You can't wind up a broken clock

By the time anyone reads this I will have had my parole hearing and it will all be over bar the shouting, as my ould Grandmother would have said. She said a lot of things - most of them made little sense as far as I could see. She was an old-fashioned countrywoman and as Victorian as they come. She died in 1987 at the age of ninety­-six which would put her year of birth in 1891 - and THAT'S Victorian. Anyway, I digress, as usual, but one of her sayings was, "As long as the sparrows are singing, ye'll nivver need a warm coat."

So, by the time anyone reads this, the parole hearing will be over and I will be waiting patiently for the answer. (Some folk think I AM a patient, but we will ignore them.)

However, I find that I am to have what could well amount to a sort of dress-rehearsal because the day before my hearing I have got what is called an INTERNAL RISK ASSESSMENT MEETING (IRMT) at which some of the same people will attend, including The SS.

I will (apparently) be given five minutes at the beginning of the IRMT to address the following points:

• Identify your risk factors.
• Identify how you manage your risk factors.
• How do you spend your time currently in open conditions?
• What do you want to achieve from open conditions?

It's like stepping back twenty years! But never mind.

So, I shall turn up there at the appointed time and have my five minutes in the spotlight then wander off to allow the panel to decide what they will say to the Parole Board the following day. Actually, I think it is all merely to see how I can be managed on release to the hostel, or something like that - nothing to get worked up about or excited about.

One of the boys said yesterday, "They might be just trying to wind you up!"

I replied, "Ha! You can't wind up a broken clock."

Sometimes that's precisely what I feel like - a broken clock. The problem I've got, and it has bugger-all to do with risk factors - or any other sort of factors - is that basically, right down to the very marrow of my bones, I am tired. I've had enough. It's as simple as that really. Risk factors, problem-solving and all the rest of the psycho-babble, count for nothing once a fellow gets to the stage when he realises that life is too short for all of that sort of thing.

In the days when I saw everyth1ng as a challenge and willingly took it all on, I thought I was invincible and that I would live forever. Then, one day, I woke up and suddenly I was sixty years old and had no idea where it had all gone to! I have things to read! Things to write! I don't have all that much time to do it all in neither!  So I have no time for risk factors or anything else. I still have ambitions and dreams to be fulfilled and not a lot of time to do it in. Being retired will help, provided I can find myself a calm, quiet corner somewhere to get on with it.

Oh well, we will see I suppose. But in the meantime, and by the time anyone reads this, the parole hearing will be over.

It's been a long, dreary road to get this far and, as I mentioned earlier - I'm tired.

The Voice In The Wilderness

In the bewilderness

Well, it looks as though, once again, I am expected to keep secrets that are not mine but those of others with something to hide.

I think I need to explain that, as near as I can, without giving away any of the aforementioned secrets.

To begin with, I went on the home leave - well, let's not call it a "home" leave because I wasn't allowed anywhere near home for a start - I went to a hostel, an approved premises. (Or there again, I may not be allowed to say that much - so forget I said that.) It certainly wasn't a leave either, but never mind, these things are designed to be character-building - I must be a character.

I went to a conurbation which is a sort of cross between a market town, a university town and a place of historic interest. There is a fairly interesting cathedral, a castle, which multi-tasks as a Crown Court, and a prison which was built in Victorian times, like so many were. Oh yes, those Victorians knew how to build all right. Can't mention the name of the place of course, it's a secret. I certainly can't mention the name of the hostel because that's an even bigger secret. It's amazing I ever found my way to the place at all and it's a wonder they even told me about the location - it's a secret you see!

I managed to get there finally with a blindfolded taxi driver. (Well, we can't tell him anything - taxi drivers gossip, they are famous for it.)  When I finally got myself in there, I was politely informed that I could forget my licence conditions - they were being changed on the grounds, to paraphrase, that I wasn't telling anyone where I was going all day, who I was going with and/or what I was doing. They could have tried asking, but that would be far too simple and therefore very complicated for the Prison Service - they don't do simple. Instead, they prefer to dictate - always justified of course.

Well, the upshot was that I couldn't leave the place until seven in the morning at the earliest, had to be back for one in the afternoon until two, and had to be in for the night by seven in the evening. On top of that I had to fill in a form to tell them precisely where I intended to be every minute of my time, and what I did. Saying  just "Down town shopping" wasn't good enough, I had to write which street the shops were on.

Oh well, it's all for the collective good I suppose. Didn't leave me much scope for anything, of course, but there we have it.

