another time in Liverpool, when the ship was docked over the water in Birkenhead, I was in a dive called the Sierra Leone (a place that is still there today) and I had spent the night drinking and dancing with a pretty little black girl called Danielle. We had a good time - it was good fun.

Then, at about ten minutes to two in the morning, she asked me if I was going to walk her home when the club closed at two. I said, "I'm not walking all the way to Jamaica at this time of night."

She might still be laughing for all I know.

So, not only are remarks not intended to cause offence, they only cause offence to SOME folk - others find them funny.

So, what is the point of all that waffle?

There is no point. All I am saying is that there is nothing to report this week - nada, zero, zilch, nowt. We are bereft of any intelligence, we are clueless.

As I say, I'm just sitting here waiting for the time to pass.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The moving finger writes - again!

2011-11-16T16:12:00.001Z

The moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on. That's how I do it you know - one finger on the typer keys. I've got the fastest finger in the prison system.

It will be remembered that I said, "Watch this space" - well, I was right because there are a couple of interesting items up for discussion in the last seven days.

The person from the Tactical Management department came to see me at last the other day. Actually she's quite nice and is just as much at sea in all this as I am. She even said, "It's never been done before!" - and I replied that if everybody had said that we would all be sitting in caves waiting for someone to invent hot meals.

She has written to my solicitor to explain (as far as she can of course) about the delays in transferring me to open nick. It's not just me - the system is full of fellows who are stuck in prisons that they should have been moved out of long since. However, as usual the prison service has proved to be incompetent, yet again, and created a massive log-jam, so to speak. Transfers have now been taken over by the Population Management Section and transfers to open prisons are now managed by this PMS - as fine an acronym as you'll find anywhere.

I quote from a document supplied by the Tacman:

Transfers will be managed over a period of up to 9 months and prisoners will be prioritised for transfer under the following criteria:
Prisoners whose(sic) tariff has expired will take precedent over pre-tariff prisoners. Post-tariff prisoners will then be prioritised in line with the length of time they have been waiting for transfer to open conditions. The date the S of S (Secretary of State) approved the move will be the basis upon which waiting time is calculated.

I have contacted PMU (Prisoners' Management Unit) to find out how long it will be until Mr Wilkinson gets transferred out of Long Lartin, they estimate that it should be around January 2012. Please contact Population Management Section for further information.

This is all taken from a letter sent (apparently) to my solicitor, although he doesn't seem to have received any such missive. However, he has been getting to much the same answer himself via other routes because I had a letter from him the other day too, in which he says much the same thing but without the January timescale. He says that the criteria given means that I should be relatively high on the transfer list to move to open prison/conditions, given that my GPP is ahout to commence. The GPP is the Generic Parole Process, for those who care about these things. Personally I think acronyms should be completely outlawed - they are only used so that those who are involved can feel superior to the rest of us peasants.

My solicitor has then written to the PMS (Come on! Keep up! The Population Management Section) at the Ministry of Justice and he has asked for a timescale for my transfer in the light of the facts - GPP due to begin and all that kind of thing. Actually, the GPP has already begun because at least two of the reports have been done that I know of. They will probably never see the light of day because they are not what the Parole Board wants to hear about. All anyone can say is that I have shown great fortitude and patience in waiting without losing the plot. (Great word that, fortitude - it has a cadence about it, a strength. Feel free to use it any time you like, it's not copyright.)

So, in amidst this dry, humourless guff, what's the bottom line? The prison is no longer responsible for my transfer and I should be in open prison by mid-January. By that time it will be eight months since my last parole hearing and four to go to the next.

Heigh Ho, onwards and upwards, as they say - the moving finger writes and, having writ, moves on.

I was expecting to be gone from this place by Christmas - so did a lot of other people (expect me to be gone that is), but it looks like I'll be spending my last yule-time here at the Lazy L, and may God have mercy on my soul.

I may celebrate. It will be my last Christmas in prison - never again to be locked up at night - no more sleepless nights - never again to wear a pair of gyves, handcuffs, bracelets - and back in the welcoming arms of Boudica, who will continue torturing me where the prison service leave off.

Oh yes, I may celebrate - I may buy some nuts!

The Voice In The Wilderness

See! Told you!

2011-11-08T16:00:00.005Z

What did I say last week?

Normally I can't answer that question myself - I only write this drivel, I don't waste my time reading it. Boudica seems to think that I actually remember what I write ahout and when - I don't, not normally. That's the beauty of always telling the truth - you don't have to remember it, it never changes. Anyway, once again I digress. Let's get back to the point.

What did I say last week?

I said, "Watch this space." Well, we have news that is bordering on interesting. During the course of the week (Tuesday 1st in fact), I received a document from the Parole Board which (amongst other things) informed me that my parole dossier had to be in my hands no later than December 27th (the day before my birthday and official age of retirement). I was strongly advised to inform my solicitor and had to return a completed form to the Parole Board bearing my solicitor's details and those of the Wallace, my probation officer. The parole review would proceed on paper unless I required an oral hearing (which I do) and, if that should be the case, then my solicitor would take over from there.

Well, I saw to all that and that's done. Now I turn my mind to what it means.

This place is doing the parole reports for the dossier! What is the point of that? All the Lazy L can say with any degree of veracity is that they haven't actually complied with the Parole Board's LAST instruction yet, to send me to open prison!

The Parole Board wants reports concerning whether I have been out shopping in the local town - have I used public transport without any dramas or punching the driver - and, most important of all, have I been home on leave successfully. They also need the Wallace to say whether I can be released on licence or a tag or whatever she decides is best for me.

This place is writing reports saying that I am no problem - that's all they can write, beyond the fact that I am still here at the Lazy L doing my impressions of a tin of Campbell's veg soup.

The simple fact is that I should have been gone from this place five or six months ago - but here I sit. I shouldn't think that I will be here much longer - I can't see why I would be. Everyone involved is asking the same question: "Why are you still here?" Well it's no good asking me. If it was left to me, I'd have been gone the day after the Parole Board's decision - I'd have paid for the bloody taxi myself, never mind anything else.

I have even tried to actually do something about going out of the prison shopping and going home on leave - it's all been simply ignored. They haven't refused to let me go, they simply haven't bothered to answer my applications - typical of this place really. Ask a difficult question and they either answer another one entirely or otherwise ignore it altogether and pretend you didn't ask it. They can't deal with actual decision-making you see - not enough people in charge of the place. They've only got forty-two (or three) governor grades, and they are all busy making sure that the bin lids are on properly and counting table tennis balls and boxes of tissues. You can't expect them to actually do anything or make any decisions - that's not what they come to work for, on the rare occasions when they DO turn up.

No wonder I don't sleep very well. I'm like a bear caught in a trap and chewing frantically at my own leg - I know there is a way out, but no matter what I do it gets me nowhere. Leave it all to the Lazy L and I'll find myself watching next year's Olympics in this cell and still playing childish games on my very expensive PS2.

By the way, I wish the Sun would stop writing shite ahout prisoners and Playstations. We aren't given them you know, we have to scrimp and save up our own pennies to buy them, and even then you have to be on special privileges. Ha! Veracity and the Sun - there's a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one.

As I say, keep your eye on this space.

A fellow walks into a barber shop:

"How much for a haircut?"

"Seven quid."

"How much for a shave?"

"Two fifty."

"Shave my fucking head."

The Voice In The Wilderness

When am I being transferred then?

2011-11-02T16:31:00.003Z

Once again we have reached the end of another week with nothing to report, at least nothing that any self-respecting bookie would take bets on. I suppose I'd better explain that - well, we don't want any misunderstandings or ambiguities, do we? I've got enough of that cobblers around this place without adding to it.

I have been making enquiries about when I can expect to be moved to open prison, in accordance with the Parole Board's instruction (not to mention the Secretary of State - so we won't mention him) of May gone - a simple matter of six months. (Okay, there were one or two minor difficulties along the way, but the facts are the facts - it was in May.) So, I have been making enquiries along the lines of, "When am I being transferred then?"

The other day (and I'm not the only one asking, by the way), one of the people who HAVE been asking went to ask again, and this is what he came back and told me:

Transfers are no longer being conducted by the holding prisons but a central hody of some sort has been set up and transfers are now completely out of the hands of prisons such as the Lazy L. This central body (no doubt having furnished itself with an acronym - they do like a good acronym) has decided to transfer prisoners in "waves" and at the moment they are in the process of transferring wave 3. I am in wave 5 and can he expected to be transferred to open prison probably in mid January. The fact that I will then be in the middle of the next reporting period for the parole hoard to decide whether to release me or not will make no difference, I will still be transferred. In fact, a letter had been drafted to Mike Pemberton to that effect and would be sent to him as soon as it was signed by a Governor.

This is the story I have been given. I have mentioned it to several people since here at the Lazy L and, without exception, they have all given variations on the same response - laughter and "Yer what!" These are all staff memhers by the way, not fellow incarcerates.

Needless to say, no letter has been forthcoming, as far as I know, but that doesn't mean that such a letter doesn't exist. Don't misunderstand me, I am not making any accusations against the person who came out with the drivel mentioned above, I think they are as much in the dark as I am and, whereas I would have simply answered when asked, "I don't know", perhaps the person felt that she had to say something, so she said what she said. Having said that, the person who relayed the story could have misheard or misunderstood some of it - who knows!

The bottom line is that I am still sitting here in the Lazy L, torturing my typewriter and anyone who I think might know anything at all.

The thing is that all I am asked to do between now and release (to all intents and purposes) is to provide a realistic and viable release plan. I am supposed to do that from open prison, but if I am not in open prison, what am I supposed to DO?

I have asked to be allowed to get on with things while I am in this prison - go shopping, home leave, things like that - but of course the suggestion has been met with shock and horror. "It's never been done before!" they cry. Well, history is full of things that have never been done before, and if it wasn't, we would all still be sitting in caves waiting for some genius to invent a fire so that they could invent chefs.

It's November tomorrow too - six months to my release hearing. Watch this space - it could get interesting.

Finally, a little story that I heard the other day - those of a delicate nature or of easily-offended natures, stop reading now. You have been warned.

There was a married couple and, after about twenty years of it, the wife just upped and left - she buggered off. Two weeks later she knocks on the front door and, when the hushand answers the door she says, "I want you to take me back, but it's only fair to tell you that I've been with another man."

The husband says, "So have I. Bend over."

The Voice In The Wilderness

The dance of uncertainty

2011-10-27T17:29:00.004+01:00

I don't think anyone will be surprised (or shocked) when I say that another week has passed without any sort of definite news, or even an acceptable promise of any news. The Lazy L is working well, apparently, right on course for absolutely bugger-all. I've got this scenario in my head (in amongst the dross and drivel that normally resides there) that one day they will approach me in a manner of a reasonable nature and say, "Get your gear sorted out, Frank, you are on your travels." Personally, I think there is more chance of Nelson getting his eye back - but that's just me being defeatist and best ignored. However, nobody must get the idea that I am alone in this waiting game because I am not - the place is full of fellows waiting for a bus-pass to greener pastures.

I understand that over the main gate they have erected a new sign which says, "YOU AIN'T GOING NOWHERE FROM HERE!"

Boudica is annoyed about it all of course, and who can blame her? Almost six months ago she found out that I had been recommended for open prison and was delighted because that meant I would soon be adorning her doorstep with my hat in hand, begging for a bed for the night. Well, that hasn't happened, and she has become disillusioned I think, as I have myself. I was full of plans as to what I was going to do to prepare my future. Now? I'm beginning to doubt that future completely.

It's not as though there is any reason for me to be contained in this place any more - there isn't. Nobody asks me to do anything, nobody asks me any questions - nothing. I am left entirely to my own devices, completely ignored by the prison and those who allegedly run it. They want nothing from me and I ask for nothing from them other than "feed me".

Somewhere, stuck in some rat hole of a local, Victorian-built prison, there is someone waiting for me to vacate the premises so that they can have my cell and then proceed to work on their own problems toward their own release. Unfortunately they have to sit where they are too, fighting cockroaches for their beds and saying, "Why can't I be transferred to a long-term jail?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

I ask, "Why can't I be transferred?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

And so the macabre dance goes on spreading uncertainty, unrest, restlessness, frustration and everything else that goes with all of those things. In the meanwhile the prison service goes on blithely pretending that there is no problem and God help any misguided prisoner who shows signs of suffering from the stress of it all. Apparently, suffering from stress is the sole prerogative of staff - those people who only work three days a week and who go home every night. It is illegal for prisoners to suffer from stress - it is in the rules. Prisoners must smile at all times, it's the law.

However, let's not be churlish about this. After all, what have I got to complain about? I've only been in jail for over a quarter century for nothing, I get one hot meal a day, I have been allowed to buy myself a decent bed and I get a shower every morning without having to worry about anyone wanting or trying to introduce me to unnatural practices! (Mind, anyone silly enough to want to try that sort of thing deserves to be in jail for gross stupidity - either that or they are suicidal.)

What am I complaining about?

It could be worse - I could be a Lib Dem and feeling the pain of the knife in the back from the True Blues, because it's coming.

Oh, just ignore me - I'm not getting my sleep, I'm a miserable old bastard and, according to Boudica, I'm a sick man. All that may well be true - and probably is - but that doesn't detract from the fact that the prison service isn't doing its job - but then again, when did it ever?

The Voice In The Wilderness

A first time for everything

2011-10-19T16:19:00.001+01:00

Well, would you believe it! This morning (16th October) I received a response to my request for information regarding my application for home leave. It starts off by saying that the original application went to the wrong department, but no apology for that from them, it's not expected - hubris makes no apology for itself. It's not their fault that there has been no decision because (and this will come as no surprise) someone else hasn't done their job. I'm quite astonished really - someone not doing their job? It's unheard of in the prison system. Ah! But it's not the Lazy L that is responsible, oh no, they are laying the blame firmly at the feet of The Wallace! I quote:

I am currently dealing with your application [three months so far] but have not received a response from your Offender Manager [The Wallace] regarding the appropriateness of the address you gave. [Boudica will argue with that - her and The Wallace have chatted on the phone as far as I know.] However, I am sorry to say that it is unlikely that home leave will be approved from a high security prison.

That's the response. Why is it unlikely that home leave will be allowed from a high security prison? What difference does that make? A person leaves the gate, has a week or so at home and comes back to prison, no matter what prison that may be. Where is the problem? What has high security got to do with it? I am not high security, I am the lowest security level possible. The fact that they have not transferred me to an appropriate prison is a reflection on them, not on me.

My interventions have to begin soon, I have to formulate a viable and acceptable release plan so the sooner we have the opportunity to get on with it, the better. Where does it say anywhere that I cannot formulate a release plan from the Lazy L? "It hasn't been done before!" Wonderful. Who cares? There is a first time for everything and in reality there is absolutely no reason whatsoever why I should not begin my release plans here if they can't transfer me. It's the fear of the paranoid, that's what it is. I am the one who will be facing the hardest part, not them. What are they afraid of?

So, there we have it. What I need to do now is inform The Wallace and see what she says on the subject. She may well agree that it is unheard of for a person to get home leave from such a place as this, but it's not fair to blame her for it. Oh yes indeed - I've said it before and no doubt I'11 say it again, several times - but it's not easy being me.

Boudica's stress levels are rising steadily, bless her, and who can blame her! After the Parole Board decision, she expected to hear that I would soon be gracing her front door step again, yet here we are, five months later and the only thing I am gracing is the showers every morning - not a pretty sight for those of a nervous disposition. When a fellow gets to my age he finds that things have started to slip a little bit. Put it this way, if Rodin ever needed a sitter for his second version of "The Thinker" he would be well advised to avoid me like the plague. "The Thinker"! Well, I might do a bit of thinking, but that's about it really - I do nothing else.

Many years ago there was a fellow who climbed up a mountain and, when he reached the summit, he sat down to survey his surroundings and got to wondering, when it got dark, where the sun had gone. Well, it finally dawned on him.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Saint Jude is my patron saint

2011-10-11T16:53:00.001+01:00

Here we go again - another week passed, another week of no news or sign of any advancement or progress. In fact, the only thing that seems to be gradually changing are my sleep patterns - I am barely sleeping at night, and I understand that sleeplessness is a manifestation of stress! Wonderful! Just what I need - rising stress levels.

It will be remembered that a couple of months ago, maybe a little longer, I put in an application for Home Leave or, as they like to call it, Release on Temporary Licence - ROTL.

It will also be recalled that, some time ago now, I had an answer to an enquiry on the subject which said basically that, in the light of my pending transfer to open prison, the application to go home for a week or so was being duly processed - doing me a favour apparently. The weeks passed, as weeks do, and last weekend I put in yet another application - a query really - asking what was going on with my request to go home for a wee while.

I got an answer back yesterday which said that the person dealing with my transfer was away on leave so they couldn't tell me anything about the transfer but would as soon as she came back!

I didn't ask about transfer! I didn't mention transfer! In fact I have given up on ever seeing a bleedin' transfer! All I asked was about home leave - sorry, ROTL.

This is typical of this place really. Are we to understand that when one person goes off on a jaunt then whatever department they are involved in comes to a grinding halt? Is that why this place never gets anything done?

It's no use expecting governor grades to deal with anything so important - they are far too busy making sure that the bin lids are on properly and counting the table-tennis balls. In fact the only time a governor grade shows his or her face is to do someone down and, as often as not, they even leave THAT to a minion. Governors are not here to run the place, they are only here to ensure that stress levels stay at the appropriate levels. So my stress levels are apparently high.

Oh don't misunderstand me - I'm not ready to declare myself a basket case or anything like that. I'm not about to lose the plot and start ranting and raving - or worse. I'm in full control of myself and have been under much more stressful times, but I am clearly suffering with a bit of the ould Elliot Ness.

I'm not the only one either! Boudica is suffering a bit too, and I think it is hitting her a good bit harder than it is me - either that or I handle it better, who can tell? She told me in a letter the other day that some of her hair came out - maybe just a few strands, I don't know, she didn't say - but whether it was a few strands or a whole clump is hardly the point really, the point is that the strees is getting to her too, and who can be surprised at that? After all of this time she suddenly found that the Parole Board said more or less that she would soon have me back to annoy her. I was delighted myself, full of plans and little expectations. Five or six months later I'm still sitting here, picking my nose and nary a sign of a transfer anywhere on the horizon at all.

All I've got is a little hope, but that's wearing thin a bit. Mind, they do say that when a person waits for something for a long time then he will appreciate it all the more when it DOES finally come about.

That a fact is it?

I've put in another application, this one saying that I didn't ask about transfer, I asked ahout going home for a week or so. Will the question be answered? I've got my doubts.

Ha! No wonder when people ask me who I would pick as my Patron Saint if I could choose I always say "Saint Jude".

"Why Saint Jude?" they ask. "What is he the Patron Saint of?"

"Lost causes," I reply.

The Voice In The Wilderness

If...

2011-10-04T16:30:00.002+01:00

Well, I knew IF I waited long enough I would, sooner or later, have something to tell anyone not nimble enough to get out of the door quickly enough.

I've got news!

Yesterday they came to see me bearing an envelope, for which they wanted me to sign. On examination of the accompanying document, I saw that it wasn't me who had to sign that I had received it, not at all - it was for the kangaroo to sign to prove he had given it to me. A case of covering themselves I suppose.

Anyway, when they had gone off about their business, I opened the envelope and it was a letter from the Ministry of Justice to inform me officially that my solicitor's request to have my parole review period reduced by four months had succeeded. My parole hearing is to be in May of next year. It's October now - so that is October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May! Eight months IF you count October. The fact is that it's seven months - you either count the first month or the last month, not both.

So, seven months to the hearing. There is a twenty-six week period set for report-writing - six months in anyone's money - and that leaves a month for me to get to open prison before I begin the reports. IF I begin them in this prison then I am not allowed to leave this place until all reports are done and I've had the hearing! IF that should happen, imagine the Prison Service going before the Parole Board and saying, "We haven't even complied with your last instructions yet!"

So, the next few weeks could be interesting.

However, that's not all, I have even MORE news - IF it can be called news and is of any interest to anyone other than myself. I entered the Koestler Awards again this year and I have just been informed that I have won Platinum this year. That's my fourth literary win, my fourth award! Now, I'm not being clever here, I'm not that egotistical (I hope), but four awards for writing isn't bad for a poor white boy from the ghetto. I'm still a poor white boy but I no longer belong to any ghetto - no self-respecting ghetto would have me for a start.

It got me to thinking about things in a reflective way. Over the years in jail I have studied hard and worked hard on my writings, often and usually in the face of great opposition and obstruction from the Prison Service. Despite all of that opposition, I have still managed three degrees, several certificates of excellence for computer studies, I've mentored several youngsters and helped to turn their lives around, I've turned my own life around and written lots of stuff, winning four literary awards along the way. Imagine how far I might have gone IF the Prison Service had encouraged and assisted just a little bit!

Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem entitled 'IF'. I think the last verse covers it all admirably:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Is there anybody out there?

2011-09-29T15:46:00.002+01:00

I've got a little black book with my poems in,
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and comb in;
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in.

I've got elastic bands keeping my shoes on,
I've got those 'swollen-hand' blues;
I've got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.

I've got electric light,
And I've got second sight,
I've got amazing powers of observation.

And that is why I know, when I try to get through
On the telephone to you,
There'll be nobody home.
(Pink Floyd)

Well, as any regular reader will be fully aware by now, I've got no news and nothing to tell anyone because, as usual here at the Lazy L, bugger all has happened.

I'm on the waiting list!

Often I sit here in my committee-designed and government-owned kennel-cum-toilet, surrounded by my solitude, and wonder if there is anyone actually out there at all!

Am I alone?

All around me in their own kennels there are so many sad tales and you can be absolutely certain that they too feel alone and abandoned. It's not true of course - we all (well, most of us) have friends and family who care about us - but it's hard to believe at night. In the cells of the Lazy L, nobody hears you screaming because the screaming is just inside your own head. I've said this before, of course, but it's worth repeating - Nicolas Sarkozy once said:

Life is the same for everyone when you are alone at night in an empty room.

I'm tired of being alone in empty rooms, but there's very little I can do about it apart from wait, like a good little patient, for the waiting list to reduce slowly. Sooner or later they will come to my cell door in the dead of night and tell me to pack up my goods and chattels and prepare for a road-trip the following day. It will happen - nothing lasts forever - but after all of the years with very little hope of any real progress, to finally have my lips within touching distance of drinking from the cup at last and yet my neck muscles can't quite manage that final millimetre, it's exasperating. Of course I stretch the tongue to try to cover that final distance but even a lizard would strutggle against the Prison Service, and I'm no lizard - I'm the wrong colour.

Boudica is finding it probably marginally more difficult than I am because, way back in May when we first found out that I had been recommended for open conditions by the Parole Board, she was delighted - full of plans and ideas and expectations. Now, over four months later and not an inch of progress, she is becoming a little disillusioned - and who can blame her? Well, all I can tell her is that they can break the clock but they can't stop the time. It will happen, it will come to pass, as they put it in the bible.

Until it does, all I can do of course is sit here like a good little convict and patient. Well, let's face it, these places are just like big loony-bins anyway - and if it wasn't for the uniforms, it would be difficult to decide who the inmates were. I have come to the conclusion that waiting for this place to get off its collective is much like being homosexual - a pain in the arse.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Confused again

2011-09-21T16:57:00.003+01:00

It's official! Once again I have become thoroughly confused hy the mixed signals and messages which this place seems to thrive on - it's the only thing they DO do well, confusion.

Now (I've got to stop doing that), regular insomniacs, and others with little better to do other than read this drivel, will be fully cognisant of the fact that, for over four months now, I have been patiently waiting a move to open conditions.

Well (I've got to stop doing that too), it gives me absolutely no pleasure whatsoever to say that in those four months I have not (apparently) taken one step forward toward the goal of fresh air at the Home for Gay Sailor - not an inch.

One minute I'm going, then I'm not.

The latest message from those responsible makes about as much sense as sliding down a razor blade and using my bollocks for a brake - a good idea to some, I'm sure.

On the 24th of last month I made a simple application asking about my transfer. I got the answer back yesterday, three weeks late and just as many weeks out of date. In that time I have received a letter personally from North Sea Camp - clearly this place has either lost their copy or sold it on E-Bay.

The TACMAN here has finally said:

Mr Wilkinson,
I was informed on 03/08/2011 that decisions at North Sea Camp have been put on hold for the next fortnight until there (sic) Governor 1 has spoken to area about there (sic) situation regarding Lifers/IPPs. A decision is required and until it has been made everything is on hold.

This is pure gammon - nothing more. What does it mean? This is nothing more than another example of "Let's fill him full of crap and hope he goes away". If I could, I WOULD go away - I'll even pay for the bleedin' taxi if it helps!

So, the bottom line is, "We are doing nothing" - as usual.

My parole reports start soon and, once they do start, then I am not allowed to be moved to another prison. I will then have to appear before the Parole Board next year in THIS prison and, of course, the first question asked will be, "Why has our last recommendation not been implemented?" Of course this place will then look for someone to blame, because they take the blame for nothing. Who will get the blame?

Go on, take a wild guess. Oh! There's a surprise! It's all my fault... AGAIN!

To move on, it will also be remembered that a few weeks ago I made the life-changing decision, after great deliberation, to grow a mustache. Well, the plan was to see which came first, the tash or a transfer - a bit like the chicken and the egg only slightly more interesting.

Yesterday one of my contemporaries, a Turkish fellow, said to me that I now look like a PKK Separatist - a Kurd. It looks like the tash is winning.

Having said all that, it won't last much longer because it is irritating the very Divvil out of my top lip. How people can grow facial hair is a puzzle to me. It's annoying and, to be quite honest, looks scruffy.

I am reminded of something my grandma Nell was fond of saying and that was:

Nivver trust a feller who cultivates on his face what grows wild on his arse.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Call me a Mackem

2011-09-14T16:51:00.005+01:00

Here we are again, the end of yet another week where there is very little to relate from this end in respect of my transfer to somewhere else, beyond the fact that we should be informed officially whether I am accepted by North Sea Camp and where I am on the waiting list. What that actually means in pounds, shillings and pence is that I have nothing in my immediate future other than more waiting. Well, I'm quite good at waiting - I've had enough practice.

The other thing this week is that today, Sunday the 11th September, is the tenth anniversary of what has now become known world-wide as "Nine Eleven". Don't panic, I'm not going to say anything about it - enough has been and is being said by people far more qualified than me.

I remember where I was at the time. I was in Full Sutton prison and was on basic, so I didn't have a telly - I had to go running to the telly room to watch it.

I suppose it takes a powerful hatred to contemplate such an act. This got me thinking about hatred, and we can't really condemn anyone for it because our nation is the leader in hatred - we don't even like each other. For instance, let's consider the hatred between seperate sets of people who live in each other's back gardens, so to speak. Liverpool hate Everton, Manchester United hate Manchester City and so on. Of course they don't go round blowing up each other's stadiums and killing each other, but that's only because
they wouldn't get away with it. If they thought they COULD get away with it, they would be wiping each other out with the best of them.

Let us consider the situation between the denizens of Newcastle and those of Sunderland. There is maybe fifteen miles between the two cities, but there is a continent between them socially.

Now (and pay attention here - I'll be asking questions later), there is a great deal of misconception in that everyone thinks that a Geordie has to come from Newcastle. That's not so. A Geordie is someone born between the river Tees and the river Tyne. People from north of the Tyne are actually Tynesiders, while people from Sunderland and Middlesboro are Wearsiders and Tees-siders respectively. However, bigots never allow a fact to come between their pet hates and reality, so the Tynesiders call themselves Geordies and call the Wearsiders Mackems. (South Shields folk are Sand-Dancers and Hartlepool folk are MonkeyHangers - but that's a different story.)

Wearsiders are called Mackems because when the shipyards were in operation it was said that they "Mak the ships and tak them te sea". That became "Mackems and Tackems" which is now merely abridged to "Mackems".

There is a story that there was once a doctor from the south of England travelling to the Freeman Hospital in Newcastle where he was to perform a very delicate operation on a patient. He drove up the A1 and M1 and finally turned off into Newcastle itself. However, being a stranger to the area, he was forced to ask directions. So he stopped his car at the side of the road and approached a group of young men who were coming away from St James' Park after a game between Newcastle and Sunderland, which Sunderland had managed to draw after a disputed penalty kick.

"Excuse me," said the doctor politely, "But could you tell me the quickest way to get to the Freeman Hospital please?"

"Aye!" growled a disgruntled fan. "Call me a fucking Mackem."

The Voice In The Wilderness

So what's new?

2011-09-07T16:43:00.008+01:00

There we have it - yet another week passes with nothing at all actually happening, locked in the passionate arms of inertia or, as the literary world refers to it, The Lazy L. However, I think I can be a bit more up-beat than that - after all, I'm supposed to have an education and an imagination (two things most severely frowned on here at the Lazy L, incidentally). So let me tell a little story here.

When (after a great deal of pointless argument by this place) it was finally agreed that Yes, I would be transferred to an open prison and that Yes, I was a Category D prisoner, I was sitting here cogitating (as is a regular practice with me) and it occurred to me that owing to the fact that I am a Cat D and on my way (via the scenic route obviously) to open conditions, why can't I make a start on my programmes here at the Lazy L?

So I applied to go home for a week or so while I am waiting for them to get their collective arses into gear and get on with it. To be quite frank (Ha! Ha! That's great that one), to be quite frank about it I had absolutely no expectations whatsoever - I only asked because I wanted to see what bollix reason they would give for refusing to let me go home on Temporary Release On Licence or, as they refer to it in the acronym TROL... or ROTL. (They love acronyms - they confuse the prisoner you see!)

Imagine my surprise, then, when someone arrived at my kennel door with a set of papers for me to fill in applying for home leave! I filled the application document in gleefully and handed it back then sat back waiting for the refusal to arrive so that I could have a good snigger at the refusal reasons (not that they are ever reasoned about any decisions - more arbitrary really). I didn't think it would take long - surely the Smiling Assassin would do her best to put a stop to my shenanigans!

Not a bit of it! The weeks went by and... nothing!

So, a couple of weeks ago, I put a couple of applications in to ask about the current position in respect of my transfer and one to ask about the position in respect of my request for home leave.

I got an answer at last. I have no idea what to make of it, of course, this is all new ground to me - I am a lost soul wandering through the maze of life - and that's funny on lots of levels. Perhaps the best thing to do is actually to reproduce the answer here in full and everyone can see for themselves.

Mr Wilkinson... I am awaiting recommendations from the Police and Probation Service regarding ROTL at the address given.
Your transfer to Category D open conditions is being processed by TACMAN.
I will contact the Probation and Police again today.
I would draw your attention to PSO 6300 Chapter 4.3.1 regarding eligibility, regarding closed conditions.
However your application is being proceeded with in preparation for your transfer to open conditions.
Signed and dated 31/8/11

So, what do we make of THAT? Is it good news?

Well... it's not BAD news. In fact, it's hardly any sort of news because in reality it says nothing, merely a sop to keep me quiet probably. "Well, if he thinks we are doing something he might stop bothering us and leave us alone!" That's not going to happen - I've got nothing else to do with my time but think up difficult questions to ask, reasonable but difficult to ignore.

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that there appear to be all manner of promises but nothing actually happens - not a bleedin' thing! Nowt, zilch, zero, nada. I'm still sitting here picking my nose and watching my new tash grow. (Incidentally, it's coming along nicely - I look a bit like an ancient hippy, or maybe an armchair bandido.)

Oh well, another week of no news - so what's new?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Waiting is such sweet sorrow

2011-09-02T16:58:00.003+01:00

Every week I write that there is nothing to report and no change whatsoever on the horizon, not a thing. This week it gives me the greatest of pleasure to write that absolutely bugger all has changed so this week will be no exception. I'm still sitting here, like a tin of condensed milk on a diabetic's larder shelf, tapping away at my retro typewriter like a demented woodpecker.

I did put an application in some four or five days ago to ask what the position is in respect of my transfer to greener pastures or, as Boudica calls it, the Home for Gay Sailors, but of course there has been no response to that application. Having said that, I'm not surprised there has been no answer - what can they tell me? "Mr Wilkinson, we are waiting for a place for you." Well, I know that - so does everyone else.

I put another application in to ask what the position is in respect of my application for a week's home leave while I am waiting to be sent to the home for queer matelots and the only reaction THAT got was somebody came to see me to ask me who he was supposed to send it to for an answer - how am I supposed to know THAT? I'm not running the dump - and if I was, things would get done a lot sooner than they do now THAT'S for sure.

Big Brian (or, as I call him, Herman the Big Mug) wrote to tell me that he wants to come and see me as soon as I get to the bit of the Wash reclaimed from the sea, so it will be nice to see him - and a lot of other folk I haven't seen for so long. I don't have visits in this place, they are like everything else about the joint - nasty.

Boudica is getting a bit stressed about it all, although she will deny it under questioning. But who can blame her? I'm getting a bit stressed myself - poor sleep patterns, all that kind of thing.

I know she is getting stressed because normally, when I am rude to or about her, she would just snigger and be rude back, but she sounded a bit offended in her last letter because she said, "That's right, when you've got nothing to write about, pick on me!" I told her that it's the menopause, but that's like showing a bull
the proverbial red flag. To be fair, there are other factors that need to be taken into account, but I think this lack of progress in my situation is probaly the catalyst and magnet for all other things that are going a little bit wrong here and there. Things that would normally be "laffed" at and ignored are starting to earn comments from her that she wouldn't make as a rule. Things must be getting to her a little bit.

Anyway, now that I've mentioned Herman the Big Mug, I suppose it behoves me to mention him further. I've known Big Brian for donkey's years - longer than I've known Boudica (she's just prettier). Brian is what is commonly called a big lad. He must be six four or five and from a distance he looks little and stocky - he's built like a brick shithouse in fact. He lives in Hartlepool and, years ago, he fell asleep one afternoon on the beach there. When he woke up Greenpeace were trying to shove him back in the water.

So, that's ANOTHER one who will be annoyed at me now. In the meantime, I'm just going to continue sitting here like a pustule on a camel's bum and wait patiently - in fact, much more of it and I'll BE a patient, although Boudica will say that I've been a patient for years.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A fish and chip tale

2011-08-24T17:08:00.003+01:00

Once again we reach the end of yet another pointless week here at the Lazy L where nothing at all has happened - nothing of any interest to me, at least. Mind, to be fair, that’s not entirely correct, although what IS new isn’t exactly earth-moving. This week, all I have been able to discover or find out is that I WILL be going to North Sea Camp as soon as there is a space for me there - I have to wait for room, a place. That’s all I ever do - wait. I’m thinking about changing my name to Mr Wait - maybe I will be able to claim Terry as my brother. Having said that, would I want to?

So, North Sea Camp (or, as Boudica calls it, the Home for Gay Sailors - she only thinks she's funny!) - when will I be off to the world of fresh air, cabbage fields and seagull guano? (I was going to say seagull shit, but that sounds a bit rude.)

Speaking of Boudica, I understand that she wasn’t impressed by my little vignette of last week and the fishy fingers. She says everything about me is fishy, but she only says that because she likes me. Apparently she objects (not very strongly) at my hinting that she was travelling around in trains in the swinging sixties, and she says we never met like that anyway. Okay, fair enough - I’ll tell another story then about how we first met. Of course, people will ask, "Is he telling the truth THIS time?" and the answer is, "Of course I am." Well, as near to the truth as a policeman gets when he is swearing someone’s life away in a Crown Court.

Is it any wonder that policemen and supergasses get on so well? They both have the same kind of mind - they can remember things that never happened in the first place and are willing to swear to them on their mothers’ lives.

Anyway, to get back to how I met Boudica. Many years ago, when I was a mere youth in my salad days, I took to the sea and travelled around a good deal. I used to ask the local populace, “Where am I?” Come to think on it, I’m still doing it - I rarely know what I am doing or where I am.

What was I saying? Oh yes, Boudica and the meeting of the same. So there was I, docked in Middlesboro and, for some strange and unfathomable reason, I went to Hartlepool one evening to sample the beverages being retailed in one or three of the public houses, as was my wont in those halcyon days.

I was in a pub called the "Lord Nelson" (I'm safe with that one - every town has a "Lord Nelson" public house), and I was doing my best to "score" for one of the local girls and meeting with very little success - the story of my life really. So, come closing time it was me for a solitary taxi ride back to the ship and an evening spent in the company of Palmler Handerson and her five skinny daughters.

I came out of the pub at about ten-thirty in the evening and across the road was a fish and chip emporium with a bus-stop just outside, one of those with the shelters.

I wandered across toward the chippie and then saw that standing in the bus shelter was a young blonde eating fish and chips from a paper parcel held in her hand.

Nothing unusual about that, it’s a scene being enacted in every town all over the country every day, but what I didn’t tell you, and what caught my attention, was the fact that she had her knickers down around her ankles.

"Erm,” said I approaching hopefully. “Excuse me, Miss, but your knickers have fallen down!”

She looked at me, looked down, looked back at me and said, “Oh! My boyfriend must have gone home.”

Oh dear - she'll make me pay for that one.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A very sick man

2011-08-16T18:56:00.003+01:00

Well here we are again, the end of yet another week of strolling the rolling pastures of the Lazy L with neither care nor worry. Whatever you may say about the prison service, there is one thing they cannot be accused of and that is actually doing anything in haste, not for the cons’ benefit anyway.

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

A fishy tale

2011-08-10T14:02:00.001+01:00

Well here we are again, the end of yet another week which has seen about as much progress as the coal mining industry - not a lot. Having said that, I did get an answer to a letter I wrote to Hoss the Boss a couple of weeks back. I wrote to him letting him know that there was a dastardly plot afoot, by persons better left unnamed, to circumvent the Secretary of State and the Parole Board. The plot was to send me to a Category C prison, ostensibly to "wait for a place in open prison". Of course that is pure humbug - once
they got me there they would effectively put years onto my sentence and defeat the whole issue.

Anyway, I told Hoss the Boss and he wrote back to say (amongst other things):

...I can categorically state that we will arrange your transfer to a Category D prison in line with the Parole Board directions...

Well, that seems to be plain enough - unambiguous and final - but it doesn't mention when.

I sent the governor of North Sea Camp a sort of letter-of-introduction-cum-CV and apparently he got it all right and it has been added to my file there. They (North Sea Camp) are in possession of my application, my file, Parole Board and Secretary of State's order, my medical file and my letter-cum-CV. They (apparently) have selection boards at regular intervals and whenever they hold their next one they will decide whether to accept me or not. Back to waiting again.

Boudica says that I have applied for the Governor's job - but we all know that she's got a twisted sense of humour at the best of times.

Wonder Woman and Titus Pullo want to ask the governor of NSC if they can take me out for a meal on one of my days-out, if and when I get to NSC - they must think I need feeding up to get me ready to take Boudica on.

Speaking of Boudica, I am often asked how I met her - well, I was asked once by Blodwyn. You know me - never the same answer to that question twice in a row, so this time will be no exception to that rule.

How did I meet Boudica?

Well, many years ago, when I first took to the sea, we docked one time in Edinburgh, at the Port of Leith, which had a huge fishing market at the time. I was a callow youth then and spent my time at my grandparents' house in Sunderland. So for my leave from the ship I set out to go to Sunderland. However, before I went I visited one of those sea-food stalls they had on the docks at the Port of Leith and bought a huge carrier-bag full of prawns for my grandmother - she liked a prawn now and then. So, carrying my sea bag and the bag of prawns, I got onto the train at Edinburgh Central for the journey down to Newcastle.

In those days most of the trains were just compartments, no corridors down the sides. If you got caught short during a journey, too bad.

So, I esconced myself into a compartment with one other person - a pretty young blonde girl.

"Oh ho!" said I to myself, "A mucky little matelot stuck into a train all the way to Newcastle with a pretty girl - enormous opportunity to get up to no good!"

Remember, it was the Swinging Sixties - not that I saw much of it at sea.

Once the train got moving, and she had nowhere to go, I started to chat her up - but she put me right down, looked down her nose at me with disdain (she's been doing it ever since), and made it quite plain to me that, as far as she was concerned, I could just bugger off. (She's been saying that ever since too).

So I turned nasty, as young men do under such provocation, and I started to eat the prawns and throw the shells at her. She objected, of course, but what could she do? Not a lot.

So there I sat, munching prawns and chucking the shells at her as she got more and more irate and annoyed until in the end she leapt to her feet and pulled the communication cord.

I laughed and pointed to the sign, "Hey!" said I. "When they see what you've done, you'll get fined five quid!"

She retorted, "And when they smell your fingers you'll get five years."

Bugger! She'll make me pay for that one.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Godot ain't here yet

2011-08-03T18:05:00.006+01:00

Well, here we are again - Sunday 31st July and the end of yet one more week when nothing has happened and, while a lot seems to be promised, there is nothing forthcoming at all, not a thing, zilch, zero, nada, nowt, fuck all.

However, I don't choose to see it as the end of yet another week - my feet are planted firmly in the air - I see it as the start of a fresh month because it's August tomorrow. My next parole hearing is in September 2012. That's only thirteen months as the crow flies - and the way this place operates I'll still be sitting here doing G.B.H. to the typewriter. Forgive me if I sound a little cynical, but experience has taught me that this place offers much but delivers nothing.

As we all know, the Secretary of State gave me a sixteen month review and I now find out from my solicitor that sixteen months is actually a breach of my human nights under the ECHR Article 5 (4) - whatever that says. Twelve months is normal, apparently, and can only be extended under extraordinary circumstances - but that's MY interpretation, not my solicitor's.

So he is contemplating some form of challenge to have that period reduced to twelve months - and THAT would make my next parole hearing in May of next year, not September. What's that - nine months? Nine months to do all I have to do with interventions and the like and get reports written - all done IN open prison. The way this place operates, I'll still be sitting here in nine months.

However, my solicitor is the expert - I'm just the one who has the stress-filled and anxious nights where sleep sits on my shoulder and sniggers at me.

The trouble is, I'm not getting any younger. In the words of Pink Floyd:

So we run and we run to catch up with the sun
But it's sinking.
Racing around to come up behind us again.
The sun is the same in a relative way
But we're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Well, I can subscribe to THAT!

It may be remembered (or it may not) that the other day I was told that my details would be sent off to every open prison in the country. That hasn't actually happened, as far as I know, and I've not had a word on the subject since. It's not going to happen, of course - remember, we are dealing with the Lazy L here, and what the Lazy L says and what the Lazy L does are always two entirely different things. As I say, they promise much but deliver nothing.

Still, we've got to be like Felix Dennis and see the world as a glass half full - it prevents insanity creeping up on us.

You can't really object to folk when they get a bit difficult when it comes to dealing with the likes of me - after all, I am scum. Hey! Before anyone starts getting the wrong idea, let me just say that it wasn't easy getting to be scum - I had to work hard at it, I suffered for my art! Scum is a calling that many aspire to but few actually get the gold star! Let me tell you, I've got the gold star and two bars. When the scum of the world have their judgement day, I'll be there, right at the front of the queue, waiting for what's coming as a reward.

In the meantime I'll just let the Lazy L continue to hold their own scum awards - and guess who will get the nomination here?

By the way, he's not here yet - that Godot feller. I'm getting toward the point where I'm starting to think that he's just a figment of someone's imagination - a bit like me being sent to open prison by the Lazy L.

The Voice In The Wilderness

To labour and to wait

2011-08-03T17:44:00.007+01:00

Yesterday, July 27th, I was called to the office and when I got there I was handed a letter which I had originally sent out to Andrew on 3rd July, twenty-four days earlier. I was informed that Security had stopped the letter from leaving the prison on the grounds that it named members of staff. All I had done was quote the Parole Board document - but it's all academic now because times have moved on considerably. At least the envelope came in useful to send out another letter to him, this time without making anyone nervous, hopefully.

In fact, yesterday was a bit of an interesting day, as days go in the Lazy L. Someone from the Tactical Management Team came to see me (they are the mob who deal with transfers) and it was a very pleasant and hopefully reliable young woman. I won't use her name for two reasons - the first being that this place would start to panic again and the second being that I don't know her name anyway. The outcome of our little chat was that there was no question of me being sent anywhere other than to an open prison - which one is the only question.

She went off about her business promising to send my details to every open prison in the country, although I have no idea how many there are - as I said to her, this is all new territory to me. So, my details are going out to every open jail, and she also said that North Sea Camp had requested my medical details so they must be considering taking me already. I also sent the Governor of North Sea Camp my CV yesterday and asked him to accept me, so that can only help.

What it all boils down to is that I will stay here until I find a place to accept me, it's as simple as that. But I have to be where I am going by September because that is when my intervention time is supposed to commence, on the instructions of the Secretary of State for Justice. I am due twenty-six weeks of interventions and I think that is me and The Wallace sorting out details of my resettlement into the community, that type of thing. Then in April of next year there are another twenty-six weeks for parole reports to be written by North Sea Camp (or wherever I happen to go to) ready for the Oral Parole Hearing scheduled for September 2012. That's only fourteen months away and, provided that nothing goes drastically wrong, it will, in effect, be my release hearing.

Let me put it this way - this Christmas should be my last in jail, and even this one could be spent on home leave.

There's a lot to be done between now and then, of course, and it all starts with this place getting mobile and getting me moved to an open prison. I keep coming back to North Sea Camp, not because of any particular reason other than it is the one which The Wallace thinks is ideal for me and I don't know any others. I don't even know where North Sea Camp is beyond the fact that it is on the Lincolnshire coast near Boston and is partly to do with land reclaimed from The Wash.

Ha! I've got this mental vision of them dragging a lump of land out of a washing machine, drying it off and saying, "That's not a bad bit of land - we'll build a jail on that."

So, that's the position - once again a case of hurry up and wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Old Harry certainly knew what he was talking about all right - he must have spent time at the Lazy L.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Say not the struggle naught availeth

2011-07-23T10:49:00.002+01:00

Let me begin by copying out a few of the passages from a letter received today (Wednesday July 20th) from the Ministry of Justice, dated 18th July 2011:

OUTCOME OF PAROLE BOARD REVIEW

As you know, the Parole Board has recommended your transfer to open prison. The Secretary of State has now considered the Parole Board recommendation, and agrees with this view for the reasons given by the Panel...

There is a lot of other stuff, but that's the important part.

The letter also mentions that I may have to take part in certain "interventions" when I reach open prison, although that seems to be, to say the least, ambiguous. Whatever it is, I'll be more than happy to go along with it. The letter states that the Secretary of State cannot guarantee to place me on these specific "interventions" through lack of availability of resources, but I may not be suitable anyway.

I am also informed that my next parole review is due sixteen months from the last one - and the last one should have been in June 2010. THAT means that my next review process begins on the twenty-sixth week before the designated hearing date - September 2012. So the review period begins in April 2012 - not too far away, and I have to be in open prison for some time prior to that for certain assessments and considerations to be made in respect of the possible "interventions". I suppose "interventions" is the word being used to replace the word "courses". They don't do courses in open prisons. Actually I think it is mainly to do with matters connected to work done with my probation officer.

So, all the soul-searching and agonising about challenges made by the Lazy L are over at last. I've still got a long road to travel, and there will be pitfalls of course, but I'll avoid them, I'll keep my eyes open for them and, whatever else I may be, I'm not a fool.

All of those fears and anxieties that have given me disturbed and restless nights should disappear now, but they won't of course. I will believe things when I see them - prison has taught me to hope for the best but expect the worst. That's the Lazy L for you - always expect the worst because that's what generally comes from this place.

So, here I am at last, after all those worries when I thought that nothing else could be done to get sense out of this place. I had lost sight of the fact that, way out of the scope of my ken, there are people who think clearly and who actually make fair and decent decisions, people who were working on my behalf to try to get a sensible conclusion to the situation created by the poor thinking that is endemic at the Lazy L.

It all brings to mind the words of Arthur Clough (poet) in his poem, "Say not the struggle naught availeth" where he wrote:

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the Main.

I was the tired waves vainly breaking, but the tide was coming in slowly but surely. Well, it's in sight now and I can hear the waves on the rocks and smell the ozone.

I have written to Boudica, of course - she will be pleased. Mind, she will also have to stop making her unrealistic threats now - she might have to keep them! Come to think about it, I'll have to stop being rude to her too or she WILL keep them, a lot sooner than I expected. The dog better watch out too. I bet it bloody well bites me - I'm lucky like that.

The Voice In The Wilderness

All the world's a fool

2011-07-23T10:44:00.002+01:00

Phineas Taylor Barnum, the famous American showman, probably the MOST famous American showman of the 19th century once said:

You can fool some of the people all the time, and all of the people some of the time; but you can't fool all of the people all of the time.

Come to think about it, a lot of other people have said it since! Well, I've got news for Phineas T Barnum - and all of the other folk who quoted him since. (I even had a discussion a couple of weeks back with an idiot who swore that George Washington said it, not Phineas T. Even when I showed the moron in a book of quotes he STILL wouldn't accept it - said the book was a load of old bollocks. He must have been a Philistine.)

Back to my ramblings.

The news for P. T. Barnum is that he might have fooled some of the people all of the time, he might even have fooled all of the people some of the time, but he wouldn't have fooled the Smiling Assassin for one second - not for a millisecond!

Scuttlebutt, or as I like to call it, information received from a source (ha ha - source, that sounds like I should be working for the scandalmongers in Canary Wharf) tells me, entirely unofficially of course, that the Smiling Assassin has now been sneaking about in the shadows whispering into receptive ears that I have fooled everyone. But I haven't fooled her.

Apparently, I have fooled my probation officer into supporting me - a senior probation officer of many years' standing with a wealth of experience in her subject, but I've managed to pull the wool over her eyes and completely fooled her. But I haven't fooled the Smiling Assassin.

I also fooled the prison psychologist into giving me HER support too. She is, surprise surprise, an expert in her field of forensic psychology and has years and years of experience dealing with every sneaky, lying, cheating type that the criminal justice system could throw her way, and I was just too good for her - I fooled her. But I haven't fooled the Smiling Assassin.

Apparently, I have fooled the independent forensic psychologist into supporting me - a former Home Office psychological assessor with experience of many years' working both inside and outside of prisons and a string of letters after his name that makes mine look a bit sparse. I was just too good for him to see through - I fooled him. But I didn't fool the Smiling Assassin.

Andrew sat behind me at the hearing - a former teacher who now works in IT and fairly bright - and I fooled him into supporting me too. But I didn't fool the Smiling Assassin.

There was a lay person on the panel who was highly inquisitorial - and I know nothing else other than my personal experience of her asking extremely searching and probing questions. She supported me finally - so I fooled her. But I didn't fool the Smiling One.

The senior psychologist, the forensic psychologist on the panel, there for the specific purpose of spotting any tomfoolery or any attempts at conning anyone on my part, also supported me - so I fooled her. But I haven't fooled the Smiling Assassin.

Finally, a high court judge, the chairman of the panel - I fooled him too according to the Grinning Gargoyle. A judge who has spent years listening to the bollocks that the thousands of accuseds have presented to him in mitigation prior to sentencing; a man who knows every trick in the book - but I managed to fool him into supporting me too! But I haven't fooled the Smiling Assassin.

Then of course, there is me. We are asked to accept that I am clever and devious enough to fool all of the above people, the experts, three of whom are psychologists, all probably with IQs as high as mine if not higher - considerably higher I shouldn't wonder. I am clever enough to fool all of those experts according to the Smiling Assassin - but not clever enough to fool her. Oh yes, that secondary school education and three week course on how to put her shoes on the right feet have certainly paid dividends, it cannot be denied.

So, where does that leave me? I know one thing - she has certainly managed to fool one or two around this place into giving her their support, which doesn't say much for THEIR logical powers of deduction.

In conclusion, and after considerable thought, I have come to the stage where I feel that I must rewrite Phineas T Barnum's little quote, just to bring it up to date, so to speak.

Franklyn Wilkinson, writer, humourist, former career criminal and general idiot (1946 - still alive):

You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time; but you can't fool the Smiling Assassin - because she has no idea what you are talking about at the best of times.

The Voice In The Wilderness

And the dance goes on

2011-07-23T10:38:00.002+01:00

This is interesting and quite funny, in fact it is bordering on the edge of farce - a farce that Joe Orton would have been proud of. He wouldn't have written it - it's too ridiculous for anyone to accept - but he would have liked the idea. In fact, forget Joe Orton, think Tom Sharpe, Terry Pratchett with a soupcon of Monty Python, then distort it until it becomes quite Kafkaesque, and you just MIGHT he halfway there.

Everybody knows that, after over a quarter century, I have finally managed, through hard work and diligence, to persuade the Parole Board to allow me to go to an open prison - thus taking the first step toward reintroduction into the community. I have the support of everyone in this enterprise - all are quite satisfied that the time has come to end this gavotte of madness and allow me to waltz into an easier twilight of my days.

No, wait a minute - not everybody. I forgot the Smiling Assassin. The Smiling Assassin has been spreading her poison, but the best she can do is to persuade Hoss the Boss to complain about my proposed transfer to open prison. (Actually I don't really think that Hoss the Boss has a clue - he just signs his name to things - it's the nature of the Prison Service, and every other public body, after all. The moronic minions produce nonsensical papers and the fellow at the top simply signs them. After all, he is far too busy worrying about budgets to actually take any real interest in what's going on. This applies to all public areas, not just the Prison Service.)

Coo! That was a long aside. Where am I? Oh yes. Hoss the Boss has made a request to the Public Protection Casework Section at NOMS HQ. He tells me in a letter that "An appeal has been submitted". I've got the grounds here in front of me and I've never read such drivel - not a single thing that wasn't examined in depth by the Oral Parole Hearing and of course completely ignoring all that the panel has said in its letter of recommendation.

However, I'm not concerned with any of that - it's nonsense and drivel, hardly worth mentioning really. What DOES attract my curiosity is the following:

Hoss the Boss says that the prison is challenging the Parole Board's recommendation - he calls it an appeal. Excellent! Note, he is not challenging me or my solicitor, he is saying that he is challenging the Parole Board. For all I know that could well mean that he is challenging the Secretary of State for Justice (good old Kenneth, one of the most sensible fellows in modern politics).

So, Long Lartin Prison (or, as it is more commonly referred to by those of us who know and love it so well, the Lazy L) is ostensibly challenging the Parole Board. In any legal matter the prison is represented by the Treasury Solicitor. The Parole Board is also represented legally by the Treasury Solicitor. In fact, the Secretary of State for Justice is ALSO represented by the Treasury Solicitor. I'm not being challenged, I'm just an interested bystander. My solicitor isn't being challenged either. The Golden Girls are not being challenged - and the fact is that they don't even know what is going on as far as I know.

So, where does that get us? The Treasury Solicitor will obviously be challenging himself - so how does that work?

I've got this mental picture of the Treasury Solicitor in his office, arguing with himself and coming to blows wlth himself. The police will be called, of course, and they will rush him to the A&E department of the nearest hospital where they will ask, "Who did it? Who beat you up?"

He will answer, "I did!"

He will then have to say, "No I didn't! You lying bastard!"

"You did!" he will yell and start fighting himself again.

Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? I told you - Kafkaesque!

In the meantime, I am sitting here, not allowing myself to be stressed by it all. Prisoners are not allowed to suffer from stress, that's strictly for the poor fuckers who have to go home to their families every night - the staff. I haven't been home in over a quarter century.

The anxiety it is all causing is matterless of course. Boudica is suffering under it all, and who can blame her. I hardly sleep at night, but I have no option but to struggle on stoically. (Big sigh and huge, wry grin.)

It's all one big, macabre dance routine, that's all prison is - and, whether I like it or not, the dance goes on.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A deal is a deal

2011-07-13T18:17:00.002+01:00

Seventeen or eighteen years ago, I was in the Special Control Unit in Durham prison - in fact, I was one of the very first batch of prisoners in the place. Now, if anyone wants me to, I can check with my diaries and give exact dates and times, but for my own part I can't really be bothered - I'd have to dig the bleedin' things out. Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes, Durham Special Unit, along with half a dozen other recalcitrant hooligans - the prison service's problem children. I make no secret of the fact, I don't deny it, but, to put it bluntly, from the point of view of the prison service I was what is commonly referred to as a fucking nightmare. I had, up to that time, been moved from prison to prison, Special Control Unit to Segregation block over forty times. I have no idea what it must have cost with escorts, police cars and helicopters, but I bet there was no change from a tenner! So, I had finished up in Durham Special Unit because, to be quite honest, no other prison would accept me.

Then, one day, I was visited by a Principal Officer - a tall, raw-boned Scot - and a couple of assistant Governors from Frankland Prison. They had come on the instructions of the Home Office with an offer for me - go to Frankland, behave myself, carry on with my educational studies, do a bit of gym, stop attacking staff and drug-dealers and, in a few years, they would have me off the Category 'A' and progress me through the system toward release. I told them that I wasn't going to work and they said I wouldn't be asked to - I could go on education classes and do cell study. Would I agree? Would I give my word?

"Okay," said I, "I'll give my word."

A few days later I was moved to Frankland prison, and I have been a good lad ever since. I gave my word and, when I promise someone something, they can take bets that I will keep my word. If a man has not got his integrity, he's got nothing.

Well, I settled down - got into the odd scrape here and there, but nothing serious - and in the last ten years I have not spent one second in any segregation unit nor been on report for anything at all. I'm only one step down from sainthood really. So, I've kept my word ever since I had that deal with that Principal Officer (who will have retired years ago) and those two fresh-faced young governors. The question now is - did the prison service keep its word to progress me?

Ha! Ha! Did they bollocks. I only got taken off the Category 'A' two years ago - AFTER a court hearing in the High Court and the court ordered it. The prison service actually appealed the court's decision twice but had to give in with poor grace in the end. So that little bit of progression only came through a court order.

Today I find myself in a position where the prison service is not only refusing to progress me, they are actively attempting to obstruct any progress. The Parole Board has recommended that I be sent to open prison to allow me to adjust and prepare for release into the community. Let's put aside all of the achievements I have managed to reach - the degrees and all the rest of it, the complete character change that has taken place, so admirably memorialised by the Parole Board in its letter of recommendation to the Secretary of State - let's forget all that for the minute. What is the prison service reaction to this absolute success story that they have on their hands?

They are challenging the decision for me to be sent to open prison - CHALLENGING it! That's what I'm being given to understand. Their reasons for the challenge are poor - pathetic in fact - and were actually gone into in great depth by the Parole Board. So, why the obstruction?

A good question and I can't answer it.

Even more curious - all of the documents I have been sending out of the prison to Andrew, my solicitor and even to my probation officer, don't appear to have left the prison! The prison doesn't even want anyone to know about the challenge.

Ah! But even that tells a tale. IS there a challenge at all? I don't think they have that option unless there has been some sort of major and serious incident to justify a challenge - and there hasn't been.

So, I'll tell you what I think - as do a lot of staff around here. I think that I am not being challenged, but that this place is obsessed with a pointless love of secrecy and quite simply doesn't want to tell me that I am going to open prison. They probably have some strange and weird idea that they will simply come and get me one morning in the near future, tell me to pack my goods and chattels, shove me in a taxi and tell me to bugger off.

Why bother? Why do they have to make things so difficult?

I have written a document to the Number One Governor, Hoss the Boss, about it - sent him the Parole Board's letter and let him know what's going on. The one thing about Hoss the Boss is that he likes things done properly and doesn't care for fools who bugger things up without good cause. So we will see what he does about it.

I've applied to see the Independent Member too (formerly known as the Board of Visitors). They will check the mail and see what they can uncover.

I am also seriously considering writing directly to the Parole Board and informing them that the Lazy L is refusing to implement its recommendation.

The way I see things is that seventeen or eighteen years ago I made a deal - and a deal is a deal, right?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Get off my back

2011-07-10T20:40:00.000+01:00

When I discovered that this prison had made a challenge to the recommendation of the Parole Board, I made an application to the prison authorities asking the nature of the challenge.

On June 24th I wrote in the application:

I understand from Gov's App G20/11 that Long Lartin is challenging the Parole Board decision to recommend that I be sent to Open Prison. I would like to know the nature of the challenge please.

The response arrived yesterday, 29th June (but dated 28th) from the Head of the Offender Management Unit (OMU). He states:

Thank you for your application. We have challenged the decision by the Parole Board that you are transferred to open conditions. It was the recommendation at your Sentence Planning Board and the recategorisation board that you should be transferred out of the High Security Estate to a Cat 'B' prison. HSE prisons offer the highest levels of staff/prisoner levels/ratios and therefore supervision, it is therefore appropriate that you are tested in conditions which offer less supervision and therefore test for compliance. This should be a relatively short period of time and would allow you to adjust to lower levels of supervision and to take more responsibility for certain actions and progression.

I have now submitted yet another application to [the Head of OMU] - this time direct - in which I have pointed out that this matter was extensively examined by the Parole Board and in his recommendation letter the Judge made several references to the same.

I will quote some of the things he has said in that letter but let me begin by stating that the prison (OMU) submitted a dossier consisting of 168 pages and so had every opportunity to submit anything and everything they cared to.
(Page 3)

Immediately prior to the hearing the panel were given the report of a review of your categorisation...there are no features set out in that report which would appear to justify the decision made by the review body not to recategorise you to a Category C...The panel can see no logic in the report or the conclusion made in the review.

(Page 4)

You had, rather, presented in a reasoned way, your objections to [your Offender Supervisor's] scoring of your OASys assessment. [The prison psychologist] has considered those objections and agrees they are actually justified and points out that your O[ffender] S[upervisor] had not received formal training in personal assessment tools and is not competent to assess change in offenders...We therefore prefer the other evidence we have read and heard to the lone dissenting voice of [your Offender Supervisor]...you do not now require any specific programme of work. [The prison psychologist] can see no benefit to you in remaining in closed conditions and says that the next logical step is for you to be transferred to less stringent conditions in the prison estate...

(Page 5)

Your Offender Manager] could see no benefit in the recommended allocation to a Category B establishment outside the High Security Estate and she did not consider that would in fact assist in enabling resettlement plans to be made. The panel agrees with that latter view...she supported a move to open conditions...She was confident that you could manage the move from High Security to open conditions despite the unusual nature of the move and that your risk was manageable there.

(Page 6)

[The prison psychologist] was asked by the panel whether, if you were moved to open, she had any concerns, including concerns about your failure to adhere to rules or constraints and she said she had none...your risk was low enough to be managed safely in open conditions...

(Page 7 - Panel's assessment etc.)

You can be safely managed in open conditions...the panel is satisfied that the overwhelming weight of reliable evidence is in favour of your transfer to open conditions...The panel (which included a specialist psychologist member) conclude, without hesitation, that you have established that your risk is low enough to be managed in open...there is no benefit to be gained nor any likelihood of any further reduction in risk by your being kept in closed conditions...What is now necessary is that you are tested in open conditions.

The panel decided on "weighty evidence" to recommend that I should be transferred to open conditions - no ambiguous language, no caveats.

There we have the two cases set out succinctly. Okay, I'm a vested interest - can't argue with that - but what does occur to me is that, for some reason, the Lazy L are reluctant to face facts, bite the bullet, give in with a good grace and simply act in a decent fashion.

It brings to mind the words of Leo Tolstoy:

I sit on a man's back, choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by all possible means - except by getting off his back.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Patience is a pain

2011-06-22T16:39:00.000+01:00

They do say that patience is a virtue. I bet that was written by someone who never had to wait for anything in his or her life! Whoever it was certainly never had to experience life at the Lazy L, and THAT'S a fact!

Great Chatham, with his sabre drawn,
Stood waiting for Sir Richard Strachan;
Sir Richard, longing to be at 'em,
Stood waiting: for the Earl of Chatham.

Well, I know how they felt, that's all I'm saying.

It's happening again! Once more I have become a victim of the malaise known to the medical profession as "The Lazy L Syndrome". I made a few discreet enquiries the other day - "What's happening to my transfer to open jail?"

The answer came back (unofficially) from some nitwit at the Offender Management Unit, that fine body of men and women upon whom the future and fate of every prisoner depends - "You will have to apply to be transferred to a Cat B establishment using the proper channels." An answer clearly from someone too idle to bother to make even a basic enquiry into the matter.

"Wonderful!" said I to me and grabbed my personal officer. "Hoy!" said I, the epitome of good manners. "What's going on with this transfer to open prison?"

"I don't know," said he , "I'll see what I can find out."

He came back later. "I can't find out nuffink," said he. "All they are saying is that they are waiting for the Secretary of State to rubber-stamp the paperwork. They won't do anything until he's done that."

"Well," carried on our hero, "are they making any effort to find out if the paperwork has been rubber-stamped?"

"No," was the response.

"Why not?" asked yours truly, not unreasonably I thought.

"No idea," was his answer.

"Right," said I, and proceeded to fill in a proper application to the governor saying, simply, "What is the position in respect of my transfer to open conditions?" or words to that effect. Only two lines, nothing complicated - a simple question. So far, no reply is the answer.

Well, I've gritted my teeth, girded the loins, clad myself in the armour of yet another righteous cause and written a letter to one of the Golden Girls on the subject.

Bugger! They will object to being called the Golden Girls, so that's another strike against me. One day (I'm convinced) they will all get together - Boudica, The Wallace, Blodwyn and all of the wonderful women I know - they'll get me into a windowless room somewhere and roll up their collective sleeves and say, "Right, you piss-taking Bollix, we want a word with you." Listen, ladies, I'm an old man - if you thugs lay one finger on me that will be seen as Old Person Abuse, and if it's not a criminal offence, it should be. (Come to think about it, people pay good money for that sort of thing in Amsterdam.)

Anyway, the point is that I have written to The Wallace and informed her that once again I'm getting lumps on my head where I am bouncing it off the wall of indifference which the Lazy L is so proud of.

Having said all that, the Secretary of State may well have given his blessing (however reluctantly) to my progression and the Lazy L could well be concealing it until they deem it right and judicious to tell me - probably seven minutes before they shove me in a taxi and tell me to bugger off. They are obsessed with completely pointless secrecy in this prison - it's their stock-in-trade in fact.

In conclusion then - nothing has changed, not a thing. Nothing has happened, there is nothing to tell the world and if there was then the Lazy L wouldn't let me.

I was asked the other day, "Is Boudica on Facebook?" Facebook! I'm surprised she's not on fucking prozac!

The Voice In The Wi1derness

Godot on his way?

2011-06-15T17:29:00.000+01:00

This is strange - weird even! I have finally got something worth writing about and yet I quite simply haven't. Now, I am fully aware of the fact that the above sentence makes about as much sense as sliding down a razor blade and using your bollocks for a brake. (I apologize to the ladies - the above scenario is one you simply cannot appreciate. Mind, thinking about it, and looking around this place, I've got my reservations.)

I've got the Parole Board's letter (at last!) and, while they do NOT recommend my release (we never expected them to, nor did we ask them to), they HAVE recommended that I be sent to an Open Prison to allow me to begin my reintegration into the society I have been apart from for so long.

"HURRAH!" we cry.

Not so fast - hold on there, Bald Eagle, pull back a little. It's not as simple as that. Remember, we are dealing with the Lazy L here, and nothing is ever as it seems in this place. I quote from the Memo which came to me from the Offender Management Unit with the Parole Board's letter/recommendation:

In light of the recommendation, the Secretary of State will now review your case and make a final decision. Until this decision is received, the prison is unable to put into motion any transfer to open conditions.

Now, I fully appreciate that the correct procedures have to be adhered to, but what it means to me is that I'm back to waiting again - and who knows for how long this time? I don't anticipate any difficulties from the Secretary of State, but you never know - and even when he DOES make his decision, or ratifies the Board's decision, I then have the Lazy L to contend with. So it could be months of waiting again - who knows?

Anyway, that's all for the future. I am delighted at the decision of the Board, and yet feel a certain amount of trepidation (if that is the word I want) because "there is many a slip 'twixt cup and lip", as the proverb would have us believe.

Be all that as it may be, I was particularly struck by a sentence attributed to The Wallace which said (to paraphrase) that I would need to learn to budget and cook. Well, I've been living on a tenner a week for two years now and people ask ME for things like sugar and stuff like that. As for the cooking, Boudica is now gritting her teeth and saying, "Are they casting aspersions on my cooking? What are they trying to say? Why would the old goat need to cook? Do they think I am just going to sit on my fat keister and give him orders like Delia Smith?" Hee hee - and I've toned that down a good bit from what I know she actually WILL say. Has a bit of a temper has our Boudica.

So, it looks like me off to Open Prison sooner or later and I've got to say that it's a whole new world for me - it's going to be a culture shock. Oh I'll handle it, but it's going to be very interesting indeed, wandering about unfettered, dressing like Vincente Gigante - and I might take up smoking a pipe! It's been a long time coming and, let's face it, it ain't actually here yet. You know me, the world's greatest optimistic pessimist - hope for the best but expect the worst. There is an old Arab proverb which says:

Put all of your trust in Allah, but first tie up your camel.

Finally, let me point out that I have not succumbed to the very real temptation to point any accusatory fingers at anyone who may have attempted to put the mockers on things - not much point in antagonising anyone at this stage in the proceedings. The temptation is there, but I won't do it. I'll take the higher ground and be sanctimonious about it - a sort of pain in the arse.

FINALLY finally, I haven't told anyone here at the Lazy L, not yet. I see so many young fellows around me with thirty years and more to serve and I don't want to be seen as some sort of gloater, if that is a word. One who gloats - it probably is.

Most cons will be glad because, if a fellow like me can get progress, so can they. It gives a bit of hope to those who may have been thinking that they had none - "If he can do it, so can I" sort of thing. However, there are also one or two vindictive and jealous fellows who will not take into account the fact that I've been in jail for over twenty-five years - they will simply resent me. I don't want any of that sort of animosity because some idiot may do something stupid to fuck things up for me. Let's face it - intelligent they ain't (although they think they are). Oh it's a jungle in here right enough - we have to be aware at all times.

So, in conclusion, I'm back to the waiting game once again. When Godot finally does turn up, I'm going to take him by the scruff of the neck and say, "Where've YOU been?" He will probably say, "I got stuck in the Lazy L - and you know what it's like trying to get out of there."

The Voice In The Wilderness

Limbo at the Lazy L

2011-06-09T15:46:00.000+01:00

Once more unto the breach, my friends, once more. Or... in the motto of the Lazy L, hurry up and wait. At this point there are people saying to themselves, "The idiot is going to tell us that he's got nothing to tell us," and in a way you are absolutely correct - but stone cold wrong too!

Since May 26th, the day that will go down in the annals of history, along with that of Pearl Harbour, the first man to walk on the moon and the day that Boudica discovered what boys are for (free drinks, and you don't need to buy batteries for them), I've been waiting patiently for the Parole Board to hand down their decision - and I'm not the only one.

Well... yesterday, (Saturday the 4th June) I had a letter from my solicitor (solicitor to the motley collection of problem children he calls his clients, me being one of them) and I will quote from that missive:

The panel deferred their deciaion for 14 days and I will forward a copy of the same upon receipt.

As I said earlier - hurry up and wait.

So once again I am sitting bere in my kennel, waiting. The new date is June 9th, and perhaps it will be a week or more AFTER that by the time anything is known. I look on the bright side, of course, I have no option in the matter - and the bright side must be that the panel is considering things carefully. Let's have it right - if they were going to say "bugger off" then they would simply have said it. However, they may still tell me to bugger off, but at least they should hand down a proper reasoned argument for that bugger off. It would fly in the face of everything said at the board, of course, but that would be another matter entirely. I hope for the best but expect the worst. The world's greatest optimistic pessimist, that's me.

Here's a rather odd thing on the same general subject: I have not heard a single word from anyone (other than Boudica) about the hearing, and I find that quite curious and concerning. To begin with, there is my family - not a word; Andrew - he can be expected to send an email every week even when there is nothing to write about! Yet here we are, a hearing at which he was present on his first excursion into the environs of a jail, and not a word! Very curious indeed. Could someone, somewhere be sitting on all mail for some rather odd reason? But if they are, how come I'm getting Boudica's letters and the 47 pictures she has sent me over the last eight or nine days? Andrew emailed her right after the hearing!

Boudica is big on conspiracy theories and no doubt she will see the situation as another one to go with the computer chips the size of a grain of rice that the government plan to implant into everyone's brain for reasons known only to Boudica and her gang of fellow theorists. You know that she will yell at me now for writing that - bad tempered, that's her trouble. Does it come with natural blondes? I mean, is it part of the genetics - blonde hair equals bad tempered? Or is she an exception?

Hee hee, she is reading this, gritting her teeth, stamping her size tens and on the verge of putting her coffee mug through her computer screen. Slow down! Nobody is impressed by your bad temper - and don't write to me with any more unrealistic threats. I used to be an Ovaltini - you don't scare me, pal.

So... where does that leave us?

Nowhere, that's the simple answer. It leaves us absolutely nowhere at all - in limbo, a place banished by the Catholic church apparently, or is that purgatory? Somebody better tell the Vatican that the Lazy L hasn't heard about the banishment of purgatory - it's alive and well here at the Lazy L.

Oh well, I shall simply continue to hurry up and wait, I suppose. Maybe Godot will come along and say, "Waiting for something?"

The Voice In The Wilderness

Photo call

2011-06-04T06:45:00.002+01:00

In every town there's a man with a dirty mac. A disreputable old fellow who bothers nobody, simply goes about his business in his own way, dirty mac flapping around skinny shanks - much like Shylock in "The Merchant of Venice".

Why have I brought that up? Haven't got a clue, but I have to write about SOMEthing and I should imagine that enough has been said recently about the parole hearing, so I'm leaving that alone - for the minute, anyway.

Boudica has told me in no uncertain terms that I'd better start being nicer to her and stop my rudenesses. I have been given the Gypsy's Warning, and I quote:

Remember, you old goat, you won't be in there for ever!

Now, forgive me for being presumptuous, but that definitely sounds like a threat to me. I mean to say, I wouldn't have said that I am famous for being over-sensitive at all, but that definitely sounds like a threat to me. Does she know that sending threats through the Royal Mail is a criminal offence? Rat bag.

Here's me, minding my own business, saying nothing to anyone, bothering no one and generally being invisible, just like the fellow in the dirty mac that I mentioned earlier - and along comes Boudica in her jeans and bovver boots making unnecessary (and may I say, unrealistic) threats. It's enough to make a fellow turn to drink.

Boudica sent me some very interesting photographs the other day, so I think I'll mention one or two. I was delighted that she had sent them but I can't tell her that - she'll start to think she is clever and get above herself.

One was of Doc Jo who, as we all know, works tirelessly for others. Boudica calls her "Superwoman" and I can't argue - she IS a superwoman. However, that doesn't detract from the fact that it is HER turn to write to ME! I think she is in Ethiopia at the minute, or she may have gone back to Camp Mercy.

There were a couple of pictures of Titus Pullo in real life, and on the set of "Rome". (Ray is a friend of Jo's - she wanted Caesar but he was busy crossing the Rubicon at the time.)

Who else?

There is one of Conor, who is a member of the Pathfinder team at Camp Mercy, and a couple of the others I think (Pathfinders). Conor! The letter you sent at Christmas still hasn't got here. Who did you post it with - Royal Mail?

There's a picture of Joy, Boudica's pal in Dakota who spends her spare time avoiding tornadoes and smiling a lot.

There is a picture of my brother Robert, the one who thinks he looks like Claude Van Damme. Robert is the only person I know who, as a child, managed to get run down by a milk float in reverse. Step up Robert, you win the "Idiot of the Year" prize. I bet he swears at me for that crack.

A picture of a rabbit! Why would I need a picture of a rabbit! The best place for rabbits is in a nice sauce and covered by a flaky crust to keep them warm.

A picture of Billy M - good on yer Billy.

I think that covers it all - anybody I have forgotten to annoy? If I have missed anyone out please bear in mind that I'm an old codger now, decrepit and practically senile. I can't wait until I can stand in Tesco's queue and pretend to be incontinent and get to the front of the line. Boudica says that if I do that I will have to live in a tent in the back of the house. Well, I've got news for you, my little drop of mountain hemlock, after a cell, a tent will seem like luxury, so stop the idle threats. And pretend to be deaf!

Oh yes, I'll be trying that one. I'll drive public servants mad - they'll deal with me quickly just to get rid of me. Make no mistake about it, there are definitely many advantages to getting on a bit in years, and it gives us an excuse to wear a dirty mac.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day in Purgatory

2011-06-01T16:57:00.000+01:00

I think I'd better state right away that Purgatory has been abolished by the Catholic Church and therefore the title must not be taken TOO seriously. Neither should any religious fanatic take umbrage. Having said all that, let me tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday was 26th May, Thursday, a day long awaited by several protagonists, not the least being Boudica - so no doubt she will read this through her usual gritted teeth as her mutt chews the door off yet another spin drier, or whatever it is Cassie has taken to vandalising lately.

Thursday, May 26th and the day of my parole oral hearing at last! I shall tell it as I saw it. I had intended to make a kind of coherent report, the sort solicitors like to put in front of courts during Judicial Reviews, but they can be a bit boring so I'm going to tell it my own way. It may seem flippant but the underlying facts will be apparent and unalterable. No doubt I will ramble and digress - I usually do - but I am equally sure that Andrew will be composing a more sober effort, if he hasn't already done so. Anyway, let's get on with it, no point sitting here waffling.

I went down to the visits area at about 9:15, and the first person I saw was the world famous Wallace - who doesn't like me calling her that but who has, with great grace, decided that objecting was, and is, a complete waste of breath and just ignores me now.

So, there was I, sitting chatting to The Wallace, and then my barrister arrived - yet another nice person, like The Wallace. That put three of us in a little room that, if you kept rabbits in there, you'd be arrested for cruelty. My barrister told us that the Judge intended to start proceedings at 10:30 and would brook no dissent. Sounded fair to me.

Then I saw Andrew sitting outside and gave him a wave, and the excellent Blodwyn arrived around then too, as did our independent psychologist. This all meant that the cast was assembled - time to raise the curtain and get on with the show, so to speak.

I managed to get a quick five minutes with Andrew but I have to say that I could sit and chat to him for hours, and no doubt probably will at some stage in the (hopefully) not too distant future. Andrew is what his Mum would have called "a good egg".

Anyway, everyone was introduced to everyone else and people who had only been names to each other could now put faces to those names. And it occurred to me, as I looked around at all of the faces, that each and every one of them was "a good egg" - it can't be stated otherwise.

Anyway, the panel arrived a few minutes before ten thirty and we all marched in there like good soldiers.

Inside the fairly small room stood a large table surrounded by eight chairs. The chairman, a Judge, sat at the centre of the far side of the table flanked by the two other panel members - an independent member on his left and a clinical psychologist on his right. That was the panel on one side of the table.

I sat directly across from the Judge with my barrister on my right and our independent psychologist on my left. At the end of the table to my right sat The Wallace and at the other end sat Blodwyn. Andrew, as an observer, sat behind our independent psychologist and there was a huge, hulking kangaroo seated behind me. Ostensibly he was there being trained to become a member of the OMU (Offender Management Unit) but I've got my doubts - a sourer-faced sod would be hard to find. Put it this way - if he is going to be responsible for any report-writing, may God have mercy on the poor bastards he writes about, that's all I can say.

The Judge started things off by introducing everyone in the room to everyone else and then asked if there was any objection to Lurch behind me sitting in. We didn't object. The Judge then went on to explain the purpose of the hearing - an inquisitorial exercise to ascertain what should be done with me.

When all of the preliminaries were out of the way, the first one up for grilling was The Wallace. I don't intend to reproduce anything said verbatim but the general gist was that she wanted me downgraded to a Category 'D' prisoner and sent to an open prison to begin to prepare me for release. There was a good deal of discussion as to my suitability for open conditions, and The Wallace assured the panel that she had no qualms in any area and that my remaining in prison no longer served any meaningful purpose.

Next up was Blodwyn and she gave the psychological aspect a going-over, and she said precisely the same thing - prison no longer served any meaningful purpose and that I should be moved to an open prison to facilitate my resettlement plans and that the risk of me reoffending was negligible. I have to admit that Blodwyn really went to bat for me, even going so far as to refer to certain attitudes shown by the prison as nonsense - a view that the panel seemed to agree with.

Then the panel turned its attention to our independent psychologist, and he said much the same thing as everyone else - a move to open prison. He went further and said that he would not only have no qualms about my release, as Blodwyn and The Wallace had both said, but he would have no qualms about me living next door to him.

So, that was that as far as the expert witnesses were concerned. At that point my barrister made her representations and of course there was yet another big discussion about resettlement plans and my ability, willingness or otherwise to get along with a new area probation officer if I were relocated in some dim and distant outpost - such as Yorkshire.

Then, when everything was going splendidly, they turned to me. I'm no good at answering questions - I'm too forthright for my own good. I probably didn't do myself any favours because to begin with I told the Judge not to ask questions about anyone else because I wouldn't feel able to answer. Of course I had got the wrong idea in my defensive attitude, so let's hope that they understood that. And that was it really - job done at just after 1 pm.

In summary, there were absolutely no dissenting voices in respect of my being sent to open prison, not an objecting word from anyone. The main thrust seemed to be about my ability to adjust and the resettlement plans. I should get the official decision in a week or so.

Outside the room afterwards, my barrister said that everything had gone exceptionally well - apart from my own offering, of course. I'd make a mess of a piss-up in a brewery - got a loose motormouth, you see. I like to tell the truth - it gets me into trouble.

I said farewell to all and sundry and Lurch brought me back to my kennel. What else can I tell you?

However, I would like to say that it was really nice to see so many friendly faces for a change - good, decent and fair folk. It's restored my faith in humanity.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nostradamus never picked the lottery numbers, did he?

2011-05-24T16:01:00.000+01:00

Practically every time I sit down to the typewriter to write the weekly offering of unmitigated tripe, I rarely have any set plan or theme in mind - this week is no different.The mind is both a desert and a seething mass of disjointed thoughts. So, I'm just going to meander through and jot down a couple of disjointed ideas as they occur to me. One thing I'm not going to bother with is the coming parole hearing, which is in just a few days - Thursday the 26th in fact. I'm sure enough will be said about that next week - this week I am concentrating on tripe.

What about this "prophet" in America? He pronounced that the world was to end at 6 p.m. on Saturday the 21st - which was yesterday, as I write. Apparently we could expect massive earthquakes and other disasters which would destroy civilisation as we knew it. The "good" would be taken up to heaven - of course - whilst the rest of us would be condemned to suffer on the devastated world until such time as it all came to an end.

That didn't happen then.

Whatever you may say, you have to give these conmen the credit they deserve. They utter such shite and STILL manage to get a lot of people to believe them AND to cough up their dosh while they are doing it. Well, they won't need it in heaven and, let's be fair, the conmen need it to live the life they want to live. So, one rip-off merchant bites the dust, but have no fear - there will be another one coming along any second.

Nostradamus said:

The world as we know it will come to an end with a dart from the east.

Mind, he said a lot of things, all obscurely too - him and a lot of others. Why do these harbingers of doom never speak clearly? It's always wrapped up in jargon and ambiguity. Let's have it right - if they could see into the future, the first thing they would do is pick the right lottery numbers. They haven't oet a clue, none of them. Fortune telling, predicting the future - it's all gammon.

I saw the nurse the other day - my yearly "Well Man" check-up. Weight: 96.3 kilos; heart: still working well; lungs: ticking over fine - and the pulse of a teenager.

"So!" said he after he had finished messing about with me, "How are you in yourself?"

"Fine," said I.

"Where do you see yourself in a couple of years?"

I looked at him in (I suppose) an old-fashioned way. "What sort of idiot question is that?" I asked "How can anyone answer such a stupid question? You yourself haven't got a clue where you'll be this time tomorrow. Anything could happen! How the fuck do you expect me to predict where I'll be in two years' time? I might be dead! Who knows?"

He nodded. "You are right."

I went on. "These silly young girls who are training to annoy prisoners and calling it psychology ask the same questions. It's downright lunacy! Talk about crystal ball gazing - fucking insanity. Why not ask me what is going to win the Grand National in two years' time? You've got as much chance of getting a sensible sort of answer. I don't know!"

"Well," he had the grace to grin. "There is one thing you can be accused of, and that's honesty."

"Well," said I, the armchair philosopher, "when you get older, you realise that honesty is the best way. Life is too short for any other attitude. You realise that you don't really care, and you have to care to lie to people. I'm too old to worry about silly things that I once saw as important. It's all bollocks at the best of times."

Boudica is right - she told me weeks ago, "When you go in front of the parole board, keep your mouth shut."

As my auld grandfather would have said:

Whatever you say, say nothing.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Ramblings of a sick mind

2011-05-22T07:01:00.000+01:00

When I was a child I not only knew but was thoroughly convinced that soap and water was not (as my betters informed me) good for me but was in fact positively harmful and probably toxic. On the rare occasions that my grandmother Nellie managed to corner me, soap in one hand and scrubbing brush in the other, she would scrub away at my filthy skin, ranting and raving about disgusting children and, in my opinion, she should have been arrested and taken away by the Cruelty Man.

However, I managed to get to my teens relatively clean - and then discovered girls. Girls were very strange indeed, they thought belng clean was a great idea and were even known to get washed without first being beaten senseless by their elders. They did it because they wanted to! As I say - very strange creatures indeed. For some reason girls found gut-wrenching odours offensive and quite obnoxious, and insisted on their boyfriends having at least one wash a week and smelling reasonably acceptable.

Girls smelled nice, but I didn't relate smelling nice with soap and water. I thought girls smelled nice automatically because of the sugar and spice sort of thing. So, much against my better judgement, I began to wash on a regular basis and before I knew where I was I quite liked it - liked feeling clean and liked smelling quite nice. I was thirty-six at the time.

Anyway, as a callow youth, I began to get the message concerning personal cleanliness and general self care. My salad days then improved no end because girls were suddenly not averse to cuddling - and even going so far as to kiss me now and then. I would sit with a girl, kissing all night, and on the walk home my face would be soaking wet, my lips would be frayed at the edges and my whole mouth numb - I felt like I had been to the dentist's! Howsomever, let's get back to the original theme - washing.

As the years passed of course, like all nasty, grubby little boys, I became a normal, self-washing cove - and by the time I was about sixteen I was the epitome of cleanliness, just like all the rest of my contemporaries.

Now, in prison, we meet all sorts, and we meet quite a few late starters - you know the sort, not quite up to the speed of the rest of the convoy of life. Some are a bit shy with ladies and have no idea how to talk to them - and some have no idea how to talk to ANYone without being rude and offensive. That's my category. There are a few who still haven't worked out the value of soap and water - they quite simply don't wash or shower. Needless to say, these fellows are a bit short of friends, never mind female friends.

Now, this all came to me when I was in the shower this morning, merrily scrubbing away at any dead skin which may have developed on my feet since yesterday. Don't worry, there will be no guided tour, I just mentioned it.

I know three fellows who never go near the shower.

Having said that, years ago, when I first came to prison, I read a booklet thing which warned me to be careful in the shower. It was "Elf and Safety" of course, nothing to do with any sort of suggestion of molestation, but I chose to twist it because that's what I do to keep myself amused.

Then, the other day someone mentioned the fact that a certain fellow on this wing had never been seen in the shower. I said, "When I came to jail twenty-five years ago, I was told to be vigilant in the shower in case I was molested. I've had a shower every day and not once have I been molested - I feel like I've been robbed!"

The Voice In The Wilderness

A letter from the Invisible Man

2011-05-17T18:04:00.000+01:00

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

Questions of morality

2011-05-12T16:25:00.000+01:00

It's been a big week this last seven days or so, what with one thing or another. There's no news from a personal point of view, but that's merely normal for me - I am just marking time, like a good little soldier, waiting for the whistle to blow to send me over the top into the dangerous zone of "No Man's Land" where the Parole Board will snipe at me. So, nothing to be added there then - it's only a few days away too! It's the 8th today - I go over the top on the 26th. No, the interesting stuff this week is all external, so to speak.

We've had the death of Osama Bin Liner and the utter defeat of good old Nick Clegg in various elections. Now, as any regular reader will be fully aware, I don't generally make anything out of any news stories and I don't intend to do so here - sighs of relief from all of those people who are sick of hearing about both subjects - but my mind did turn to questions of morality.

"HA!" the cry goes up. "He's a nice one to talk ahout morality! He's been accused of every crime in the book just about!" and that's quite true - I even committed some of them. Give a dog a bad name, all that sort of thing. However, that does not exclude me from the question and contemplation of morality.

What about the morality of it all?

I'm not talking about the rights or wrongs of killing Bin Liner, or the justification come to that, just the morality of it. When did it come about that two wrongs make a right? I know all the arguments about how keeping him alive would have caused all manner of reprisals attempting to get him released etcetera, and how a land-based grave would have given fanatics a point of pilgrimage. I know all that. I'm just wondering, where is the morality of it? Why aren't we sending in groups of assassins to get rid of Mugabe and all of the other abusers of humanity? Why the Janus impressions?

And this naturally brings me to Nick Clegg, because if there was ever an example of total, unmitigated, two-faced backstabbing it was Clegg. This is a man who has betrayed his party, friends, fellow Lib Dems and even the caretaker's cat. He will do and say anything to keep a grip on that false power he thinks he has. Well, he has to understand that the country is disgusted, even the die-hards are sickened by his duplicity.

The country has resoundingly kicked him and his party right in the proverbials. Only right too. He has now managed to get his party into the position where they are totally beyond repair. He can't withdraw from the coalition because that would cause a general election and he would lose the majority of the few seats he has in parliament. Therefore he has to stay where he is and put up with everything the Tories do because he has no choice. Personal ambition and lack of morality - he is exposed.

If he had any backbone he would say, "Okay! I made a terrible mistake to begin with. I can only apologise and withdraw from this cruel coalition."

But he won't do that, and the longer it goes on the more he will stand to lose when be does finally have to withdraw, as he surely will sooner or later. The fool hasn't even worked it out yet that all the True Blues want him for is to utter the bad news and take the flak. The man is an egocentric moron.

(I quite liked writing that bit - my vitriolic pen hasn't lost any of its bite.)

What did the Lazy L do about the death of Bin Liner? Well, they put us on "Lock-Down" for operational reasons - a great get-out, that - and searched us all. Really, they only wanted to search the Moslem fundamentalists but had to search us all. To do otherwise would have left them open to accusations of racism. Oh yes, they are very aware of accusations of racism at the Lazy L. So, they kept us locked up for a couple of days and we are still not back to normal.

Finally, Boudica told me that her mother sat and watched the Royal Wedding on telly for five hours and that mummy drove Boudica mad by asking the same questions over and over.

"Who's getting married?"

"What's her name?"

"Is that the King?"

And so on. I wish I had been there - I'd have enjoyed giving silly answers and laughing at Boudica's frustration.

Old folk are great - I know, I am one of them.

One last thought on morality - Herbert Spencer said:

No one can be perfectly free until all are free;
No one can be perfectly moral until all are moral;
No one can be perfectly happy until all are happy.

Macaulay said:

We know of no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality.

Oh yes, and British politicians:

The morals of a whore and the manners of a dancing master.

I think Johnson said that. Come to think on it, Johnson said a lot of things - he had an opinion on everything. I wonder what HE would have said about the Bin Liner thing!

The Voice In The Wilderness

An old dog, tired out

2011-05-04T18:39:00.000+01:00

I've come to the conclusion that, of the several aspects and dynamics of prison, one thing is absolutely clear - those doing the job mostly don't know what they are actually doing! It goes beyond that - they don't seem to know what they are SUPPOSED to be doing! The simple fact seems to be that they don't actually understand their own jobs. Just because someone HAS a job does not automatically mean that they are able to DO the job.

So, what has brought this little rant on? Well I can help there - I know the answer.

For some time now, Andrew has been trying to get some sense out of Hoss the Boss here at the Lazy L on the subject of why, given that everybody (apart from the Smiling Assassin) wants me downgraded and moved to a less secure environment (and this includes outside experts AND the prison's own experts), why I have not been downgraded and transferred. This has been Andrew's question. Not a difficult one you may think.

Ah! But then we have to take into account certain factors such as that those responsible not only seem to be ignoring the experts but do not seem even to begin to grasp what the experts have all recommended - but they are also outside of their comfort zone. You see, they genuinely believe that their purpose is to do prisoners down at every opportunity.

If you throw in the total inability to regard matters with a certain amount of pure pragmatism, and the fact that they take matters personally, then it will come as no surprise that Hoss the Boss has written a letter back to Andrew which is difficult to understand in that he says that the Smiling Assassin has flown in the face of all other evidence and wants me kept as a Cat B prisoner.

Hoss the Boss can't be blamed. He is only as good as the information fed to him hy his minions - if he had anything to do with the letter at all other than a signature at the end of it.

The Smiling Assassin says that I have to provide more "evidence" - although of what isn't clear. I have not been in any sort of trouble for ten or eleven years - never a nicking, not a second spent in the punishment block and not so much as a warning as to any untoward behaviour. Nothing! How then do I produce any "evidence" of some esoteric idea that only exists in the twisted and vindictive mind of the Smiling Assassin?

If they simply didn't want to make a decision, then all they had to say was that they were waiting to see what the Parole Board offers on the 26th May - not much more than three weeks away! That would have been the easy answer, rubbing no one up the wrong way and certainly not giving grounds for a Judicial Review of unreasonableness. But as I say, Hoss the Boss can only work with the poor advice he is given.

I have an idea that perhaps the Smiling Assassin isn't quite as vindictive as her lies and backstabbing suggest. I think she simply does not understand cons in general - and me in particular. Let's face it - she isn't very bright to begin with, and she has the qualifications of a discarded aubergine. How can a person like her be expected to understand a complex fellow like me? Come to that, how can she be expected even to begin to understand an idiot in a hurry?

In "Pilgrim's Progress", Christiana asks Christian:

But some there be that say he laughs too loud;
And some do say his head is in a cloud.
Some say his words and stories are too dark
They know not how by them to find his mark.

That's the Smiling Assassin all over. She quite simply does not - cannot - understand a complex person like me. There is nothing in her head. She is incapable of rational and logical thought - which means she cannot understand rational and logical thoughts. Do we expect a pigeon to understand quantum physics? (I don't understand quantum physics myself, but I've got the common sense to realise that I don't understand and so make no suggestions or recommendations to NASA.)

So we move to the coming parole hearing, and when they (in their wisdom) disagree with the prison's lack of understanding, who will get the blame? Me! It will all be my fault - everything is the fault of the prisoner. It's my fault for having the temerity to think.

Finally, Boudica's dog Barney died. He was an old dog, tired out, and he simply sighed his last and went off to enjoy that long sleep that we all enjoy sooner or later. I know how he felt - I'm an old dog, tired out.

I've said it before, I'll say it again - I'm too old for this shite.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Prisoners are a funny lot

2011-04-27T16:08:00.000+01:00

Prisoners are a funny lot, no doubt me included. When I say "funny" I am talking/writing about ha ha hilarious funny, and "keep your eye on THAT one" funny - and all shades in between. I wonder where I would fit in that scale, the scale of the wonderful and weird? Henceforth, that will become the WW scale and hopefully will take over from the Beaufort scale.

Anyway, that's not the point. I'm not talking about where I (or anyone else for that matter) would fit in the WW scale, the point is that prisoners are a funny lot.

Yesterday there was a conversation between several of my fellow incarcerees (a fine word, if it exists). During the conversation, one fellow, a most devout junkie, said words to this effect:

"Frank, you've been in jail now for a long time, you must have tried heroin!"

I said, "I would rather remove my own bollocks with a set of rusty garden shears. That road leads to disaster, and the first thing anyone loses is their pride and self-respect. I've got too much pride, probably false but pride all the same, and too much self-respect. Fuck heroin, it's a complete mug's game."

He couldn't let go, probably suffering from Asperger's syndrome. "You must have tried something!" he insisted.

"Oh don't get me wrong," said I. " Many years ago, over twenty years ago in fact, I used to smoke a bit of ganja now and then - it was the only way I could get to sleep at night. I had to stop smoking that when I started the studying and I've never wanted to smoke it since."

"Yeah," said someone else, "I like a smoke of Marley's Medicine myself, but I wouldn't touch hard stuff - no powders."

The advocate of the product of the poppy said, "Yeah, but..."

I cut him off. "Listen," said I, "you have to accept the fact that not everyone has porridge for brains like you. You have to understand that not everyone is as weak-willed as you are. Just because your own values allow you to justify stupidity, you mustn't put your values onto others."

Another fellow said, "Yeah! A lot of people do that, apply their own values to other people."

"That, my friend," said I, "is why people get so many things wrong about others."

"That's right," said yet another participant in the chat, "I've noticed that. These fucking psychologists for a start..."

And the conversation moved on to other topics, as conversations do.

People DO have a tendency to apply their own values to others and can't understand why others don't have the same values. Personally, I think it is a character thing, involving both nature, nurture and, of course, what we are educated to in life. Some folk never swear or curse, while others never stop - and I point no fingers (ho ho). Others, myself included, would never raise our voices to a woman, never mind our hands, yet some think it is okay to hit a woman from time to time. (Let's face it, if a woman is annoying a man so much that he is tempted to become violent, it's time to fold up the tent and leave, because clearly someone is unhappy in that relationship.)

Anyway, prisoners talk about all sorts of things like this, and sometimes it is almost interesting, though not very often. We are a rude, crude bunch - it comes with the territory unfortunately. As I say, prisoners are a funny lot.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A rose by any other name...

2011-04-27T15:40:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, 20th April, during the course of a long and boring afternoon, I found myself wandering into the laundry room. (I do that from time to time - it gives me somewhere to go, and real grass can be seen from the window.) When I entered, the laundry fellow was folding some stuff he had recently taken from the drier. He then picked up the bundle and said that he was going to "deliver it to Tommy's bedroom"!

I said to him, "It's a cell."

He said something else, which I can't remember, and I said to his departing rear, "Call it what you like, it's still a cell. A rose by any other name is still a rose."

There is a lot of that creeping into the jargon of prison these days - calling cells "rooms" and the like - almost as though the change in name removes some of the reality of the fact that jail is jail. It's not a room, bedroom or otherwise - it's a cell. In fact, considering that there is a toilet bowl and sink in there, it could more accurately be called a karsi, a loo, a bog, a netty, a shithouse.

One thing it ain't - it ain't a nice place, no matter what euphemisms may be used to sweeten a very bitter pill. It's a cell, a place of incarceration, a place of unhappiness, a chamber of isolation, somewhere we are locked in at night - it's a bleedin' cell. Could be worse, of course - I could be sitting in a cell somewhere really exotic, like Afghanistan. I bet nobody calls them "rooms" over there.

Of course there is a section of the general community which thinks that prisons are nice places to be, thanks to "The Sun" and other dealers in terminological inexactitudes, and a great many of the readers of such piffle think that prisoners should be chained to the wall, fed on bread and water and hosed down once a year with water direct from the North Sea. And that is the ENHANCED cons - the well-behaved ones. "The Sun" has told the country that prisoners are eating steaks and lobsters, boozing, having wild parties with imported females and all the rest of it. All cobblers, of course, but it sells papers and allows the hang-em-and-flog-em brigade to give vent to their spleen at regular intervals.

However, the truth is a little bit different.

Somewhere, as I write this, in some cell in some segregation unit there is a naked man lying on a cold stone floor, blood dripping from his nose or lip, and he is surrounded by several uniforms who are snarling that he ain't so tough now. That's happening right at this minute, somewhere - and not in Afghanistan.

I bet that unfortunate person doesn't call that place of misery his "room". Where is he going to get a steak or a lobster from? (Hey! I think I'll get on to Boudica about that very subject - steak and lobster. Actually, I would settle for a decent sandwich, never mind steak and lobster.)

So, as I sit here, tapping away like a demented woodpecker, I have to say that I am doing it in my cell, not in my room, my cell. As stated earlier - a rose by any other name is still a rose.

The Voice In The Wilderness

You ain't heard nothin' yet!

2011-04-20T07:22:00.000+01:00

At last the fog seems to be clearing a little bit in respect of this Oral Parole Hearing next month that I have been harping on about since (it seems to me) Adam was a boy.

We've had a communication from the judge who will be presiding over the matter, giving directions and instructions. Everyone who was desired to attend will be there (unforeseen circumstances to one side, of course) and that includes - the prison psychologist - our independent psychologist - Andrew has heen granted permission to attend (something I am very pleased about) - The Wallace, of course (but only if she isn't busy invading Scotland) - and I will be represented officially by a barrister appointed by my solicitor.

What I find interesting (and not a little bit encouraging) is the fact that the prison service will not have the assistance of a representative of the Secretary of State and, as fully expected, the Smiling Assassin will not be there. She is away on her annual leave! There's a surprise! Regular readers will be fully aware that I predicted such a thing would happen. I'm considering a career change as a tipster for Lotto numbers.

So, all of the protagonists in this saga will finally meet each other and become real people rather than just names on emails and voices on der telefunken. The only one who knows everyone else is me, which effectively makes me responsible for introductions - "Er, this is the excellent Blodwyn - say hello to The Wallace!" sort of thing. I shall look forward to that. (It annoys the hell out of The Wallace when I call her that - that's why I do it. But the interesting thing about that is, she doesn't allow that annoyance to cloud or influence her position, and that is admirable.)

So, the die is cast, so to speak, but it's not over yet. In fact, to use the words of Al Jolson, "You ain't heard nothin' yet."

I've told Boudica all about it, of course. She has to be kept in the picture because she DOES allow her annoyances to cloud her judgement, and having my nose reorganised is not the wisest move I will ever make. So I told Boudica.

Of course, she is just as likely to say, "If everybody else is coming, why can't I come?"

Well, it's not my decision to make and you didn't ask - it's too late now. However, I am sure that there will be a full report on it after it's all over - settle for that.

Her mutt, the inimitable Cassie, has got a new game. She has recently taken to lurking behind the curtains of an open window and leaping out of the window after Boudica's pigeons. She never catches any, of course - the dog is an idiot. Boudica says it is driving her mad having to go and let the mutt back in through the door. She can't stop it - she likes the window wide open.

I've given her the advice that Solomon would have been proud to give. I told her to move to the top floor of a block of high-rise flats, open the window and say, "Go on, now jump." The mutt will only do it once - problem solved.

It occurs to me that the animal lovers will now be up in arms at my less than nice solution - maybe they should try to learn the difference between a joke and a serious suggestion.

I wonder what it must be like to go through life without a sense of humour - it can't be easy. Speaking personally, I like a good laff - it's good for the soul, apparently.

Boudica has no sense of humour at all - she thinks sexist jokes about blondes are funny:

How can you tell there is a blonde at a cock-fight?
She's the one who brings the duck.
How can you tell when I am at the cock-fight?
The duck wins.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The plot thickens

2011-04-16T08:03:00.000+01:00

I have more news this week - if this keeps up this drivel could well start being almost interesting. The news is that the Parole Board has issued its list of witnesses to be called to the oral hearing next month, those on the side of the penal system. Perhaps the word "side" is a poor choice - they are merely there to put the official point of view, there are no sides as such. However, be that as it may, the "prosecution" (so to speak) have issued a list of those they are calling to give oral evidence and to be questioned as regards that oral evidence. This is why they call it an oral hearing - it's all clever stuff.

I've had these lists before from the Parole Board - after all, this is my fourth oral hearing. (Or is it my third? No, I think it is the fourth. But I don't want to get into any fights over it. So don't quote me - I may be wrong.) As I say, I've had these lists before and they simply tell me and my "side" who will be called. We can then add to the list anyone we wish to call to speak for the "defence" (so to speak!).

Examining the list, I was suddenly struck by the fact that there is no one listed to represent the Secretary of State. There is ALWAYS a representative of the Secretary of State - he or she is, after all, the main witness for the prosecution, as it were. There is nobody listed to speak for the Secretary of State!

I presumed it was some sort of oversight. I made enquiries of as discreet a nature as I could. I said, "Hoy! Why is there nobody telling lies for the Secretary of State?"

"000h," was the reply, "not a clue! Never seen that before!!!"

Another one said, "It looks like they are not putting up any opposition to your application, you must be getting a walk-over!"

The plot thickens.

I checked my papers. What objections could and should the representative of the Secretary of State be putting up? I found that there aren't any. I have no targets - nothing. All they are saying is that they want me to carry on exactly the way I am now - a good boy just two steps from sainthood. Not much for them to hang their hat on there then. Am I to be unopposed at the hearing?

The Wallace will be there, but she is recommending downgrade and transfer to less secure conditions. So is the prison psychologist. And they are the two most influential witnesses, the ones who count. Mind, they are really witnesses for the prosecution! They belong to "their" side.

The Smiling Assassin will be there - or at least she is listed. I think she will find herself on "leave" on the date - that's how they get out of difficult situations. A con will scream, "But Governor Such-and-Such said so!" Answer: "Well, the Governor's on leave at the minute." So that's where the Smiling Assassin will be, I expect.

On top of all that, we will (or should) have the independent psychologist, who will be there to support my application as an independent member of the psychological community. And Andrew will be there as an observer just to see that fair play is the order of the day.

The plot thickens even further. The paperwork to have me downgraded and transferred to a less secure lunatic asylum has (according to the prison) been sitting on the Deputy Governor's desk for months, waiting to be signed. Andrew has written about it, as have my solicitors, but got no reply so far.

Then, on Tuesday just gone, I was sitting in my cell, writing, when the door opened to admit the Wing S.O., the Wing Governor and the Number One, Hoss the Boss. Did they want anything? Apparently not, because all they said was that I can have a new pin-up board if I want one. Yeah! Right! The big cheese spends his time asking me if I want a new pin-up board - of course he does. Did they come to have a look at me? If they did, why?

Finally, Boudica tells me a tale from the internet about someone by the name of Lotta Fees. I'm not having it. It's not a real person - and if it is, then she ought to change her name. I wish I could change my name - and not to any of the rude and offensive ones that Boudica and her mates are suggesting. I'd like a good name - like Rudyard Finklestein. All suggestions will be greatly appreciated. Some of the rude suggestions from Boudica and her happy gang of escapees from a secure mental institution were actually very funny, but I can't tell her that - she'll get big-headed, and that will never do. One big head in the family is enough.

Lotta Fees my sorry arse!

Oh yes, and a quick one before I go. Here I am, stuck in jail surrounded by hairy-arsed gangsters and terrorists, and on the canteen shopping list some of the most popular items are tiny vials of perfume, all manner of smellies and washing powder with aloe vera and orange blossom! Come on! Whatever happened to tough guys with missing teeth and smelling like a Liverpool docker's armpit?

The worst part of it is that I'm one of them. I buy the soap powder so my clothing smells nice - I'm ashamed of myself, hee hee. Mind, I know why it is that when we bath our dogs tbey run outside and roll about in cowdung - or worse. They are getting rid of the smell of civilisation. The Afghanis have been doing that for years.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Quiet desperation

2011-04-09T06:43:00.000+01:00

Last week I wrote a semi-tongue-in-cheek thing about "No-fly zones". (Come to think about it, I seem to write most things with my tongue planted firmly in the cheek - but leave that to one side for the minute.) So, I wrote this thing about the NFZ's and at the end of it, as is my wont from time to time, I shoved in a fairly puerile and possibly offensive witticism about Gotham City and Superman with a supporting cast of other superheroes. (Boudica said that my jokes get no better, and she is probably right - she usually is about most things.)

However, as soon as Boudica started mocking me about it, I realised that Superman doesn't fly around Gotham City, he flies around Metropolis, and one thing is absolutely certain - there will be some pedant who wants to correct me. Don't bother.

Okay, so I might not be actually very well versed in the details of Marvel, or any other comic, and I apologise for my lack of knowledge. You see, I spent a lot of time wasting my life away reading rubbish by such folk as Chaucer and Marlowe - somehow Marvel commics were missed. Having said that, I have to admit that Asterix the Gaul featured on my reading list - it appealed to my well-established sense of the ridiculous.

I was asked the other day, "Why do you swear?" Well, what can I tell you? I'm a vulgarian, and there are times when a well-placed vulgarity serves the purpose admirably. Boudica grits her teeth sometimes when I swear, her being just one step down from sainthood. (Apart from when somebody gets HER goat of course - then you should hear her!)

So, as anyone will be able to tell, those who know how I operate from reading my weekly drivel, there is no news this week again. Here at the Lazy L very little happens at the best of times. We can't all have exciting lives - my heart wouldn't stand up to the strain of it all.

I seem to spend most of my day lurching from crisis to crisis, and not one of them is worth worrying about really. Oddly enough, I have somehow gained the reputation that I don't care - "Frank! When something happens, you just stand there, look, sniff and then ignore it. I wish I could do that."

Well, that's nothing to do with not caring - that's pure experience. I have learned that running around like a chicken with its head surgically removed serves no purpose other than annoy people. No, when something occurs I sit back, take in all the facts, go away and think about things. Then I ignore it.

Life's far too short to be wasting time on things that don't matter. Let me put it this way: whatever may he bothering us today, however unsurmountable the problem may be at the time, this time next month it will have resolved itself, gone away, and we will have a brand new problem to worry us. So why bother? Everything sorts itself out in the end - time does it.

Henry David Thoreau said:

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

You can't argue with that.

So, I laugh at just about everything - it hurts too much to cry.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Another one bites the dust

2011-04-09T06:24:00.000+01:00

I have an old friend - had an old friend - called Frederick Mills or, as he was better known amongst those with more than a passing acquaintance with the denizens of the law, Fred the Head. I had a letter from his brother Kenny yesterday (Monday 28th March) to tell me that Freddie died in his sleep and was found on Wednesday 23rd March - they suspect a heart attack.

Kenny's letter said that he had found my letter to Freddie sitting on the carpet just inside the front door where the postman had clearly left it. So Freddie didn't even get to read my last letter to him - which is probably just as well, because it was only a catalogue of the abuse which I pass off as humour.

So, Fred the Head has shuffled off. Freddie had his faults - who doesn't? However, whatever anyone may say about the Head, they have to admit that he was one of life's characters. When Freddie arrived in a room, everyone knew it. There was never a dull moment when Freddie was about - you never knew what he would do next. He had a heart of gold, the same feller.

There's another one who will not sit and drink with me as I pass into my dotage. One by one they are dropping like flies, and soon there'll be nobody left - none of the old crowd anyway.

This all got me to thinking (again) - as this kind of news often does - and, as per usual, I got to considering my own mortality. At this point Boudica will be stamping her size tens and yelling, "The rotten sod! He only does it to annoy me!" And, I've got to be honest - she's right.

You see, Boudica is as aware of my mortality as I am myself, but she doesn't like to talk about it. I don't mind, it's not as if I can avoid it, is it? We might be able to prolong our lives (briefly), but it's not as though we can escape our inevitable death, is it? So why not talk about it? Then, when the time comes that the Grim Reaper actually DOES knock on the door, it doesn't come as any great shock. Oh there is no doubt that a few people will put on their po faces, but we all know that the po face is for the living - the dead couldn't give a fiddler's fart.

I told Boudica all about my plan to have Sinatra singing "My Way" and for me to be laughing my head off in the background. She just said, "What makes you think I'm giving you a funeral?"

So it looks as though my funeral will be held on the nearest council-run rubbish tip. You'll recognise me - I'll be in the third bin-liner from the left, surrounded by well-dressed old men and women, all pissing themselves laughing. And Boudica will be kicking the bin-liner, yelling, "SEE! I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS IT UP, BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!"

So, Frederick "Fred the Head" Mills has shuffled off this mortal coil. He has gone to fish in the Slough of Despond, probably, and I bet he's laughing too - he always was. Well, all I can say is that it is incumbent upon you, Freddie, to keep me a seat at the poker table - because he is bound to start a game, he's that sort of fellow.

Finally, the only thing left to say is, you made a lot of people nervous, you made a lot of people laugh. I only hope tbat God loves you for the laughter.

The Voice In The Wilderness

No-fly zones

2011-03-30T16:07:00.001+01:00

Anybody who reads this drivel on any sort of a regular basis will be fully aware by now that I am not the brightest star in the firmament, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. In fact, I could pass as a nitwit in anyone's company. Don't knock it - it's not easy being as simpleminded as me.

So - there are a couple of things that I don't actually understand. Now, forget the rights and wrongs, the moral maze so to speak, just concentrate on the words. Here comes the question:

How does a "No-fly zone" include bombing vehicles on the ground?

Personally, I've never seen a tank fly, but that doesn't mean the Americans haven't got one - they've got
everything else. Who was it who said:

You can't say that civilisation doesn't advance because in every new war they kill you in a different way.

Oh yes, I remember, it was Will Rogers.

So the Yanks may well have flying tanks. The British don't have them, of course - they've barely got any flying airplanes and even THEY will be flogged off at the first opportunity to the highest bidder. All in the name of economic prudence, of course, tinged with a smidgeon of idealism. Aldous Huxley said:

Idealism is the noble toga that political gentlemen drape over their will to power.

Let's face it, a politician is a person who is so patriotic that he is more than happy to lay down your life for his country.

As for causes, E.M. Forster had something to say about causes, and that was:

I hate causes, and if I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.

So, as can be seen, I don't understand how a "No-fly zone" can include bombing vehicles or people on the ground.

There is also a lot of drivel being spouted about getting rid of a dictator and protecting civilians. I don't see anyone declaring a "No-fly zone" over Zimbabwe or trying to kill Mugabe - but then again, Zimbabwe has no oil.

However, they did declare a "No-fly zone" over Gotham City recently, after an unfortunate incident. Superman was flying over the city on one of his regular patrols when he looked down and saw Wonder Woman sunbathing naked on a roof - totally naked, arms and legs spread wide to garner the most of the sun's benevolence.

"Whey hey!" Superman thought to himself, flew down at the speed of light - WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU MA'AM - and off he flew again at the speed of light.

The Invisible Man stood up, felt his bum and said, "What the fuck was THAT!"

By the way - there is no news this week.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Men that were boys

2011-03-27T07:44:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, March 22nd, I had a letter from an old friend, a friend I have known for well over fifty years and with whom I've been through a couple of interesting situations - situations, incidentally, better left unremarked. It all got me to thinking, as these things usually do, about the past.

I know that young people wonder why us old fellows harp on about the past so much, and I'll tell you. It's because the past is a safe place to be - we know what happened and there are no surprises, nasty or otherwise. The past is a safe, comfortable environment.

Anyway, Freddie (for this is the friend's name) was telling me in the letter of all the other old boys, who send their sincere respects, as well as telling me who has died. I remember all of these young men when they were young men, and the interesting part ( I suppose) is that they remember me too. After twenty-five years they still remember - I must have done something right along the way. I know young fellows who haven't got a friend in the world. Well, if you get to thirty and have no friends, you are doing it wrong.

Having said that, they do say that if a man has just one true friend then he is a rich man indeed.

A lot of fellows have died in one way or another, and this got me to thinking ahout my own funeral, not all that far away now. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not about to turn maudlin, not a bit of it. I've got it all organised - I'll have Frank Sinatra singing "My way" and I'll be in the background 1aughing my head off. By the time it's all over the whole congregation will be laughing like lunatics and, on the way out, someone will say, "What a character! He couldn't even let us plant him without turning it into a big joke!"

Well, it is a joke. Funerals have bugger-all to do with the dead - the dead couldn't give a fiddler's. Funerals are strictly for the living - and that's a contradiction if I ever heard one.

So, I wonder who will attend my own planting? I hope I am there to see it.

Howsomever, before that happens I've got a few more roads to travel. Besides, Boudica will veto my own requests for an insane departure from this mortal coil. She'll want a miserable one with every bugger crying and being po-faced.

Before all that happens I shall hope to see those old hoys again and have a look at how the years have treated them. I remember them all as fresh-faced young lions at the peak of their prowess and arrogance. The women too! I'll remember when they were all pretty and turned heads as they sashayed past. Now, we are all old - and that's the cycle of life.

It all brings to mind the words of the poet Hilaire Belloc:

I will hold my house in the high wood,
Within a walk of the sea,
And men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Ides of March

2011-03-26T05:44:00.000Z

Well, would you believe it! After all the disappointments, resentments, annoyances, delays, irritations and general time-wasting, I have finally been given a date for the Oral Parole Board Hearing - hereafter to be referred to as the OPBH. (It sounds like a chemical formula for an illegal substance - "Psssst! Psssst! Want to buy a feelthy peecture or some OPBH?")

Anyway, finally, at last, after all of the weeks of negative reporting, I can finally say that I've been given a date - Thursday, 26th May, 2011.

I was given the date on March 17th, and that's the bit that has made me slightly nervous - let's face it, the 17th of March wasn't a very auspicious day for good old Julius Caesar, was it? "Beware the Ides of March" - a wise man listens to such messages from the oracles. Do I hear the sound of daggers being honed?

Having said that, the 17th of March is also Saint Paddy's Day, and THAT sort of balances things out a good bit, me being part Paddy as well. Not that I care to be called "Paddy" - or Mick come to that - but, well I'm sure the astrologers would be able to make a case for it being positive.

I suppose it's a bit like the old Arab proverb - "Put all your trust in Allah, but first tie up your camels." Fair enough, I'll beware the Ides, but first I'll tie up the camel in the car park.

Some people say, "Frank, I can't figure out how your mind works at all!" Well, let me tell you a little secret - neither can I. You think it's easy living with my mind? I've told you before - it's not easy being me.

Thursday, 26th May, 2011. It's only eleven months late - that's pretty good in the grand scheme of things when dealing with officialdom.

Thursday, 26th May, 2011 - make a note in the diary.

To move along the bus a bit, Boudica is solidly into the writing now - the bug has caught her by the throat and is squeezing away enthusiastically. Personally I think that's great, and more power to her elbow. I hope it all turns into a huge success for her because if there is anyone who deserves a bit of good fortune in this world, it's Boudica - lang may her lum reek.

That's the good part. The less than good part, from my point of view, is that I was a bit expansive at the inception and made the promise that I would create the drawings for her. Now, I don't mind doing that - in fact I have quite enjoyed letting my pencil scribble away and sniggering a lot - but she is so prolific! I thought I could write quickly, but Boudica's head is full of ideas for stories for little teapot lids (that's rhyming slang for kids, for the folk not so well versed in that area).

That's fine too, but I have to do the drawings and, let's face facts here, my mind is far too dark for any of its outpourings to be inflicted upon children. I only came to that conclusion when I realised that most of the drawings I was doing were quite simply unfit for purpose.

So now I am stuck with trying to draw nice, twee things for Boudica because, if I don't, well - she has a temper, and there will be more than Julius worrying about the Ides of March.

Finally, Blodwin has gone, departed these shores, toddled off to pursue an academic life - and who can blame her? She is far too nice a person to live in this sordid world. She came to see me the day before she left (again, the Ides), and we had a chat for a short while. I told her that I shall miss her and that I saw her as a sort of esoteric comfort blanket, and I mean that in the nicest possible way.

When she took her leave of me, she said something which stuck in my mind, something I won't forget for a long time. She said, "Frank, talking to you has restored my faith in working with prisoners." What did she mean by that?

All replies in plain brown envelopes and must be accompanied by Treasury notes to cover expenses for my proposed trip to Katmandu where I understand there is an oracle living on top of a pole. I want a word with him ahout the Ides of March - surely he can issue a few words of comfort!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Confusion will be my epitaph

2011-03-18T16:57:00.000Z

I'm confused.

Here's me, sitting here, minding my own business, bothering nobody, doing my own inoffensive things and plodding along like a proper little patient. What are the ubiquitous "THEY" doing?

A good question.

I am getting mixed and often completely contrary messages from all and sundry. Had a letter from my solicitor during the week which had enclosed a letter HE had received from Hoss the Boss here at the Lazy L. I won't quote the full thing, only the confusing part. Hoss the Boss writes:

With regards to Mr Wilkinson's final decision on re-categorisation; at this time the paperwork is being considered by the Deputy Governor, as soon as a decision is made, Mr Wilkinson will be informed.

That's what HE says.

Then I had a letter from The Wallace, and once again I will only quote the relevant passage. She writes:

I did speak to the Offender Management Unit a few weeks ago about your category review. [They] advised me that in order to review your category, it had to go to the director of high security as you had been Cat A within the last 5 years.

As for a date for the parole hearing, forget that. It has taken on the mantle of rocking horse shit - very difficult to get hold of indeed.

Don't misunderstand me - I don't see a conspiracy at all. What I see is a catalogue of incompetence and failure to communicate with each other. Each department is diligently protecting its own little powerbase and they are all keeping secrets from each other to the detriment of those they are supposed to be managing and dealing with - the cons. There are cuts in the air you see!

"My department is doing a good job!" they cry. "It is the others who don't know what they are doing!"

Yes! Because you aren't communicating, numbskull.

What it all means to me is that I am confused, but who can blame me for that? While THEY go about their little intrigues against each other, here's me, stuck here, scratching - and totally wasting what's left of my life. They do not want me to do anything - I have no targets to aim at beyond "Be a good boy". I haven't been in any trouble of any sort for over ten years - it can't improve! I can't get any better than ideal. All I am doing now is sitting here, rotting to no good purpose.

On a brighter note, Boudica has newly decided that she will be an author of children's stories. About bleedin' time as well, if you ask me. I don't know if I have mentioned this before (and, if I have, then skip the next couple of sentences), but Boudica is really good at writing tales for tots. I've been on at her for some time now to write, with a view to proper publication, but she would only write the stories and send them off to individuals - members of the family and friends, that kind of thing.

(Do you ever feel the urge to grab someone by the scruff of the neck and shake them and say, "You'd better start cooperating a bit more." Do you ever get that urge??)

I finally had to offer to draw pictures to go with her stories before she would start to cooperate a bit. Now? She can't stop writing now. The bug has got her. She's writing like Barbara Cartland on speed.

That's the secret you see. We all have stories to tell, it's just a matter of getting started. Once we start then it's like a snowball rolling down a roof - it just picks up speed and grows as it travels.

I've said it before, but I'm going to say it again - Mao Tse Tung once said:

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

Well, Boudica has taken the step - long may she reign.

Where does that leave me? Confused, that's where it leaves me - confused.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A prisoner's progress

2011-03-16T18:54:00.000Z

On March 9th (tomorrow) it will be exactly twenty-five years since that day in March of 1986, (Sunday, Mother's Day) when twenty-two armed policemen arrested me at gunpoint. The fact that I was sleeping in my bed at the time is best ignored - and it is churlish of me to mention it, so forget that I did. Twenty-five years - counting the six (or seven) leap years included in that time (or is it eight?), that's a total of about 9,000 days. (9,131 to be precise - just worked it out.)

Now, that's quite a long time. Wars have been fought, nations have risen and collapsed, dynasties have fallen, earthquakes, floods and various disasters have come and gone - but here I sit, the rock upon which all human frustration breaks. (Like the Rock of Gibraltar in a way - we know it's there, we know that others want it and claim it, but will the British give it up? Will they bollocks.)

Twenty-five years.

I've met a lot of people in those years, most of them pretty wicked in some respect or other, but a fair few who have been decent, good people. Never despair for the human race - the good folk are out there, make no mistake about it.

This was all brought home to me just this morning when one of my peer group here at the Lazy L asked me if I knew a certain person. He seemed to think that I must have run across this mystery fellow at some stage because the fellow in question has been in jail fifteen years.

I told him, "I don't know everyone!"

It's true! It's a silly question really. It is like saying that just because a person comes from Ireland he must know Paddy who lives in Dublin.

Yes, I've met a lot of people over the years - muggers, sluggers and buggers; fat cats, high hats and just plain rats. I've met them all, but they have all gone from my ken. Some have gone home, of course, never to darken the portals of a court again. Some have died, either in or out of jail - but all have gone their own way.

In some respects this is quite sad, I suppose - but isn't this the story of everyone's life? We travel the roads that Pilgrim travelled in Bunyan's book. We run the whole gamut of characters and meet them all, but they eventually pass by and are gone into the night, one way or another. And this, of course, brings to mind the words of Longfellow from "Tales of a Wayside Inn":

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence.

That's all we are - ships that pass in the night.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Atta Matta

2011-03-09T16:33:00.000Z

Needless to say there is nothing to say or tell anyone this week - but that's par for the course I suppose - unless you count the fact that my appeal solicitor, that paragon of ineptitude, has written me a two line letter telling me that she will not represent me at the European Court of Human Rights. Oh I can fully understand why she takes that attitude - her inadequacies would be exposed for all to see in no time at all. Well, I've got news for her - they will anyway, it will just take a little longer, that's all.

However, let us not be vindictive. Put that to one side and concentrate on the fact that there is nothing of a positive nature in any direction - sorry about that.

So, there I was, midweek some time, and I got to thinking, as is my wont on a rainy afternoon when I've got bugger-all to do, which is most of the time around the Lazy L. I got to thinking...

Now, thinking and brooding on the ills (real or imaginary) that are done to us are two entirely different kettles of fish. I was thinking, not brooding. I never brood - I don't allow myself that little luxury, as delightful as it may seem. No, I was cogitating, musing and, of course, I was randomly browsing through memories. Well, memories are a safe area, we can adjust things to suit ourselves - selective memories - and there are no surprises in the past, just little things that make us grin from time to time.

A casual observer would have seen my smile and instantly reached for the phone to the men in white coats - but never mind them. I was thinking about my childhood and the characters I either met or saw, from a distance, as a child of six or seven. There were a lot of them around the town of Sunderland in those days. Samson Beresford, the strongest man in the world (according to him), springs to mind, but I am not going to itemise them all. The one I want to mention is an old woman who wandered the markets and poorer quarters of the town, always dressed in black with her dress down to her ankles and almost covering the black boots she wore. She was, in fact, the epitome of everyone's idea of a witch in a fairy story. (These days, of course, that position has been taken by Boudica, and no doubt she will make me pay for THAT crack. Ah, see if I care...) So, this old lady...

I have no idea what her name was, but everyone called her Atta Matta. She got that name because whenever she saw an unhappy child (and she saw plenty around Sunderland in the early 1950's) she would crouch over the child, wipe his tears and say in a sympathetic voice, "Atta matta, son?" She was a kindly soul I expect - all the time in the world for unhappy children. It's a pity there weren't a few more like her. She will have been dead for years now, of course - Atta Matta was an old lady even in those days.

This got me onto mortality in general and, of course, my own mortality in particular. I start my twenty-sixth year in prison on the 9th of this month and I wonder how many years I've got left. It can't be all that many - I'll be sixty-five this year!

Boudica gets annoyed when I discuss this subject - maybe she is a bit reluctant to face the fact that I am not immortal. Well, I'm not. I might go on a diet, do all the right exercises, stop smoking and all manner of things to prolong my life, but I can never escape my inevitable end - none of us can. But this is no reason to be sad or upset, not a bit of it. I shall get on Charon's ferry when the time comes, hand over my copper fare and, when I get to the other side of the Styx, I shall get off and I will be approached by a figure dressed in a black dress down to her ankles and black boots and she will wipe the tears from my eyes and say, "Atta matta, son?"

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nothing at all

2011-03-03T16:27:00.000Z

There's a man sitting in a concrete room,
His heart full of emptiness and gloom.
With his head in his hands you'll hear him say,
"It's a long time ago since yesterday."
Then his hands gently droop and slowly fall
In his world full of nothing at all.
(Status Quo)

Here we are at the end of yet another week where there is less than nothing to report or tell anyone about. No date for the parole hearing and even less prospect of one - and of course not a word about a downgrading or a transfer to greener and pleasanter surroundings. My solicitor is doing his best but he is suffering under the same intransigence as I am myself. We live in hope - we have no choice in the matter.

However, I did manage to get a copy of the Rolling Stones' Greatest hits (1968-1972) so I can't complain.

I've had a virus! I may have mentioned it last week, can't remember. ( I only write this drivel, I don't waste my time reading it.) So, I had this viral thing and, like all men when they get a bit of a cold and/or a cough, I decided that I was dying, popping my clogs, handing in my dinner pail, shuffling off this mortal coil, heading for my reserved ticket on Charon's ferry and generally snuffing it. Boudica took the opportunity to take the piss, of course - "Diddums got a cold then?" seemed to be her attitude. Don't worry, I'll get her for it.

Apparently, I made a crack recently about wood and boarding up her mouth which she took exception to, although her sister almost choked on her tea when she read it - they've got a funny sense of humour those ladies. I'm not saying Boudica was rude about it, but the implication was there - she can be rude without trying (or possibly not knowing even, or caring). Women are quite good at that - the cutting remark that draws blood while they sit there, butter wouldn't melt, and say, "What?"

Anyway, the point is that Boudica has finally decided to put her enormous talent for poetry and storytelling to good use, as anyone will know if they have started to read her stories about her stupid and vandalistic mutt, Cassie. Boudica has put her hand to writing for children.

Now, anyone who knows me will know that being nice to Boudica is probably suicidal because she just thinks I am up to no good if I am nice to her, but it has to be said, she is good. Her poetry is first class and her prose keeps children giggling and entertained for hours. I've been at her for a long time now to write for kids, but listening to me is against her priciples apparently. Then Andrew mentioned that there is a huge market out there for children's stories and Boudica has finally decided to try to join the human race and take part in the march of humanity toward a better world - she is writing a tale for children. I'm looking forward to it because... well, let's face it, I never grew up. I'm just a big kid, like all the rest of the men on the planet - how else do you explain the popularity of train-sets?

Oh she is good, no doubt about it, and she has a great sense of humour really. (She needs one living with that dog - the world's only demolition team on four legs.) Come to think about it, a sense of humour probably helps when she has to deal with me, too - I'm usually termed, in her own words, "You miserable old bastard."

Okay, not disputing that, but do you know the best thing about being a bastard? I don't have to buy anyone a present on Father's Day.

The Voice In The Wilderness

In sickness and in health

2011-02-22T16:26:00.000Z

This week is a sort of mixed bag in many ways, although progress is still elusive - about as rare as unicorn hair really. Nothing from the Parole Board, of course - that would be far too much to expect. Nothing offering any advancement on the recategorisation or reallocation issues either, although my solicitor seems to be doing what he can to get a coherent answer out of this prison on just about anything. Good luck with that. The only way to get anything out of the Lazy L is with either dynamite or a court order - and they ain't too impressed by court orders.

A couple of weeks ago I made the first step in the next step (ha ha, I love that) of my appeal. I wrote to the European Court of Human Rights on the subject, and this week I have had a package sent back giving me a copy of the various protocols (for me to decide which of my human rights have been violated by the legal system), a questionnaire to complete and return - and I've even been given a case number. I am now 9608/11 Wilkinson v UK.

Wonderful - so far. There is a question in there which wants to know if I am already represented legally. I have written three times to my appeal solicitor. Needless to say, she has not bothered to reply or respond in any way to my letters. I could have guessed that - she never made one useful comment or offered anything at all. So it looks like I am on my own in this thing with the ECHR. I don't really mind, I've been on my own legally since 1986. Oh the solicitors are there but they never make any form of input. All they do is allow the prisoner to do all the work and, if it comes to fruition, then they take the credit. If (as is usually the case) it all comes to nothing, then they pocket their fees, shrugging regretfully and saying, "Nothing to do with us" as they head off to Mali or Barbados for a well-earned rest.

Strange, really, the way some solicitors are doing their best, often under difficult circumstances, while others simply take the money and run. I have to say here that if anyone at all needs a solicitor to take up any matters to do with the prison service then my prison solicitor is the man to do it - he can't really be faulted. On the other hand, if it is a criminal matter, then avoid my appeal solicitor like the plague - fucking useless.

So, I will write a brief account of everything for the ECHR and then they can invite me to send whatever documents they need. Incidentally, I've had the same team as my appeal advisors for over ten years and in all that time I have never met either one of them, never spoken to them, and had most of my letters ignored. I wonder what the ECHR will make of that, if anything.

Somebody around here has introduced a nasty infection - I've got it, lots of fellows have had it. It is a bit like a cold but is more of a pulmonary infection. The throat feels like it's been sandpapered by an enthusiastic carpenter, phlegm is being coughed up pretty enough to be made into jade jewellery and sleep becomes impossible because of the coughing. Being a closed environment, these things spread like wildfire once they get into the dump. However, today is my fourth day of abject misery, and I've been taking paracetamols and antibiotics. I have improved slightly this morning, so I can't complain.

No sympathy out of Boudica, of course - she thinks I'm a big girl at the best of times. It's not right - when she's not at her best, I'm the first one with a bit of sympathy for her. She says that doctors make the worst patients - apparently Jo Bruce is a very poor patient. I've told Boudica - I'm not that sort of doctor, I'm not a medical man. Is she listening? The short answer is, no.

So, here I sit with a face like a smacked arse, feeling sorry for myself, and all she does is snigger and think it's funny. I'd have her mouth boarded up if I could afford the wood.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Waiting for Godot

2011-02-18T18:35:00.000Z

They've done it again!

I had a letter from my solicitor informing me that, once again, the Parole Board has overlooked me - I have not been listed for an oral hearing date in April. I now have to wait for yet another month to find out if I will be given a date in May 2011 - the May listings are due to be disclosed on either 7th or 14th of March. I am not a happy bunny. It's like waiting for Godot - the expectation is there but he never materialises. Watching paint dry would be marginally more satisfying because at least we could be sure that the paint WILL dry!

I have to ask - what was all the urgency for at the end of last year when the Parole Board ordered that all additional reports had to be completed and submitted by mid November? The reports were submitted on time - so where did the urgency go to?

I have expressed my dissatisfaction, of course, but that just makes me churlish and discontent as far as the board is concerned, I expect. Why should they care? They go home every night to loving families - while I haven't been home for twenty-five years. I am left, for yet another month, in limbo - a month more of uncertainty in which I am left to amuse myself in whatever depraved way that I see fit.

So much is promised, so little is delivered. I'm not surprised that Blodwyn is leaving the place - and the job. It would try the patience of a saint - if there were any saints around here.

We shall see what happens next, I suppose.

It seems that Hoss the Boss here at the Lazy L has become most decidely unpopular amongst certain members of the staff. The cons don't mind him - he appears to be a good governor who is doing his best with the place. However, the Lazy L has always been a P.O.A. jail and they don't like anyone meddling in their little power bases. Hoss the Boss wants them to actually earn their wages - and that's never a popular thing around here.

Have they confronted Hoss the Boss? Have they hell. Beyond a grumble or two, they say nothing publicly - they are sneakier than that. The plan is to agitate the cons so that the cons will kick over the traces and thus (the twisted thinking goes) the governor will be moved on.

What nobody has taken into account is that, when cons kick over the traces, they are punished, and many years are added on to the end of their sentences. Do the P.O.A. give a rat's arse about that? Of course they don't. Do they give a shit ahout prisoners' families? Of course they don't.

It will be remembered that, just after Christmas, there was a huge amount of fuss here at the Lazy L, with lockdowns and all that kind of thing. The main instigator of the trouble was an S.O. whom I will call Cecil - after the fellow who discovered Rhodesia. (Discovered Rhodesia my sorry aunt. It had been there since the world was formed - it wasn't lost! I've got this wee picture in my head of a couple of natives standing there saying, "I wish an explorer would come and tell us where the fuck we are.")

Anyway, Cecil was seen to be the troublemaker and was informed in no uncertain terms to pack it in. He did, for a couple of weeks. Now he has started again - anything he can do to upset the cons, he is doing it. No checks and balances, of course - there is no one watching to curb the excesses, there never is.

However, Hoss the Boss has recently taken to visiting the wing from time to time, so the next time he appears I will button-hole him and let him know. Some people shouldn't be given the chance to walk dogs, let alone destroy the prospects of others.

Finally to Boudica. Her dog, her new(ish) dog, has now eaten a telephone. Okay, it was only a mobile, and that's not much of a snack for a hungry Staffie, but it's an expensive snack. I've told her, in fact I'm sick of telling her - muzzle the bleedin' thing! Will she listen? Well, not Boudica. Boudica is like all women - she only listens when it is her doing the talking.

Right - that should have irritated fifty percent of the country - AND the mob who are in touch with their feminine side, the politically-correct gang.

Now, ladies, let's not turn this into a personal vendetta - there is no need for animosity. Besides, any lip and I'll tell my friend Godot about you - when he gets here...

The Voice In The Wilderness

Pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours

2011-02-11T17:34:00.000Z

Once again I have to report that there is nothing to report this week, although that isn't exactly correct - there ARE a couple of things, the only thing about them being that they all are really negatives, and who needs negatives?

No date from the parole board of course, that would be far too much to expect - after all, I am only five years over my sentence and that is nothing these days. What's five years? There was once a fellow who lived on top of a pillar for thirty years, so five years is a mere bagatelle! I wouldn't like to hang by my thumbs for five years. In fact, let's hang these date-givers by their thumbs for twenty minutes, see if they change their minds about five years being a mere bagatelle.

So, no date from the parole board yet. No sign of me being moved to greener pastures either. Then of course we've got the business of the OASys meeting that was due to take place on the 9th of this month - next week in fact.

I asked, "What's it for? I've had three of them in as many months, so what's this one for?"

"Er, um, er, um," was the answer. "We don't know."

So it has now been cancelled - there will be no meeting.

They don't know what they are doing that's the fact of the matter. The trouble is that none of the departments communicates with any of the others, they are all too busy protecting and defending their own little empires and vested interests. They are in competition with each other so nothing is coordinated and that's why nobody knows what anyone else is doing.

Who suffers? Who's in line for the blame? The prisoner of course, who else?

Those supposedly running these various departments are far too busy making sure that their own backs are protected from their own incompetence to actually do their jobs properly, and as for oversights or checks and balances, forget that.

To move on. It's getting colder. (No doubt the prisoner will get the blame for that as well.) The nights are getting chillier and I have even taken to actually using my duvet lately. I am reminded of the words of James Thomson, a Scottish poet who shuffled off this mortal coil on August 27th 1748. He wrote:

Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come.

And I couldn't agree with him more. Here I sit at night, in my cold cell, with socks on - and anyone who knows me will know that I don't like wearing socks. I like to wiggle my toes as I read or write - it is a sign of quiet enjoyment you see. So I sit here reading or writing or playing games on my playstation or thinking deep thoughts or, when all else fails me, watching the idiot box.

This brouqht me to yet another Scottish poet called James Thomson, but not the same one. This James Thomson died on June 3rd 1882. What he wrote was:

Give a man a pipe he can smoke,
Give a man a book he can read:
And his home is bright with a calm delight,
Though the room be poor indeed.

And that reminds me of something which Henry David Thoreau wrote on the same theme. He wrote:

Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poorhouse.

Obviously Thoreau hadn't had to sit in a cold cell in the Lazy L and wait for the Parole Board to hand down a hearing date.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The moving finger writes

2011-02-05T07:25:00.000Z

Anyone who reads this drivel on any sort of a regular basis will be fully aware of my relationship with Lady Luck - that fickle ould boiler who seems to revel in giving me periodical boots in the family jewellery and then disappearing into the mist, leaving behind only a hollow laugh as I writhe on the floor clutching the aforementioned testacularities.

They will also recall that, a short while ago, I said that there may be some evidence that she had finally forsaken me and turned her attentions elsewhere at last. I should have known better. In fact, even saying she had moved on probably tempted her to don the highly-polished, steel toe-capped, ex-miner's pit boots and prepare to take careful aim at her target. Then, when she was absolutely certain that I was looking the other way... WHAM! "There you go, Frank , have THAT for your temerity!" she cried.

I have been waiting for a date for my parole hearing and had been given to understand by the Parole Board that I would be given a date on the 7th January and that date would probably be in March. I had forgotten to factor in the miscreant and anti-social attitude of Lady Luck, of course.

I've had a letter from my solicitor telling me that my parole hearing has NOT been scheduled for March and I haven't even been given a date yet. My case will be "put forward" for a date in April. The listings for April are due to be disclosed in the week commencing February 7th 2011. Notice that I won't be given a date, my case will simply be "put forward" for a date.

I have asked the solicitor to mount some sort of challenge and to try to force a date out of them. I'm fully aware of the fact that patience is a virtue, but whoever said that hadn't been sitting in a prison cell for twenty-five solid (and at times quite difficult) years.

The whole thing was brought home forcibly to me the other day as I sat re-reading through "The Merchant of Venice". (I am doing that - re-reading - because I have once again consumed - hee hee - all of the new books I bought at christmas.) So, there was I, reading away - I like to read out loud to myself and do all of the actions and voices, it makes me laugh - and I was reading Shylock's part where he says, "If you prick us, do we not bleed?" (Act Three, Scene One). Of course, he says a lot of other stuff too, but that line is one that speaks to me. It embodies everything a prisoner has to suffer. Those making decisions do so without any sort of thought about the effects those decisions may have. They make them and go off for a nice supper and sleep like babies, totally unmindful of the prisoner lying in the dark, cuddling his very real disappointment.

Beggars and kings - none of us is immune to emotions. Some of us have to learn to hide them better, that's all, but they are still there. "If you prick me, do I not bleed?"

Now, at this point, normally I would lighten it all by telling one of my silly stories, but - and with me there always seems to be a but - I can't come up with one, not one that would seem appropriate or that I would be comfortable with, so I'm not going to tell any jokes this week. Besides, Boudica says that my jokes are all as old as the hills anyway. What does she want from me? I AM as old as the hills, I'm just not as pretty, and I don't care to be walked over by any wandering rambler working for the Parole Board.

Sandra, my eldest sister, died on the 11th of this month and Boudica lit a candle for me for her. That's what a life came down to, a candle. Sandra was only 54 years old - far too young to require people to be lighting candles of remembrance for her. Well, my candle is burning too - all of our candles are burning, and they need to be sheltered to prevent them being blown out.

So, a final message to the Parole Board:

Give me a date before my candle burns out, please.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Me and George

2011-01-29T19:16:00.000Z

Needless to say there is no date set yet for my parole hearing. Having said that, what I SHOULD have said is that the date was due to be passed down on January 7th, so there IS a date, it's just that nobody seems to want to tell anyone else what it is. My solicitor doesn't know, the prison doesn't know (according to them), The Wallace doesn't know (in fact they haven't even bothered to tell her about a new sentence planning thing they have started, or are about to start), and of course Blodwyn doesn't know. In fact they told Blodwyn that it might be in June! Work that one out if you can.

Speaking of Blodwyn, she came to see me the other day and would seem to be a bit needled at the intransigence around this place. Everybody on the planet recommends me for a downgrade and a move to greener pastures, but not the Smiling Assassin, and it seems that she may be working her poison still. She wants me kept in closed prison. The fact that it is none of her business to make such recommendations seems to have been overlooked by the checks and balances that are in place to guard against such excesses, and, even when instructed by higher personages, she simply agrees, then goes ahead with her back-stabbing anyway.

So, nothing to report as far as the parole hearing is concerned. However, I fully expect to have my supporting voices there when it does take place.

At least the lock-down is over.

Boudica has a dog. I may have mentioned this before. In fact she has several dogs, although she will say that two of them belong to her son, the one who falls off bikes. Boudica's new dog is a Staffie which is currently eating everything in sight - and that includes the washing machine door handle. She bought a muzzle for the mutt but won't put it on the dog for longer than ten minutes - she says it must be uncomfortable. Well, there's the choice - muzzle the wrecking machine or redesign the house every morning.

Don't misunderstand me - I like dogs - always have a dog in the real world. A life is not complete without a family pet. Some folk prefer cats of course, or birds, or iguanas or mother-in-law. (I shouldn't have said that - I'll have complaints now.) Anyway, be that as it may, I want to talk about cats - well one cat in particular.

George.

Now I am not personally acquainted with George but I do know a little bit about him. George...well...George is George.

He is getting on a bit now, not in the best of health and is on daily medication - a bit like a few around this place. George is a settled-in-his-ways cat. He has his routines and daily doings, like everyone else, and, being old now, he doesn't want that routine or his quiet, comfortable life disrupting, and nobody can blame him for that.

You see, George is no different from all the rest of us when old Father Time creeps up on us and the Grim Reaper is giving his scythe a honing ready for the final sentence in life's story. George just wants to be left alone to think his thoughts and not have intrusions on that placid existence. He gets out of his bed each morning at his own pace, he takes his medication, goes about doing his own thing, and at night relaxes with his thoughts and probably doesn't care much what is ahead of him. The river has run its course and is winding slowly into the estuary of life, heading for the sea.

Well, I'm like George - I can smell the sea. I know it's not far away, and it shouldn't be long before I get to the beach. Like George, I've got a couple of things I would still like to do, of course - and I'll get there. I only hope that I am capable when the time comes.

Finally, as we are speaking of cats, let me tell a little story. A fellow comes home from work one day and, while he is eating his evening meal, his wife sits there talking to him.

"Hey," says she. "I saw a great thing on the telly today."

"Oh yeah?" says the husband, his face full of cottage pie.

"Yes," says she. "There was this cat, and every morning it goes out into the garden, digs a hole, does its business, and then fills the hole in again. Isn't that clever?"

"No," says he. "All cats do that."

"Not with a fucking shovel!" says she.

The Voice In The Wilderness

All aboard for Gaza

2011-01-21T17:00:00.000Z

What an interesting week this has been! Nothing interesting for me personally - such as a parole hearing date or anything like that - but interesting all the same.

Last Sunday evening, a cohort of the denizens of this wing (and a couple of other wings too) decided to have a quiet and peaceful protest against a few of the recent excesses that have been taking place. Of course I can only speak about the wing where I reside as Lizzie Windsor's guest, albeit an unwilling one. Last Sunday a number of the fellows decided not to lock up at the designated time but a lot of us, me included, were not even informed of this intention! (Probably just as well really as it has turned out.)

So they didn't lock up - they had a quiet and peaceful 'sit-out' strike. This meant, of course, that the kangaroos couldn't go home until the cons, peacefully and without so much as a raised voice, locked up at nine in the evening. Sit-out strike over. The trouble started the following day when the whole place was put on lock-down - and we've been on lock-down ever since!

All of those fellows involved in the meek protest were either carted off to the punishment block or placed on punishment on the wing in that they had their personal stuff taken away from them and were placed on basic regime. The rest of us were told that we were all on lock-down as well, which in itself was a punishment - no showers, nuffink.

On Thursday they decided to let a small number of cons out of their cells at a quarter to nine in the morning and at nine o' clock the alarm bell went and everyone was back on lock-down. Someone had created an incident.

Controlled unlocking followed, and that went on until Saturday when they let half of us out in the morning, for showers and the like, and half in the afternoon. The same thing is happening today, Sunday, and we are told that, provided there are no more incidents, there will be a meeting tomorrow to decide whether to allow the wing to return to normal -whatever that means around here. Of course, most of the rest of the jail is already heing treated normally. It makes you think.

Now, none of this has anything to do with me, or a lot of other cons on this wing, but we are being punished anyway. Clearly those in command of this particular version of the Titanic have never heard of collective punishment being unfair and downright against the ECHR.

Keep watching this space - things might get even more interesting. I'm not making any comments about who is right or who is wrong or anything else, I'm simply stating the facts.

But the way I see things is that if you have a lot of young men, young eagles who have absolutely no future ahead of them, nothing at all, then it would seem judicious to me to treat them with a certain amount of compassion and not a little leeway. A person with nothing to lose takes very little persuading to take a gamble. If there is one thing a person should never be deprived of it is hope. Hope is often the only thing that keeps a person going.

Finally, from my little fountain of pithy sayings and wisdom, I have something that is well worth considering:

It is easier to deal with a friendly lion than it is to deal with a mad dog.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Just blame the dog

2011-01-15T07:04:00.000Z

It's been a rather odd start to the year - I mean even odder than can be expected in this world of insanity and celebrity mediocrity. To start with, it seems that when Desperate Dan McScrooge passed the edict that all medically-retired cons had to be penalised, he had overstepped the mark somewhat. Hoss the Boss has decreed that the medically-retired will NOT be locked up all day but will be allowed to carry out their little jobs and functions unmolested. This has got me to thinking that, just maybe, Hoss the Boss reads my bit (this bit) every week - or, if not him, then someone might. Whatever the case may be, it means I had better demonstrate a certain amount of circumspection in the writing - you never know WHO might be hanging around these days.

Then I had a rather curious note thing from the OASys people to tell me that they are coming to see me on the morning of February 9th at ten bells to "review my OASys", whatever that means. Once a year this is supposed to happen - this will be the fourth for me in a year! Very odd indeed. However, I'm not going to automatically presume it is sinister because it may be that someone, somewhere, has decided to actually put it right at last, maybe at the instigation of an influential figure like Blodwyn or The Wallace - you never can tell with these things. What I DO notice is that it isn't the Smiling Assassin this time but someone else who I don't know, as far as I know.

Then I had a letter from my solicitor to tell me that the parole hearing won't be in February, something nobody had ever mentioned before, but we will get the date any day now as the listings for March would be decided on 7th of this month - last week! No mention of my request for Andrew and the independent psychologist's attendance of course, that seems to have been ignored so I have sent another letter off to them about it. Michael Naughton can't attend but he sent me a book - very nice of him.

I also wrote off to the appeal solicitor to ask for the information required to allow me to write to the ECHR (European Court of Human Rights) in Brussels. Her silence on the subject is deafening so I'll be on her case again this weekend, after I've written this in fact.

So, this year is a bit odd, so far.

On the home front, Boudica's pigeons seem to have largely left her now, but that could be something to do with the insane dog she has got. It's a Staffie called Cassie (I believe) and its party trick is chewing everything in sight, including Boudica. She's bought a muzzle for it but the dog, clearly as mad as a March hare, thinks any form of chastisement is a game.

I've got a little bird myself now, a wagtail that comes into my cell for cheese, and it's turning into a bit of a pest. The minute it starts trying on my clothing I'll chase it out.

Boudica's new little dog got me to thinking and, as I mused, the train of thought wandered, as it does, and I got to thinking about the good old days - although what was good about them is a mystery to me really. Never mind that, I am wandering again - the point is that I got to thinking about my time as a callow youth over there in the good ould Emerald Isle.

When I was about fourteen I had myself my very first girlfriend, whose name I have completely forgotten, and that's probably just as well, everything taken into consideration. She would have been the same age as me and went to the same school, run violently by nuns most of the time. Ever seen a nun play foothall? I'll say this much for them, they are game for a laugh, but they are not slow with a right-hander around the ear for miscreants. I got a lot of right-handers around the ear as I recall.

All of this reminded me of a story - and from this point on you have to read this in an Irish accent.

One Sunday, my girlfriend told me I had to go to her parents' home for my Sunday tea - that's what they did in those days over in Sligo. So, my Grandma got me all done up in my best wellies and off I went.

Now, they had a dog called Heinz - fifty-seven varieties, ha ha. (Sorry about that. I can't actually remember the dog's name - it would be a sorry state of affairs if I could remember the dog's name and not the girl's.) So, I arrive at the farm, on the other side of Easky from where I lived with my Irish grandparents, and pretty soon we were all sitting round the kitchen table for our tea. Oh yes, all the best the farm could offer was there - the cold pies, the sandwiches and a big pot of tay, lovely.

So there's me, tearing lumps off the lettuce sandwiches, when I had a wee accident. I let go with one of those little accidents children seem to find so amusing. Just a wee "Pffutt", nothing to get excited about, but awfully embarrassing to a fourteen-year-old in front of his first girlfriend's family.

But her daddy saved the day - he kicked the dog and said sternly to it, "GET UNDER!"

"Ah," thought I, "this is great - the dog gets the blame!"

A couple of minutes later I do it again, a bit stronger this time and it came out, "Pfffarr".

"GET UNDER!" says the daddy to the dog again.

"Brilliant!" thinks I. "I'm on a winner here."

A couple of minutes later I let go another - I blame the lettuce. This one would have graced a municipal shithouse in Rome. "PFFFAARRRTT!"

"GET UNDER," yells the daddy, "BEFORE HE SHITS ALL OVER YE!"

Had a nice letter from Jo Bruce the other day - sorry, Doctor Bruce. You have to admire the likes of her - not all that well herself and yet she still runs off to third world countries to do all she can to help. Have you seen the pictures of Camp Mercy and read her blog? Boudica thinks she's great - so do I.

Mind, I think farting at my girlfriend's tea table is great, so what do I know? Incidentally, the story about the tea table and the dog? It may be one of my little jokes - much like the OASys in this place.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Fings ain't wot they used ter be

2011-01-06T16:53:00.000Z

I wrote somewhere once about New Year celebrations in prison, in fact it was about the New Year of 1990, or somewhere around there. At the time I was resident in HMP Durham, in the segregation unit there. When midnight struck, the whole world around me seemed to go mad - bells ringing, car horns blowing and explosions of fireworks... THAT was outside of the prison. Inside the prison almost every con would, and did, wait for the stroke of midnight and simply lose the plot. They screamed and howled like rabid dogs (most of them WERE rabid dogs ) and quite simply battered their cell doors until the very prison seemed to be shaking on its foundations. Of course, they were simply celebrating the fact that another year had begun and that meant a year closer to release. All over the country every prison did the same thing. The noise would be horrendous and it would go on for ten to fifteen minutes.

Contrast this year, just a few days ago. There I was, lying in my feather bed as a guest of Lizzie Windsor - an unwilling guest but a guest for a' that (quick reference to Rabbie Burrrrrns there) - and, as I lay in my bed, I could hear my retro alarm clock ticking away the final minutes of the year of grace 2010. Around me the prison was silent. Not a thing stirred, not even a mouse - although I expect a few of the rats were awake and sobbing into their pillows, those who hadn't sold their pillows for a mess of pottage (or a pot of message, either way does).

Then midnight arrived and, in the far distance, I heard a couple of weak 'pops' of fireworks going off as the local populace did their bit to celebrate - two bangers, a Catherine wheel and a rocket: £2.99 from Tescos.

Inside the prison? Not a sound. There wasn't so much as an apologetic cough. This is the way the year starts, not with a bang but with a silent whimper. The prison was silent as the grave.

Oh make no mistake - they would all be awake, all lying there in the dark in their beds, those who hadn't sold their beds for a set of mumbles such as promises (another reference there.) Oh they would be awake all right, lying there and, in many cases, having a little cry to themselves - these tough guys.

Gone are the days when cons screamed defiance at the gods and celebrated a year closer to release. These days nobody has anything to look forward to - they are going nowhere and what's one more year when you have thirty or forty or more stuck up your collective aristotle (as the cockneys would say)?

Nobody celebrates anymore - they have nothing to celehrate, and if they did they wouldn't want to get into any trouble. Well, be fair, they wouldn't want to lose their tellies and have to miss Corrie and Eastenders.

But all is not lost because it would appear that in Ford open prison they (some of them) must have gone on the drink and at some point indulged in a bit of drunken vandalism - fires, windows broken, things like that. All it was (reading between the lines) was a drunken celebration that got out of hand, that's all. I'm not condoning it, but I'm not condemning it either. Put it down to the pressure of the moment and call it a day. But the authorities won't of course. They will send most of the participants back to places like this and they will spend more years pointlessly.

Cons have changed and, as I said at the beginning, fings ain't wot they used ter be.

Finally, to all of those friends who read this drivel every week, may I say with the greatest of sincerity that I hope that the New Year brings each and every one of us all we desire for both ourselves and those we care about. In the words of the little feller in that book by somebody or other, whatsisface, "God bless us, everyone!"

See! Another witty reference and nobody smiled! I don't know why I bother... I bet they don't let ME go to Ford... Two thousand and eleven? That's not a year, that's a gas bill... I'm still trying to come to terms with the 1970's... Why has my kettle not boiled? I put it on ages ago... I may need a lie down, all of this excitement - and the year just started too...Does anyone want to buy a bed?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Desperate Dan McScrooge

2011-01-02T08:39:00.000Z

It may be remembered that for some weeks I banged on a bit about the thirty-nine (39!) governor grades that we have here at the Lazy L and about how, as far as anyone could see, not one of them is doing anything constructive. In fact, not one of them seems to be doing anything at all.

Now, we have all heard the old adage about the devil finding work for idle hands - and this is so true when it comes to the governor grades here at the Lazy L. Having nothing to do, these governor grades seek to do things just to show that they are active in the running of the place. They could always do the job they are paid to do, of course, and then they would be too busy to meddle and bugger things about, but they leave that job to minions. The Lazy L thirty-niners have abrogated all responsibility to lesser mortals. Perhaps I should say "delegated" rather than "abrogated" - but let's not get too pedantic: the meaning is clear.

One of the thirty-niners has decided that from henceforth all cons who are retired for medical reasons must be kept locked in their cells all day every day. The fact that the medical services only retire the seriously ill in the first place seems to have missed his comprehension, but never mind.

Not being allowed to use his name (that would be unkind) I have therefore to give him one of my specials. With it being the season of goodwill to all men - together with the fact that he decided to make this attack on the terminally sick on Christmas Eve - I can give him no better one than Scrooge. In fact Desperate Dan Scrooge sounds even better - and we might as well stick a Mc in there as well (they are allegedly mean-spirited). So Desperate Dan McScrooge it is then.

The reason for retiring such people is so that they are on the wing, within sight and call of staff should an emergency arise. It also gives the infirm the opportunity to conduct their little jobs about the place during the quiet of the working day and so avoid the bustle and hustle of the wing when everyone is running about like a lunatic.

All this has been ignored by this fellow. The fact that he does not have the power to overrule the doctors is something else that has slipped his alert attention. Watch this space - we will see how it turns out.

I'd better tell a seasonal story now I suppose.

A fellow was driving home from work just after midnight, about ten minutes past midnight on Christmas morning in fact. As he turned into his street, his car slipping and sliding on the underpacked ice, he ran into a police roadblock.

"What's going on?" he asked the copper who came to his window.

The street had searchlights, there were armed police, neighbours were out - the lot. Further down the street there seemed to be a group of armed coppers with searchlights pointing upwards. Just before the copper could answer the fellow's question, there came a lot of static from an electric megaphone and a voice boomed out, "I DON'T CARE WHAT YOUR NAME IS, GET THAT REINDEER OFF THE ROOF!"

I hope everyone has a splendid New Year!

The Voice In The Wilderness

The iceman cometh

2010-12-24T07:17:00.000Z

Well, it's official - we have become the laughing stock of Europe. Put it this way - you know that you are on the bottom when the Swedes start taking the mick and laughing at you. It seems that they (the Swedes) get a foot of snow overnight and it barely registers. Kids go to school - as usual; old folk sit on park benches grumbling - as usual; people go to work - as usual; and even the red light district has business - as usual.

In this country, someone mentions snow and the place comes to a complete halt and the experts start warning about the coldest and most severe winter since 1947 and/or 1963. The bleeding hearts and artists whisper into their gin and tonics and pints of real ale about global warming and the next ice age being here. We have po-faced gits coming on the telly assuring us all that we've got enough grit and salt to keep the major roads clear for at least twenty minutes - nothing to worry about.

Then thousands abandon their cars and everything closes down, including the airports - and Santa's sodding Grotto! And we become comatose in our cocoons of warmth and swear never to leave the house again until the 'Big Thaw', whatever that means.

Okay, there has been a bit of snow. It's winter! That's what happens in winter - it snows! Why are we so surprised? Why does the country grind to a halt? This is not a freak occurrence - it happens every bleedin' year!

Is it any wonder that the rest of the world laughs at us? Our leaders assure us that we are a leading world power, we are heavyweights. Bollocks! If a bit of snow brings us to our knees then it is a poor outlook for us being a heavyweight.

The simple fact is that the wrong people are in charge of the wrong things. If we want to make sure that this sort of fiasco doesn't happen in future then give the job to a couple of young school-leavers from Sweden or Norway, THEY know what is needed.

Come to think about it, much the same thing could be said about most government departments - for the love of any Gods that may be, give the jobs to people who know what they are doing! Just because some fool is given a job doesn't mean that they have the ability to do it.

Moving on, it's getting toward Christmas, that time of the year when everyone pretends to be jolly and secretly wishes it was all over so that they can ignore the family for the rest of the year. Having said that, kids love Christmas AND snow.

Ah, the innocence of childhood, where did it go? It seems like only yesterday that I waited eagerly for Christmas morning when I would get a few sweets, an apple and an orange and maybe a few nuts with maybe one present later in the day. Things have changed these days of course. Try giving a kid of our modern society an apple, an orange and a game of Ludo for Christmas and we will find ourselves in Juvenile Court applying for an ASBO against the little hooligans. They would look us in the eye and say, "What's this?"

I can think of no better way than to finish with the words of a Chubby Brown song. Now, this is going to annoy, irritate and quite simply offend a lot of people, but it's no good yelling at me - I didn't write it. It's called "HEY, SANTA! WHERE'S MY FUCKING BIKE?"

Hey Santa! Where's my fucking bike?
I've had a good look round down here
There's fuck all here I like.
My sister got her nurse's gear,
My brother got a mike,
You grey-haired geriatric twat,
Where's my fucking bike?

That'll be me off Santa's list again.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Glad tidings!

2010-12-23T16:51:00.000Z

There is news! I've had a letter from my solicitor to tell me that the Parole Board will set a date for my oral hearing soon and that it is likely to happen at some point in March, or thereabouts. The bit I particularly like is that the board has decided that it will be an oral hearing and seems to have dispensed entirely with the paper exercise which would normally precede an oral hearing. Do they know something I don't know?

Not only that but they specifically want to talk to Blodwyn about both her own findings and those of the independent psychologist... AND they want to talk to the Mighty Wallace as well! They've got the Smiling Assassin on the list too but I am ready to bet right here and now that she is away on leave or sick or something when the date arrives. We will see.

I have informed my solicitor that I would request a few witnesses of my own to attend. I want the independent psychologist for a start because, if his report is to be discussed, who better to discuss it with than the man himself? He has expressed his willingness to attend so I see no difficulty there. Another witness who wishes to attend is, of course, Andrew and, let's be fair, he has given me more sensible advice and guidance in the last couple of years than anyone ever gave me in the previous two decades. Andrew has written to almost everyone he could think of on my behalf - and their dogs. (A little dig at Blunkett there.) Anyway, I have informed him as to who I want to attend and I am going to write to Dr Mike Naughton and invite him too - he may find it interesting and may even want to have an input.

So, March (or thereabouts) it is then! We will see.

I bet Boudica will be pleased - she expects me to knock on the door at any time! She doesn't live in the same world as me. Her world is populated by pigeons, trolls, pretty little girls who like fairy stories and idiots who fall off their bikes in the snow. Did I not tell you? Christopher decided to do a wheelie, or something, on his bike in the snow and fell off. (Pause for belly laughter.) Now don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying that the lad is slightly deranged... Ah bollix! Who am I kidding? He is as mad as a March hare.

There's that March thing again.

So Christmas is here again and no doubt the usual crop of old films will be on the box, everyone will get pissed or overeat and the supermarkets will rub their collective hands in pleasure as they count their ill-gotten gains. Typical Christmas really. Families will forgive each other - two of my brothers have already sent me cards - but by the end of Christmas they will be back at each other's throats again.

I'll do my usual Scrooge impressions of course - the one I do every year, sitting in my kennel pretending to ignore things. However, and I say this with the greatest thanks and humility, I really appreciate all of the support and comments I have received from well-wishers. I can't thank everyone individually, of course - I have no idea who most people are - so all I can do is wish everyone a very merry Christmas and an extremely happy New Year. May we all have all the luck and good fortune that we want for ourselves. Thank you all.

Right, all I've got to do now is find a way to exonerate myself from the cracks I've been making recently about Boudica and her pigeons, and the cartwheel and the toffee-apple crack. When will I learn to keep my mouth shut? I just KNOW that she is writing it all down somewhere and that one day, in the not too distant future, she will say to me, "Right! I want a word with you, you grumpy old goat. What did you mean when you said..."

Women have fantastically long memories. They forget nothing and can prove everything, and bless each and every one of them.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A journey of a thousand miles

2010-12-12T08:37:00.000Z

Mao Tse Tung said that. He said:

A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step.

Well, whether we agree with his politics or ideals or not, the simple fact of the matter is that he was spot on.

Everyone is groaning now - "Aaargh! He's going to waffle on about politics! As if we don't get enough of it out of the lying, back-stabbing rats we elected into parliament! Now HE'S going to start!"

No I'm not. I just mentioned it because I wanted to bring up the subject of the wrongly accused who languish in our prisons - and, make no mistake about it, there are several thousand of them.

There are quite a lot of people trying to do something about it, of course, both groups and individuals. One such individual is Billy Middleton. Billy, wrongly accused himself for many years, lives up there in the wilds of Scotland, and who can blame him for that? Given the opportunity, I'd be living as far away from the British Justice system as I could get. In fact, give me a few seconds and I bet I can think of somewhere else I would rather be - like lying in a hospital bed with all of my teeth kicked out (and some people would think THAT was a good idea). The point is, I would get better - and I'd be out of this place.

I digress, as usual. Let's get back to Billy.

Billy has decided, and is actively planning, to make a trek from one end of the country to the other in the, hopefully, better weather of next summer. He intends (as far as I know) to start from the very top of the land of Scotland (Rabbie Burrrrns, William Wallace, Bonny Prince Charlie and Incey-Wincey Spider notwithstanding) and walk all the way to Land's End on his Walk Free Campaign to bring awareness to the plight of the wrongly accused, and he must be commended for that.

Now - pay attention, there may be a test afterwards - I don't know all the details, but I am sure that Billy will be happy to fill in any gaps for anyone who is interested. Billy intends to make several stops along the way at strategic points to focus attention on particular cases. I don't know where most of these points are, or when he will get there, but I do know that he intends to stop at Hartlepool - I know that much.

Billy may be open to suggestions about stop-offs and might even welcome invitations, I have no idea - nobody ever tells me nuffink. All I know is what I have already itemised here. Support Billy's efforts. Give the lost, lonely and abandoned men and women who are rotting in durance vile a little lift. Offer a helping hand or a kind word to Billy as he wears out his walking boots and chafes the skin on his feet.

Billy, my son, I salute you and, as Mao said, it all starts with one step. Once you take that one step then the adventure begins. I wish I could walk it with you, I really do. It will be like a one man Jarrow march I suppose. Wouldn't it be something if others simply joined in?

Well, I wrote about Billy at the instigation of Boudica. She wanted me to mention Billy's good work and, let's face it, it's a brave man who ignores Boudica's requests - she's got a bit of a temper you know. Ha! That's like saying a Tasmanian Devil is a bit annoyed.

No news with me at all - not a word, nothing, zilch, zero, nada, nowt, as they say in Yorkshire. They say a lot of things up there in Yorkshire that nobody else understands. They are still fighting the Wars of the Roses and burning witches, I think. I've told Boudica, "Don't go to Yorkshire, they'll get you and your familiar, the pigeon." Oh yes, and her pigeon, Scruffy, never did turn up, so it looks like he has gone off to that great pigeon loft in the sky - may his corn be ever tasty.

Finally, a story in the very worst of taste. On second thoughts, forget that - I've got enough enemies without adding to them. Let's try something a little less offensive:

They say that a camel can go eight days without a drink - but who would want to be a camel?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Et tu, Tolstoy

2010-12-11T07:23:00.000Z

I've worked it out. I know the answer.

For a long time now I have been bleating on about Lady Luck and her less than charitable treatment of myself, and no doubt many others - quite right too. However, the identity of the aforementioned old bat had remained a closed book to me. I knew she was lurking and I knew she gave me a periodic boot in the family secrets from time to time, but her actual identity was a mystery. Well, I've worked it out. I know the answer.

However, knowing the answer and telling every bugger and his dog is not in my master plan, not at the minute. Besides, my answer may not be the same as the answer to the identity of the Lady Luck of other folk, if you see what I mean. There isn't just one, you see, there are hosts of the nasty sods.

At the minute (she changes as circumstances demand) my own Lady Luck is, of course, the Smiling Assassin! I saw her yesterday - not to speak to, I'd rather remove my left eye with a burning stick - but I saw her, lurking and looking definitely shifty as she sharpened the blade ready to plunge it into some poor, unsuspecting fellow's spinal chord.

Anyway, she now seems to have got the idea that she is qualified to make recommendations about the future of the poor saps she can get her nasty little digits into. At this point I will mention her qualifications, just for a bit of a laugh. She did an OASys Training Course and a MISAR Training Course (whatever THAT may be.) Now she thinks she knows enough to make recommendations about the future of both prisoners and their families - destroying lives basically. The fact that she doesn't understand the reports of those better qualified than she is simply overlooked, and there would appear to be no checks or balances on what she herself writes about anyone.

The Smiling Assassin has her own agenda - she dislikes prisoners. She will smile at a person with the greatest of sincerity and promise the earth, but then go away and plunge her vitriolic dagger as deeply into the heart as she can.

Now, I knew all of this about her before I ever met her and had been told by everyone who had dealt with her that she would take anything and everything that was said to her and pervert it, so I wasn't going to give her anything to pervert. Ha! What a simple, naive child I was. It's my own fault - I had heen warned several times so nobody to blame but myself really.

I told her I had studied some of the work of Robert Hare (the psychologist who created the PCL-R assessment): she wrote that I had learned how to beat assessments.
I told her that I was uncomfortable discussing family: she wrote that I had denied having a family.

I won't go on - the idea is plain for all to see.

The thing about her, and the reason she has earned the name "The Smiling Assassin" of course, is that she can seem so sincere to the face and assure the prisoner that she will go and do everything she can to help and assist him. She leaves the prisoner feeling better, as though he has a sort of lifeline. That's why her stabs in the back are so much more hurtful.

This brings me neatly to our old friend and comrade in arms, Leo Tolstoy - born in 1829 and died in 1910, just in time to miss the revolution he had advocated for so long. Tolstoy wrote:

I sit on a man's back, choking him and making him carry me, and yet assure myself and others that I am very sorry for him and wish to ease his lot by all possible means - except by getting off his back.

Maybe we should consider changing The Smiling Assassin's name to Leo - it's easier to spell.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Singing from the same hymn sheet

2010-11-25T19:05:00.000Z

And so it begins...

It is now officially official because all parties have been heard from and been given their opportunity to boot me in the conundrums - nobody can say they didn't have a chance.

All reports have been finalised and "locked in", as their rather odd jagon has it - the die is cast, the arrows are flying through the air, the missile has been launched.

Okay, for those who are more comfortable with less colourful speech and prefer plain talking, here are the facts. All of the reports have been completed and suhmitted to the Parole Board, as far as I know, and the results are as follows:

My home OM - Offender Manager, formerly my probation officer - has said that she wants me in an Open Prison to prepare me for release.
The independent psychologist, an immensely likeable person, has said precisely the same thing - Open Prison to prepare me for release.
The prison psychologist, who we all know and love as Blodwin, also would be quite happy to see me in Open Prison to prepare me for release and she will be attending the Parole Board and telling them so.
The only fly in the proverbial, of course, is the Smiling Assassin, but she doesn't count - she has no business making recommendations in the first place.

So, we have everyone singing from the same hymn sheet - and anyone who has any sort of experience of the prison service will fully appreciate how difficult that can be, to get everyone in unison. So (I've got to stop saying that, I'm a PhD for God's sake!)... Anyway (and that's no better), the tide is coming in at last.

Bugger it, nobody will get that reference:

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the Main.

Arthur Clough.

It could be said that the feet are firmly planted on the long road of progress at last.

What bothers me in all this is - where is that fickle ould tart who has been the bane of my life for so many years? Where is she? Lady Luck? Has she found someone else to torment? I hope she has - but if she has, whoever you are, God bless you, you've got my sympathy.

The next step in the saga of the 'Demented Prisoner' is to get an actual date for the Parole Hearing, and that of course is only something that my solicitor can push for.

To move on...

It may he remembered that I have been banging on a bit lately about how many governors we have here at the Lazy L, a total of thirty-nine to be exact. I now find that I may have been just a bit uncharitable because it seems that while there ARE thirty-nine people here of governor grade, a fair number of them are really just heads of various departments and not governors as such. They just have the governor grade, and that is probably more to do with pay structures as much as anything else. Still, they are governor grades, and thirty-nine in one clink is too many by anyone's criteria.

Finally, Boudica - or, as her adoring fans call her, Attila the Nun. (Ha ha! I like that one. Did I write that? I can't wait to see what I write next - I'm entertaining myself here.)

So, Boudica definitely seems to have lost her favourite pigeon, Scruffy. She's still got thirty or so others, so there is no call for anyone to put pigeons in boxes to send to her, although you can if you want to - I haven't got to deal with them so I don't care. It's her birthday on December 7th so I would appreciate it if people would be kind enough to send her birthday messages because I think she has reached the grand total of fifty now. I'm not sure of course - and I can't ask because I am supposed to know these things.

Besides, she'd only want to poke me in the eye again.

Oh yes, I have this uncanny ability to bring out the very best in people. It's a skill you know, given to few - and the main reason why I wear protective goggles.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Don't ask me!

2010-11-20T07:23:00.003Z

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed how difficult it is to get any sense out of anyone these days - especially officialdom or any of its minions?

I'm not talking about daft questions, such as "Are you reading that paper you are sitting on?" but real questions like, "Can you tell me who is in charge, please?" or, 'Who do I talk to about this?" You simply can't get an answer!

"I'll have to talk to my line manager... Leave it with me... I'll look into it and get back to you..."

That's the last you will see or hear from them. Does this only happen to me?

Of course, there are some questions that you shouldn't even ask, never mind expect an answer to. To start with, never ask a woman how old she is because she will never answer but will come back (probably) with a question of her own such as, "How old do I look?"

RUN! Leg it! Head for the hills, rip your own throat out with a rusty garden fork - anything but answer that question. NEVER!

If you try to be charitable and say she is younger than she really is, she will presume you are taking the piss and make life very, very uncomfortable for you. If you go the other way and say she is older then you might as well put fifty pence in the meter, get a cushion and shove your head into the nearest gas oven. It's all over for you, mate! As for getting it right - forget it, not a chance. And even if you do get it right by pure chance then you will be accused of knowing all along, so you can't hardly win really.

But this is getting away from the point - the point is that it has become impossible to get an answer to a perfectly reasonable enquiry these days.

Then we've got the other problem - asking for advice or being asked for advice.

It's no good asking for advice - nobody cares enough to actually listen to anything being said to them. They all have their own agendas in prison and any advice given will be tilted and clouded by that hidden agenda.

Being asked for advice? Another minefield!

This morning (Tuesday 16th November 2010) one of my contemporaries approached me and said (I paraphrase ), "Hey, Frank! Listen, I need a bit of advice... " and he went on to tell me that he had to make a decision about something and wanted advice. I heard him out, of course, and then sat looking at his expectant little dial as he waited for words of wisdom from the venerable and humble old con - well, not so venerable and not so humble, I'm just an old con.

"Well," said I finally, "let me tell you something about advice. You usually find that when someone comes, as you have, asking for guidance or advice, they don't really want it because they have already made their minds up. No, what they are really after is approbation. They want someone else to agree with what they have already decided. The reason for that is so that if their decision should turn out to be stupid they can then point a finger and say, 'You told me to do it!' So, they don't want advice, they just want somebody to blame when it goes tits up."

"No! No!" he protested. "It's nuffink like that!"

I just grinned at him. "You are a big lad now, over twenty-one. You have to make your own decisions in life - this is one of them. Look, you know what you intend to do, so go and do it. Have confidence in your own decisions. You'll make mistakes - everybody makes mistakes in life - and let's face it, nitwit, in life your mistakes are the only thing you can really call all your very own work. Good luck with that then," and I grinned again.

"You're a horrible sod," says he, disgruntled.

"True," I agreed, "but I make my own decisions. Off you go and make yours."

So, really I am no different from all of the others who won't or can't answer questions. I don't mind making decisions and taking the blame for my own mistakes, but I see no reason why I should take the blame for the decisions of others. And perhaps that is at the root of the whole thing - nobody wants the blame for things that they are not responsible for.

I'm too old for all this, that's the trouble.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Tina Turner kidnapped!

2010-11-12T21:53:00.000Z

It's official! I have finally worked it out. The evidence was right before my eyes all along of course, but, yours truly not being the brightest star in the firmament, I failed to see it. However, once I did see it, the facts became so clear - and the facts are...

Prisons are now being run for the henefit of the staff - prisons have nothing to do with prisoners! The prisoners are merely the goods and chattels which have, quite simply, become part of the furniture of the prisons that are being run for the sole benefit of those who work in them. And when I say work I am speaking very loosely indeed.

Don't misunderstand me. The great majority of the people who work in prisons really do want to do the job they are paid for, but a small few won't let them. A small few think prisoners should be given nothing, taught nothing and kept incarcerated inside their cells on bread and water for twenty-seven hours a day.

These people are invariably members of the P.O.A., that august body of men and women who resent each and every innovation which might mean that the prisoner's lot may be improved and that they may actually have to do something to earn their stipend. They walk around in groups, grizzling and learning from the P.O.A. manual, "Ten Thousand Ways To Say No".

Then, of course, we've got the thirty-nine governors here at the Lazy L who have also taken to wandering about the place in groups. Well, they have to I suppose - there aren't enough offices for them all to hide in.

To move on slightly, on this wing we have a female warder - in fact she must be a kangress! (That's a brand new word - let's see if I can make it take on.) I can't use her name, of course, and I wouldn't want to, but she is grumpy. Now, I know from experience that it is actually harder and takes more skills to be grumpy than it does to be a Polyanna. The thing is, not only does it take more skills to be grumpy, it is actually much more fun. The reality is that her bark is much worse than her bite and she actually goes to great lengths to help those with problems. I like her immensely. She is rude to me, but I can see her grinning when I am rude back. We have sort of developed a system of finger signals which would be understood in any language.

I got my Saturday Telegraph this week, for a change - I am waiting now to see whether I get my Mail on Sunday. In tbe M-O-S last week there was a free Tina Turner CD. At the price we pay, I would expect a weekend with Tina Turner, never mind a bleedin' CD. Anyway, be that as it may, tbe CD should have been given to me - after all, I paid for it. It wasn't. They said to apply for it from reception. I did that - reception know nothing about it. In fact nobody knows 'nuffink' about it. The Tina Turner CD has disappeared into the ether. I'm going to have a word with the Independent Members' Board (formerly the Board of Visitors) about it. There was a DVD in yesterday's paper and I got that no trouble. Clearly there is a Tina Turner fan who is too mean to buy the Mail on Sunday.

Finally, I turn my attention to that wonderful heart of gold, Boudica. She writes to me every day, posts the letters daily - and that's what Boudica does, as I do myself. Last week I found it necessary to tell a P.O.A. member that he was bone idle because he quite simply refused to get the mail and distribute it. Since then I have had no mail whatsoever from anyone. I make no further comment on that but I'll be bringing that up with tbe I.M.B. too. It is childishly vindictive really. The mug goes home each and every night to his family, if he's got one. Prisoners never go home. Our mail is our life-line.

Where was I? Oh yes, Boudica. The war of the Errant Pigeons between Boudica and the Troll may be over because Boudica thinks that the Troll has rented the house to a young couple and therefore the Troll may now bugger off and stop assassinating Boudica's birds. The star of the show, Scruffy, now has a friend too, apparently - so perhaps that is all turning out for the best.

Where does it all leave me? Nowhere, that's where. I'm still in the process of getting good old Blodwyn to sort out the mess made by the Smiling Assassin in respect of my recategorisation and reallocation. In fact it is business as usual really - hurry up and wait.

Has anybody got a copy of Tina Turner's Greatest Hits they don't want? Send it to the tea-leaf who has pinched mine.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Halloween

2010-11-07T07:40:00.001Z

Today is October the 31st - All Hallows, or Halloween. This is when prowling gangs of little kids wander about knocking on people's doors and making veiled threats -"Trick or treat, Mister!"

I'm surprised that a few of the more childish characters around this place don't do it - they are immature enough. Still, there is plenty of time, who knows? Mind, hairy-arsed thugs wouldn't be satisfied with a few sweets - "Treat - or we'll kick yer nuts up around yer Adam's apple," would be more like it.

I'm being unfair. This is probably one of the calmest periods in the history of the prison service - there is very little violence so forget I made that puerile crack.

Where was I? Oh yes, October the 31st. Now, anyone with more than a passing acquaintance with me and my use of the English language will probably be aware of the fact that over the years I have read a couple of books (written a couple too, but they don't count). From all of the stuff I've read, all allegedly true too, my mind is filled with facts and figures, none of which is readily available - they are all buried in the subconscious or wherever it is in the brain we store this stuff. To recall this information entails, normally (for me anyway), a certain amount of thought.

However, this does not apply to October the 31st because, for some reason, a couple of facts from history jumped into my mind this morning as I sat with my first cuppa, scratching myself.

On today's date in 1971 the IRA blew up a bomb in the restaurant at the top of the Post Office Tower in London, causing a lot of damage and loss of life.

The second thing that came to mind was that on this date in the year of grace 1517 Martin Luther published the document which effectively began the Restoration Period. I don't remember anything else about it, such as the title (and it will have a title), and I'm too lazy to actually get the book down and look it up, but there we have it - 1517. Remember it for future reference. You never know, one day you might be on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire" and that might be the big question ,

Were there ever two such diverse facts? Why do I remember them? Well, the IRA one is simple - I have, over the years of my incarceration, met some of those responsible and I've heard it discussed in cells where copious amounts of home-brewed hooch were being industriously quaffed.

Why I remember the Martin Luther thing is a mystery, though. It's not as though I ever met the fellow, although there are people who think I'm old enough to have done so.

Anyway, that's October the 31st - All Hallows.

It may be remembered that last week they failed to deliver my Saturday Telegraph newspaper and it left me disgruntled. I made enquiries of course, forceful ones, and was assured that it had been a mere oversight by the newsagent and my order would be extended for a week until 13th November. Yesterday (yes, you've guessed it) - no paper again. Now I am waiting to see if my Mail on Sunday arrives.

Finally, Boudica and her pigeons. She's got a favourite and his/her/its name is Scruffy. (Apparently it's not the most attractive bird in the firmament.) Scruffy lives on Boudica's window sill. It bangs on the window and rushes inside at every opportunity.

Well, Scruffy now has a friend and, though nervous just at the minute, will soon learn from Boudica that there's nothing to be scared of. I've got to say this about Boudica, she has a great big heart on her. She is kind and signs up to all manner of causes. She "feels" for the less fortunate.

Me, I'm too busy feeling for my bloody newspapers!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nitwits 'R' Us

2010-10-29T09:00:00.000+01:00

It's official! It can't be denied! Here in the Lazy L (the fiefdom of Hoss the Boss) nobody has a clue what they are doing - and if they did they wouldn't bother to do it because nobody gives a toss anyway! So, it's official - the lunatics have taken over the asylum.

Every 13.395 seconds somebody comes up with yet another idea which effectively makes the dump even harder to manage. This has nothing to do with the Kangas or the cons - those two groups are just the poor folk who have to put up with the lunatics who are running the place. The simple fact is that we have here on the Ponderosa, the Lazy L, a grand total of thirty-nine (39!) governors. When you consider that there are only thirty-nine cons on my wing, then the figure is put into perspective - effectively we have a whole wing's worth of governors. We have governors for bins, governors for showers, governors for table-fucking-tennis balls! But can we get just one of them to do something sensible?

Don't be ridiculous. Governors are not here to 'do' things, they are here to come up with stupid ideas which serve no other purpose than making it harder to do things. It's got so bad that the Number One, Hoss the Boss, has even started asking cons to submit ideas that will assist the prison in operating better. Clearly he has given up on getting any sensible ideas from the Dirty Thirty-Nine.

So, what has happened to attract my attention? A good question, and I can answer it - which is more than any of the bleedin' governors can do.

I order the Daily Telegraph - I like to read it, and on Saturdays there is a whole slew of stuff that comes with it, such as telly magazines, several diverse sections and sometimes the odd free CD or DVD. Of course they are not free - at £1.60p I am really paying through the nose.

Yesterday, Saturday 23rd October, my Telegraph didn't even arrive in the prison - so obviously I didn't get my paper, didn't get my telly mag and didn't get any free gifts that may or may not have been included in the paper.

That's not the end of it, not by a long shot. Those who DID get their newspapers - Mirror, Times, Sun, Lesbians Weekly - all had their telly mags removed on the order of some nitwit governor because they were free! Apparently he didn't like the idea of prisoners getting anything free.

Nothing is "free"! That's why the newspapers cost what they do - the costs are taken into account! Bleedin' moron...

Obviovsly there was a fuss - many cons sort of growling and being less than polite about it - and the telly mags were finally sent over to those who owned them, but not any free CDs or DVDs.

Personally I think somebody should sue the fool. If a person buys something - newspaper, rubber doll, baseball bat - and there is a free gift with it, then nobody has any legal right to withold that free gift under any circumstances.

None of this helps me of course - I still haven't got a telly mag, so I have no idea what's on telly for the week. Not that I watch much telly really. In fact, if it wasn't for the PS2 I wouldn't want the telly at all.

So here I sit, a big, hairy-arsed, former career criminal - and I am whingeing on about a telly magazine. I need to get out more...

The Voice In The Wilderness

How I met your mother

2010-10-29T08:56:00.000+01:00

It is the morning of Thursday the 21st October 2010 and the proletariat have all gone off to the salt mines or the stone quarries - or wherever it is they go to work these days. The point is, they've gone and left me at a bit of a loose end. However, as anyone who glances at this drivel on a regular basis will be fully aware, I can turn adversity into triumph at the drop of a hat. (That sounds a bit flash - it's not meant to be.)

Anyway, be that as it may, before the peasants buggered off leaving the idle poor to their own devices, there was a bit of a conversation and one of them asked another:

When did you meet your wife?

Now, this is a question asked in many ways by many people and, in particular, children often ask their fathers:

Dad! How did you and Mum first meet?

I'm taking this a step further and have decided, in my wisdom, to inform the world how I first met Boudica, and I might even put a word of truth in here and there - but I doubt it.

Everybody will be familiar with the children's name, often played at parties, of musical chairs. We all know how it works - we run around to music and when the music stops we grab a chair and sit on it. Whoever fails to get a chair is 'OUT'.

Well, grown-ups have a similar game (probably marginally less fun) that they play at parties. (I went to a party once where everyone threw their front door keys into a pile in the middle of a table - pick a key and whoever owned it, that's who you went home with that night. I ended up with an AA box on the A57. I digress...)

The grown-up version of musical chairs doesn't involve chairs at all - you just walk around with a drink and, when the music stops, you grab the nearest woman and kiss her. If you are a woman then you grab a fellow (it prevents acrimony).

So there I was, wandering about with a drink, when the music came to a stop - so I grabbed the nearest girl and kissed her. The girl was Boudica and she followed me round all niqht after that.

Oh I know what you are all saying at this moment - you are saying:

Come off it, Frankie, you are not that good a kisser.

Well, that may be true, but what I didn't tell you was that Boudica was doing a cartwheel at the time. I'm still wondering why she had nylons on her arms and a hairy face. (Sod it, she's going to make me pay for that.)

The Voice In The Wilderness

Are we there yet?

2010-10-20T19:58:00.000+01:00

There is no other way to put this - the simple facts of the matter are that I am a Vulgarian. It's not to be denied! Now, for those of us who spend their time watching Star Trek , a Vulgarian is not a race from outer space - eat your popcorn and stop bothering decent folk. No, a Vulgarian is a person (no sexual preferences here, it can apply to anyone - male, female and those who can't make their minds up) who swears, uses foul language, uses profanity. Put it this way, if they gave away gold stars for not cursing I wouldn't fucking get one!

There are those (a bit up themselves in my opinion) who look askance at us lesser mortals, the swearing class, and say that we lack the ability to express ourselves in proper English, or that we are just lazy - and there may well be a bit of truth in that. BUT! There are times when being a Vulgarian helps a good deal - I know, I've been there.

Let me paint a little picture - a vignette as it were. At this point all of you girlie types can bugger off and make yourselves a cup of herbal tea, paint your fingernails, kick the dog - do what you like. This bit is strictly for the boys. (That has ensured that all the females will read it, them being naturally nosey to start with. Well, women are different to men - that can't be argued with. They are wired-up differently, they are on continental wiring. They do not play with the full deck of cards and are cheating to boot!)

Let us suppose that our car is being uncooperative and we find that it needs a simple procedure such as a new starter motor. Not much point wasting a couple of hundred quid on something we can do perfectly well ourselves, so we do.

Before we can put the new motor on (five quid from any scrapyard) we first have to remove the dysfunctional one. So we get a good, solid grip on the bolt with our trusty spanner, settle our feet for a good purchase and... HEAVE!

The spanner slips off the nut and we punch the engine block so hard that if we did it to an elephant we'd be arrested for cruelty. The skin is ripped from our knuckles in huge swathes and blood flows so copiously that if we gave that much to the Blood Transfusion Service we would get that gold star mentioned earlier.

So there we stand, sucking our torn hand, and I've got to say it, the pain is so bad that we do not look up to heaven and say in a meek sort of voice, "Oh dear!" No, we point our noses up to the sky and yell, "YOU F...... " and so on.

So, is there a case where the vernacular and ONLY the vernacular will serve? Well, now you know why I'm a dedicated Vulgarian. You ladies can continue to read this now.

So I am a Vulgarian. Well, I've got to say it, there are times when a great deal of personal satisfaction can be gained from letting it all out in no uncertain terms. Boudica does it - she has no compunction or restraints when it comes to letting someone know what she thinks, and annoying her is not the wisest career move that a fellow could make.

Apparently, two more of Boudica's pigeons have been assassinated, and the Troll is the main suspect. In fact the Troll is the only suspect. The thing is that Boudica is beginning to get annoyed, and annoying her is a bad plan. The British Army don't annoy Boudica - and they've got TANKS! No, when Boudica gets annoyed wise men find nice deep holes to hide in and pull the tops in after them.

So here is my problem, me being a humanitarian Vulgarian - should I tell the Troll to behave herself?

OR....

Should I just sit back and let the invective flow copiously?

I'm keeping out of it - fuck it.

Finally (and I suspect that everyone will have realised this by now), there is no progress or news about my impending (possibly) downgrading, or my impending (also possibly) transfer to greener pastures. I saw Blodwin during the week and all she could tell me was that the paperwork was going up to the Deputy Governor (Hoss the Boss's assistant) on Thursday just gone, that would be the 14th October. A bit early yet for a response I suppose - we will see what next week brings.

I'm a bit like a little kid sitting in the back of the car. "Are we there yet?"

The Voice In The Wilderness

Great expectations

2010-10-17T08:28:00.001+01:00

Jails are made of bricks and passions, broken dreams and ribald men.

And if there was ever a true statement, or a thought-provoking one, that was it.

The good news is that I have finally got the independent psychologist's report and assessment from my solicitor. The solicitor thinks it may be a bad idea to submit the report to the parole board (or any other board I should think) on the grounds that it is less than complimentary in respect of the PCL-R, the HCR20 and other engines of assessment.

Well, I don't agree. If a document is critical of the PCL-R, or any other assessment engine being used by the prison service, then surely that must be seen as a reflection on the engine rather than on the individual being assessed. If something isn't quite as efficient as everyone thinks it is, then that should be stated. After all, it's all about personal opinions at the best of times really, and we all know that two people can see the same incident entirely differently.

Wasn't it Frederick Langbridge who wrote:

Two men look out through the same bars;
One sees the mud, and one the stars.

There we have it! The prison service (though not everyone in it) not only sees the mud generally but wallows in it.

The psychologist writes a long and interesting report, and where I could offer argument about one or two points, generally he strikes me as extremely sensible as well as entirely academic in his approach to matters - he researches things thoroughly, something that young trainees simply don't do.

Whatever he may have said about me, and very little of it could be objected to by me. The bottom line seems to be that my risk of reoffending would seem to be more or less zero. It doesn't come any lower than that really. He also feels that I should be sent to an open prison. Blodwyn, in her wisdom, also thinks I should be downgraded - in her case to a Category C. Then, of course, we have The Wallace saying the same thing - send him to a Cat C at least, and all other report writers are nodding in agreement.

Oddly enough, the Smiling Assassin has been conspicuous by both her physical absence and her lack of input. I say no more there.

I have sent a copy of the psychologist's report to Blodwyn - she may want to use it when she sees the Deputy Governor to ask him to sign the papers for my downgrading and transfer. Besides, she expressed a desire to see it - I promised she would and I always keep my word.

So, where does that leave me now?

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking ,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the Main.

Oh yes, Arthur Clough knew what he was talking ahout all right. In this case the tide is certainly coming in, flooding the creeks and inlets. I am sure that there is bound to be someone, somewhere in the system, who will try to stop the tide, but King Canute tried that - all he got was wet feet.

Watch this space carefully, I'm expecting a bit of good news sooner or later - I feel a bit like Pip in Great Expectations.

Finally, a word about Boudica. She hasn't managed to get a letter to me yet this week - it seems that the mail is a good week behind. I've approached the right authorities on the matter, but somebody is lying to them.

Oh yes, we assure you, Sir, the mail is being delivered.

Oh well, we will see.

Consequently I can't give my weekly report on Boudica, her pigeons and her ongoing war with The Troll.

In all of this, one important protagonist has been completely overlooked and that is that nasty ould tart, Lady Luck. I think she's been away on holiday or something recently (or her attention is on some other poor bugger) but she hasn't been kicking me. I almost miss her. I was starting to like her periodic kicks in the cobblers - my only real contact with another person. Who am I trying to k1d? She's not real and there is no contact, it's all metaphorical - but you know what I mean.

The Voice In The Wilderness

RAM day

2010-10-08T18:32:00.000+01:00

This morning at 10 o'clock, one of the Kangas came to ask me if I would go down to the visits area where the Risk Assessment Management board were sitting because they were ready to see me. I wasn't scheduled until 10:30 but I wasn't exactly busy, unless playing Resident Evil 4 can be considered as busy.

"Certainly!" cried I. "I'm on my way."

Of course it took me half an hour to get there - it is almost impossible to get from A to B in this place at the best of times. I finally got there and then had to hurry up and wait. So from 10:30 until almost eleven I just sat outside twiddling my thumbs.

Just as well they were ready for me at ten, or I'd have been sitting there still. But that's just me being churlish.

I went in just before 11 o'clock and there were four females sitting there and, as we all know, I get on with the female of the species - it's the males that I am sick of the sight, sound and smell of. I like women - I think I must be a secret lesbian. Sorry - a secret lady in sensible shoes.

What was I talkng about? Oh yes.

In I went.

"Sit anywhere you like," says the chairperson - a pleasant woman with a smile. "We don't want this to seem like a tribunal, so sit wherever you care to, wherever makes you feel comfortable."

I just sat on the chair at the end of the table, obviously where the accused should be sitting.

Blodwyn was there, along with another woman whose name I have forgotten but whom I have had one or two funny chats with. There was a youngish woman taking the minutes and whose name I didn't catch because she spoke quietly - and, of course, the chairwoman.

Well, there is little purpose served in going into what was said, all that matters is the final outcome and that was this:

They want me sending to a Category C prison, but Portsmouth isn't accepting cons at the minute, it being in a transitional stage. So both the chairwoman and Blodwyn are going to speak to the Deputy Governor personally, in addition to filling in the correct paperwork, and they are advising him that I should he made into a Cat C and transferred to Channings Wood, which is in Devon, or in that direction somewhere - the West Country anyway. However, should the Dep decline to downgrade me, then I will have to go to a Cat B prison and then wait to be downgraded and go to a Cat C from there.

What I'm wondering now is, will the Dep sign the papers? I know that I am to be given the strongest recommendations, but, as was mentioned on the board, I have only been a Cat B for just over a year. The Dep may baulk at committing an act of decency - they often do.

Howsomever (that's a great word - it makes me smile), as we all know, I am the world's most optimistic pessimist and we can only hope for the best but expect the worst. It will be a couple of weeks (probably) before the Dep decides but, with the support I've got from all the right people and quarters, I remain hopeful.

So one day, in the not too distant future, the weekly Voice may suddenly come under the heading of Channings Wood, or some other low joint. I can only say, "Watch this space".

Finally, what will Boudica say about it?

"Channings Wood? Where is Channings Wood? Why didn't you ask them to send you to Botany Bay while you were at it? Portsmouth was far enough but at least we knew where that was on the map! Channings bleedin' Wood! It sounds like a spot for tourists and picnics!"

Not my idea - I just report the facts. So don't shoot me, I'm only the piano player.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Sunday

2010-10-08T18:06:00.000+01:00

It's Sunday - the third day of October to be precise.

Sunday - that day in the week when all over the planet things come to a halt in Christian countries and everyone takes it nice and easy for the day. People lie in bed later (apart from those who have to get out of bed to cater for the lazy buggers who stay in because it's Sunday.)

Sunday means all sorts of things to all sorts of people and here at the Lazy L it is no different, I suppose, apart from one minor fact - here at Hoss the Boss's ranch it means, quite simply, a day of utter, mind-destroying boredom. It gets so bad here that sometimes I seriously consider thrusting a fork into my leg just to make things interesting.

Still, we mustn't complain, eh? After all, it could be worse - we could have been born Welsh.

Speaking of the leek killers, I see that Druidism can now put itself down for a slice of the charity cake because it is an officially accepted religion. Well, I've got to be honest about this and say that men running round in long white robes with big beards and wearing myrtle wreaths on their heads wouldn't exactly inspire me much. Waving sickles around would merely serve to encourage me to keep away from them - you could have somebody's eye out with one of those things.

Sunday - the weekly day of atonement.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it is a week since my last confession."

"And what is the hature of this sin? My child."

"I've had the impure thoughts, Father."

"lmpure thoughts, ye say! Away and say three decades for yer sins, yer bowsie."

Of course, sometimes the sins are so horrendous - lustful thoughts spring to mind - that a few decades simply won't do. Our sins - for what they are in this world of murder and mayhem - are so wicked that we feel the guilt right down to our little tootsies - we wanted to see the postman hung, drawn and quartered - that we have to come up with our own, self-imposed penances. I once tied barbed wire around my underpants and flagellated myself on the floor.

"Have you any impure thoughts my son?"

The fucking barbed wire was killing me - and that's something ELSE I've got to be sorry for!

Sunday - do the pagans have to suffer it? Somehow I doubt it. All they do is dance around in the moonlight and chase scantily-clad girls through the woods yelling, "I'll cure yer sins!"

"Have you any impure thoughts my son?"

Boudica has - she has them every Sunday and they are all to do with the Troll. More of Boudica's pigeons have been assassinated apparently - at least two more. It's a good job she's got dozens of the feathered pests really. Every time she opens the back door of the house there is a concerted rush by a gang of commando pigeons to get inside. I've told her, it's only a matter of time before they are sitting on the settee, watching the Pigeon Channel on Sky and demanding cups of tea. She's got one called Scruffy who actually stands all day on the back step and fights off the others.

What I want to know is this - why has David Attenborough not been to make a documentary about the Mad Pigeon Woman of Hartlepool?

Sunday - I'm thinking about getting done up in fancy dress, just for the fun of it. I might shove a sweeping brush up my bum, pour treacle on my head and pretend I'm a toffee apple.

Still - look on the bright side - it's Monday tomorrow. I've got the Risk Assessment Management board on Tuesday and everyone wants me moving to greener pastures. Blodwyn wants me into a Cat C prison at least.

I wonder if they will let me feed the pigeons.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A grumpy old goat

2010-10-06T20:07:00.000+01:00

In my capacity as a miserable, grumpy old goat I often find myself at odds with so many things in life for no other reason than that I am a miserable, grumpy old goat. I've said it before, and no doubt I will say it again at fairly regular intervals, it's not easy being me.

The simple fact is that I am grumpy at the best of times. Just about everything gets on my wick, irritates me, annoys and just generally pisses me off. However, it is not a malicious sort of "pissed off" - not a bit of it. No, it's just a general sort of thing such as being annoyed at the drivel politicians spout when it is blatantly obvious they don't believe a word of what they are saying themselves, they are merely adhering to the party line.

Esoteric - esoterically pissed off, that's what I am - me and millions like me. But it doesn't make me or them a bad person or bad people, it just makes us pissed off.

However (and with me there is always an however), every now and then, from time to time, there is a genuine cause for my state of irritation and this time it is that wonderful person whom we have all come to know and love well - the Smiling Assassin. Once again she has raised her ugly head above the parapet to take a couple of shots at me. Personally I think she must be in league with that other fickle ould tart, Lady Luck.

As we all know, I have been undergoing a good deal of assessment and other interviews to ascertain whether I am suitable to be treated like a human bean or whether I am actually - as the Smiling Assassin would like us all to believe - as mad as a March hare.

I now have in my possession reports from various sources such as Blodwyn, The Wallace, my personal officer and his line manager. Without exception, and without any form of caveat, they all say the same thing - it is time to give the miserable, grumpy old bastard a break and let him go off to greener pastures. All I am waiting for now is two more finished and final reports - one from Blodwyn and one from the independent psychologist. I fully expect that these will also support me in the strongest terms. I hope to have them in my gruby little mitts before Tuesday 5th October when I go before the Risk Assessment Board.

Da da! Enter,stage left, the Smiling Assassin. It is completely matterless what anyone may say to this woman, she will twist and distort it to suit her own ends, and if those ends are not vicious enough then she will quite simply lie. There is not a prisoner in the place who has a good word for her and she was once heard to say that if she had her way then all cons would be kept in their cells for twenty-four hours a day - no telly, no radio, chained to the wall and fed on bread and water. Oh no, the Smiling Assassin doesn't like prisoners. It makes me wonder why she is even in the job, unless of course she gets her thrills this way.

Anyway, be that as it may, she wanted me to go and talk to her about the upcoming RAM board. Why? She makes no reports! She merely collates from the reports that are submitted by the authorised areas and departments. I wouldn't go to see her yesterday - she can rip my heart out without any assistance from me, thank you very much.

Was that good enough for her? Was it hell. She came to my cell door and, while I cannot remember her exact words verbatim (only policemen can do that), I can give the gist of her comments and veiled threats.

You need to speak to me... It is for your own good.. The only person you will harm is yourself... You promised Blodwyn...

And so on.

In the end I made one comment. I said, "You can stand there talking all afternoon, it won't do you any good. I've got nothing else to say to you," and ignored her as I went for a drive on my PS2.

She stood there for a minute or two, made a couple of other cracks but finally buggered off.

So, what is she going to put into the document which she is going to prepare for the board? The same document incidentally which she threatened to use against me weeks ago and which has now been superceded by factual stuff from the various report writers. She was going to submit the document KNOWING it to be false, wrong and all the rest of it, if I didn't speak to her. She intended to do it anyway of course, but now she can't - she knows all about the new reports, the support I have and all the rest of it. However, she will still try to slide the metaphorical knife into my poor, aching ribs because she knows no other way of life.

As I said earlier, it's not easy being me.

I am doing myself a big service by not speaking to her because I know that in my honesty I would be offensively rude, and I have no desire or intention of putting myself in such a position - far better not to speak at all, not even with witnesses.

And that, my friends is called spotting a problem before it can develop and taking the appropriate action to avoid it. I might be a miserable, grumpy old goat, but I'm not a stupid miserable, grumpy old goat.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Confusion rules

2010-09-30T18:25:00.000+01:00

I'm confused.

By this time, it has become a well-established medical fact that I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, not the most observant of creatures, and certainly not the brightest star in the firmament. We all know these things. Nevertheless, I'm confused.

I'll simplify it - well, it has to be simple for my overworked brain cell:

In prison, any prison as far as I am aware, there is a system in place for writing reports about cons, whether these reports are for Sentence Planning (stop laughing in the back row, this is serious.) Sentence Planning! There is only one plan - to go home. Anyway, whether it be Sentence Planning, Risk Management, Parole or any other bleedin' thing - they are all the same reports, all written by the same people, all going to the one central point (which is the Offender Management Unit - OMU) and collated. They are all the same people, all the same reports and all put together by the same person.

This is what confuses me - and maybe it is more a reflection on my poor thinking skills rather than on the incompetence of those who couldn't (apparently) organise a piss-up in a brewery. About a year ago my risk levels were all judged as low, apart from being medium to the public. Don't ask me how they work these things out, they don't know themselves - otherwise the system wouldn't be failing so spectacularly. Suddenly, about a year ago, my risk levels were changed to High Risk to the public and High Risk to a "known" adult.

At that point I got onto the Wallace about it, and Andrew wrote to the Number One Governor here several times. "Who is this 'known' adult?" was the question. "Er, um, there is no known adult," was the answer. So that was changed to low risk and the public risk was changed to medium. So, that made me a low risk to just about everyone and everything on the planet - apart from flies. (I dislike flies - they irritate me, they intrude, they annoy, they distract the attention. I don't like flies.)

So, there we were - low risk. All I needed to do was to take the various assessments to see if I really am human and, once they were completed, I would be in line for beatification and sainthood. I complied with those same assessments - job done.

Imagine my confusion when I got my copy of the next Sentence Planning / Risk Assessment Management bollocks or whatever it is this time (scheduled for the 5th of next month) to discover that my risk levels had been changed again back to high for the public and "known" adult. This is despite the fact that I have progressed massively! So I asked about it.

"What is going on?" was my reasonable question.

The Wallace had no idea. Blodwyn had no idea. Nobody had any idea, until we discovered that it is all the tender and conscientious work of the Smiling Assassin. So, The Wallace is having them changed back - so is Blodwyn - so is my personal officer - and so is HIS line manager.

That only leaves the Smiling Assassin.

By this time of course I should have had all of the reports in the post from The Wallace, the independent psychologist and others. Unfortunately that only applies in the normal world, not here at the Lazy L. The censors cannot do their job - there are not enough of them. In the last few weeks my incoming mail levels have gone from between ten and fifteen letters per week coming in from family and friends, down to three. Mail is piling up in the censors', both incoming and outgoing. Apparently Hoss the Boss won't supply the people for the job - though there are apparently plenty of people to stand around and write bollocks about prisoners.

Some days no mail at all comes onto the wings and we are told that there is none. Over six hundred and fifty cons in this prison and on some days there is no mail for anyone at all? Bollocks!

So, I am confused. I'm not even getting Boudica's letters (and she's not getting mine) despite the fact that she writes every day, as I do myself.

Speaking about the mighty Boudica, the Troll killed another one of her pigeons and Boudica is not happy about it. Maybe she is confused as well.

Wasn't it Henry David Thoreau who said:

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

All I can say is that it's a good job he didn't have to live at the Lazy L.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Visit with an independent psychologist

2010-09-30T18:17:00.000+01:00

On Tuesday 14th September I attended the visiting area of the prison to meet the independent psychologist who was to conduct an assessment of me in respect of the PLC-R and the HRC-20, amongst other things.

I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, although from reading the small amount I had read about him I expected a reasonable and certainly efficient person. The man I met was extremely pleasant - one of the nicest people I have encountered in many a long year. He is a man of my own generation, being a mere year younger than me and could therefore fully appreciate the fact that I have become a grumpy old man, albeit one with a sense of humour.

I think the best way to describe the day - he was here all of the afternoon too - would be to say that we spent as much time simply chatting in a social sort of way as we did discussing the matters in hand. I think we found ourselves in accord on so many areas of modern life, and while we were chatting he fitted in his questions unobtrusively and expertly and made his notes.

As he said himself, I may not like everything he has to say about me - nobody ever agrees with everything - but I do expect that his final report will be extremely beneficial, probably even more so than the report already produced by the Prison Service.

I left the visits area at the end of the afternoon's session feeling as though I had enjoyed a good day with good conversation. Of course, I was brought back to the mundane incompetence of prison life almost instantly because the visits people thought that I was still a Cat 'A' prisoner. I have been a Cat 'B' now for a year and that simply isn't enough time for the facts to filter down to all departments. They quite simply do not communicate with each other.

That fact became even clearer on arrival back on the wing because I was given two documents. One was a lot of rubbish to tell me that they want to assess me for a CALM course. The other was my latest OASYS documents in which they are still stuck in 2005 and don't even know that I have completed the assessments for everything and have no requirement for courses.

Oh dear, it's not at all easy dealing with intransigence like that.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A busy week

2010-09-29T19:41:00.000+01:00

Last week I said - or if I didn't I should have - that this week should prove to be interesting, or at least that the potential was there.

Now, I'm not normally right about very much, unless it is the fact that Lady Luck will be along to kick me in the testacularities at regular intervals. However, hit me with a stick and call me Susan if I wasn't right for a change. This week has been interesting to say the least.

It all started on Monday the 13th because after lunch I wandered up to the Healthcare to see the optician and got myself a couple of new pairs of glasses, one for reading and one for seeing. All I need now is something worth reading - but there's bugger-all worth seeing around here at the best of times. The point is that when I got back to the wing I was handed a document which had come from the Offender Management Unit, the OMU, and it came with a bit of paper which basically was a threat. It said that if I didn't respond within a week then the document would go forward to the upcoming Sentence Planning/Risk Assessment Board (scheduled for 5th October).

So, being naturally nosy, I had a look at the document and it is a pack of rubbish from beginning to end, full of lies and pure hubris. It was compiled by a person in the OMU whose name I am not allowed to use but who is called by everyone "The Smiling Assassin". This person smiles at a con, promises to correct things and then proceeds to stab him in the back. Everything this person does seems to be negative. All this of course despite the fact that Blodwyn had already made the report stating that I am a normal sort of cove, not a psychopath and in need of no courses.

The Smiling Assassin had me down as in need of every course that could be found, and I suspect a couple that have been made up. I have been accused of the following (you'll love this):

Violent Lifestyle
Interpersonal Aggression
Poor Emotional Control/Management/Regulation
Chaotic and Disorganised Lifestyle
Use of a Weapon
Parasitic Lifestyle
Lifestyle(s) Impulsivity
Callous Unemotional Traits
Criminal Personality
Calculated Assessment Of Consequences
Poor Perspective Taking
Rigid OR Inflexjble Thinking
Conning and Manipulative Behaviour

And all of that is just in one paragraph! There are dozens of them. In fact almost everything the Smiling Assassin has put into this document is incorrect in much the same way.

"Ah!" you say, "But is that the worst part?"

Is it hell. The Smiling Assassin is blaming The Wallace for the report!

Well, that was Monday 13th. On Tuesday 14th I spent the day in the visits with the independent psychologist who had come to assess my character using various engines such as the PCL-R and the HCR-20 - much the same as Blodwyn had done really. I showed him Blodwyn's Feedback Document and he noted right away that nothing had been said about age, and let's face it, I'm getting old these days - in fact I'm getting old every day, I never have a day off. (I have covered the psychologist's visit elsewhere so I won't go into it here but as favourable as Blodwyn's report is, his will be even more so.)

When I got back to the wing after the visit, I was given yet another document from Nitwits 'R' Us, and this one wanted me to be assessed for the CALM course - Controlling Anger and Learning to Manage it.
Anger? I'm surprised that more cons are not terminally and totally overcome with apoplexy, never mind anger.

Wednesday 15th and a woman came to see me, a very pleasant person I have to say, and she worked for an outside company who seemed to be under the impression that I am a new boy. However, when I told her that she must be making a mistake, because there are three Wilkinsons in this prison, she just sat and we had a nice chat for an hour or so, with her sniggering a good deal - a woman fond of a joke and who could see the funny side.

Thursday 16th I finally managed to get down to the visits and had my photograph taken to send out to Boudica - it's the only way to keep the pigeons in line really. They cost me £1.20 each and I had three done - all donations in brown envelopes and addressed to the Charity for One Legged Albanian Lesbians, thank you. (Mind, I'm not allowed to use that word now, it is politically unsound - so we will have to say "Ladies in sensible shoes".) They showed me the finished product in the afternoon - not bad.

On Friday 17th I saw to the photographs going into the mail as soon as they let me out of my kennel and that was that seen to. I was also informed during the morning that the Smiling Assassin would be submitting the nonsense paperwork whether I liked it or not, despite the fact that she had Blodwyn's report and knew that everything she had said was wrong and untrue. Well, I can see her twisted logic - she (The Smiling Assassin) was blaming the Wallace for it. What she didn't know was that in the afternoon of that very day I was off down to the visits yet again, this time for a video-link with the Wallace herself. I took the report with me.

I like the Wallace. She is run off her feet, bless her, trying to deal with her clients, and I always drive her mad with my wandering mind and subject-switching. I showed her the Smiling Assassin's paperwork and showed her the fact that she (The Wallace) was getting the blame for it.

The Wallace hasn't made a report on me for a long time, but she is now, and it will be in my hands, Andrew's hands AND the hands of the OMU at some point this comming week. She is not too delighted with the Smiling Assassin, but there again, who is?

So! The final outcome, the analysis of the week - what is it? Despite Lady Luck and her tender administrations it has all gone extremely well from my point of view. I've got The Wallace batting on my side, and Blodwyn, and the independent psychologist. In fact the only person not batting for me is the Smiling Assassin, and she comes fairly low in the food chain once the heavy artillery begins.

Finally I'd better say something ahout Boudica or she will start bullying me again, her and her pigeons. Now, it may (or may not) be remembered that she told me a while back that she now had quite a few feathered friends. Well, this week I had two photographs from her of her pigeons - she's got dozens of the bleedin' things! No wonder the Troll is moaning! The roof of the house is sagging under the weight of feathers! She's bought a D.I.Y. book and said she wants me to build a new house for her pigeons - I've told her that she can build it herself.

Besides, a house big enough for that lot would need planning permission, and she's annoyed the local council enough for now.

The Voice In The Wilderness

What is truth?

2010-09-18T19:00:00.000+01:00

"What is truth?" said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. Thus wrote Francis Bacon somewhere between 1561 and 1626. We know this because those are the years of his lifespan.

What is truth?

A good question.

It's no good asking the CCRC that question - they don't know the answer. They simply ask the police and, as everyone knows, the police wouldn't acknowledge the truth if it was wrapped in red silk and shoved up their collectives. But never mind.

As John Locke said around about the same time:

It is one thing to show a man that he is in error, and another to put him in possession of truth.

What Locke was saying, in his own way, is merely a reiteration of an old adage which we have all heard many times before:

You can take a horse to the water but you can't make it drink.

I like quotes, they sort of satisfy me in a strange but filling way. Pithy, that's the word. I like pithy. A quote, saying or adage can be found to cover just about each and every situation, I should imagine - and that got me to thinking, a pastime which I indulge myself in a good deal.

I got to thinking ahout all of the things I write myself, reams of the stuff, millions of words covering the whole gamut of emotions, I suppose - although I don't do pathos very well. I do defiance like an expert, but that comes from being a grumpy old man mostly. Everybody gets to that stage sooner or later, unless of course you are seeking saintbood.

When I snuff it, as I surely will, will anyone quote me? Surely, in amongst all of the stuff I have churned out since I discovered the power and satisfaction of the written word, I have written at least one sentence that is worth remembering! Can I expect that, at some time in the uncharted future, there will be a tutor somewhere looking sternly at some unheeding student and saying, "Have you actually read Wilkinson?"

"Yes sir!" lies the student.

"Well, what did he say about truth?"

"Er, um, er, um."

Everybody can trot out a few quotes, although they may not realise that fact. We all know the old sayings our grandmothers gently beat into our flesh as children. We can all quote. We all have favourites too. They don't necessarily have a lot of relevance but that's hardly the point - the point is, we like them. Some of my favourites...

Kipling:

The mad are all in God's keeping.

Well, that's me on safe ground then.

Thoreau:

It takes two to speak the truth - one to speak, and another to hear.

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

Oh yes, the latter is a gem indeed. We lurch from crisis to crisis all of our lives, desperate for a bit of peace.

Arnold:

Truth sits upon the lips of dying men.

It's a fact! When we get older we tell the truth because we no longer give a shit.

That's the thing about the game of life - it's the only game in town that we know we are never going to get out of alive. Life is going to kill the lot of us in the end - we lose the game.

Finally, a word about Boudica, who is now hiding behind net curtains and driving the Troll insane with her pigeons and sniggering a good deal as she does it. Apparently, the Troll is only a little woman, so I've suggested that when she (Boudica) speaks to her, she simply says, "Stand up when you talk to me."

One last word on truth - it's never safe to be entirely truthful, and there is one instance when we must never tell the truth.

"Does my bum look big in this?"

"Your bum would look big in the Gobi Desert."

Wrong answer! Prepare to spend the rest of your life dodging things like plates and low-flying shoes.

Anton Chekhov had it right when he said:

Any idiot can face a crisis. It is day-to-day living that wears you out.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Progress

2010-09-16T19:30:00.000+01:00

Things are starting to get interesting at last. Finally I can feel a certain amount of satisfaction (albeit just a smidgen), and there is definitely a bit of a glow at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. The tired waves may be breaking but not as vainly as they once were - inches are definitely being gained - and far back, through the creeks and inlets, maybe the tide has definitely turned and is beginning to flood in.

The cry goes up, "What's the nitwit talking about THIS time?"

Progress, my friends, progress. Good old Blodwyn has provided me with what she has termed her "Feedback Document" and in there, amongst the psychobabble that they use to confuse us poor, uneducated laymen, there are gems which glitter and show definite hope and promise. Of course this is not her full and finished report, but I have very real reason to expect that she will furnish me with a decent and fair effort - after all, she actually believes in doing things correctly, a rare and exotic thing in the modern prison service (if you can call a service stuck in the 1850's modern). So, I have great hopes and expectations of Blodwyn's final doc.

But it doesn't stop there, not a bit of it. It is Sunday 12th September 2010 as I write this, and on Tuesday 14th September 2010 (two days' time for the dyslexic), I have been informed that I have got legal visits booked all day with an independent psychologist. These are only legal visits in the loose sense because really he is coming to see me with a view to writing his own psychology report on me. When this idea was first mooted, I think the general idea was to allow us to compare his report with that of the prison service. We thought that the PS would have their report done by some young girl, a trainee who would probably look like she should be at home playing with toys rather than making life-changing and life-affecting reports based on her own lack of experience.

However, that hasn't turned out to be the case because I got good old Blodwin - an expert - and I am thankful for it. Not only did I meet a decent, conscientious person, but she is also nice - and I like her, she has a sense of humour (something very few of the psychology fraternity seem to possess.) Consequently I have this completely unreasoned feeling that the independent report isn't going to be far removed from Blodwyn's. Of course we will have to wait and see.

Also on the day that the independent psychologist is coming to see me, I have arranged for the prison to take my photograph for me to send out to Boudica and Andrew. Andrew needs an up-to-date picture so that folk can see how much the years, and of course the tender, loving care of the prison service, have changed me. Boudica wants one to throw darts at and to use to keep the pigeons from coming into her kitchen, turning on her telly, eating her out of house and home and annoying the Troll next door.

I also suspect she wants to take the piss. It is everyone's right in this world to indulge in a little light mockery of those we find ridiculous from time to time, but Boudica is taking liberties. I'm going to report her, not to the Council for Civil Liberties (if it still exists), but to the Council for Diabolical Liberties.

Finally, I've got to see the optician again. As we get older and totter inexorably toward the tomb, things start to fall apart. I remember well when I had the eyes of an eagle, the heart of a lion and the limbs of a Greek God. Things have changed a bit since then. I look like Gollum these days, without the eyes. I'm as blind as a bat, as baldy as an orangutan's arse and I am probably very attractive to flies.

Apart from that I'm doing okay - thanks for asking.

The Voice In The Wilderness