So, I went for a couple of meals during my five days "home leave", did a little bit of shopping, went to the Citizens' Advice offices and to the Council offices about accommodation. That wasn't much use because they needed me to supply dates, which I can't do - not yet anyway. Can't even organise my pension because of the same sort of reason.

But I'll get there, I'll get there - I always do in the end.

Oh yes, and the rest of the time I spent sitting in my "room" just answering phone calls from family and friends or reading. Worked my way through three books - very entertaining - and two newspapers each day - I am available for questions.

Finally left to return to the shovel and pick on Friday and, with a bit of luck, I didn't ruffle too many feathers. I don't think I did but you can never be sure about these things.

So, that's me done until the Parole Hearing next week. Once I have had the hearing I should imagine it will be a week or two until I hear the decision and, should it be favourable, I will be off out to the secret location for my discharge. I have no real idea what the Parole Board decision will be, of course, but it should be of a reasonable nature. So I may be off to live, however temporarily, in the secret location. Grand - the family WILL be pleased.

It's not certain, of course, not by a long chalk, so until then, I shall continue keeping secrets which are not mine. I've got nothing to hide in·that respect. Come to think about it, I seem to be carrying a lot of secrets, most of which will have to go to the grave with me, because none of them are mine - they all belong to other folk, and I seem to have spent most of my life just protecting others, often at my own expense.

Oh well, I shall continue to keep secrets I suppose, for others - and that includes the secret hostel being run by nameless folk in the secret location... Sorry about that.

The Voice In The Bewilderness

Here we are then

So, here we are then.

Tomorrow is my last day out from Lizzie Windsor's emporium for social disasters - and, in my humble  opinion, (well, maybe not so humble) the cons are no better.

I shall get myself washed and dressed in the morning and wander off over to the gate lodge, book myself out, collect my phone and climb aboard the bus to take me to that metropolis of sin and inertia which is the local town. It won't be my last time in town of course, not by a long chalk. I'll be there next week too, for a brief while I expect.

Anyway, when I get there I shall wander off to have a look in a couple of shops to see if I can get myself a couple of shirts and a red tie. Well, being a devout Capitalistic Socialist I need SOME sort of badge! (My politics are a hit confused.)  At lunch time my intention is to toddle along to my regular little trattoria on the river front where I have munched my way through many tasty little meals in a convivial surround - very nice too. If anyone wants a decent meal in nice surroundings at a price that isn't involving armed robbery on a bank, try it - you can't miss it, it's near the church!

After my lunch I shall have a little wander and then toddle off to the railway station car park where I'll catch the shuttle bus back to jail. I'm coming back early because I have my packing to do for the next day when I am off to the city for five days for my last (hopefully) home leave, shacked up with various types of naughty boys including junkies. This is to help me to assimilate into our society again. Are they suggesting that society is saturated with junkies, or am I being a little unkind?

Anyway, five days and four nights - you can't get that on a Saga holiday with meals thrown in, not to mention free telly box.

On return to durance vile I will have eleven days to go to my parole hearing. As I have said before somewhere, there would appear not to be any flies in the ointment and things should go smoothly enough. It's all going to be about managing my risk  in the free world, which puzzles me because they seem to be setting me up somewhat by forcing me to live with people who are basically social problems. But I'll survive - I always do.

A few weeks after the hearing I should be on my way to the hostel for the last time and everything will be hunky dory.

Ah!

Wait a minute there bald eagle. Could there be a dark figure lurking somewhere in the shadows? Is that fickle ould whore Lady Luck giving her DMs one last polishing to deliver me my final boot in the testacularities? I wouldn't put it past her, not a bit of it. However, if she is, it will need to be a good one because I am determined that nothing should go wrong, not at this late stage in the game, and let's face it, that's all prison is - a game. We come in, and those who learn the rules and how to play sail through with no trouble. Those, like me, who try to create their own rules end in enormous difficulties. I stand here as testimony to that simple fact. I tell you sincerely, it's not easy being me.

Oh well, we will see how things turn out I suppose. Until then all I can say is - well, here we are then.

The Voice in the Wilderness

Soul-searching

Sometimes, as I lie in my bed of fine-grade straw at night, quietly waiting for the gentle arms of Morpheus to enfold me in their comforting embrace, I find ·myself thinking about things that have happened through the day, things that may happen in the days  to come and, now and then, musing on the days past. Oddly enough, I don't do much of the latter - that road leads to brooding, a lot of resentment and insanity: not a place anyone quite wants to visit.

These brief periods of pensive thought never last very long - a few minutes. I seem to drift off quite quickly these days, probably a  combination of age and the fact that not much bothers me these days. Years ago, when I first started on this particular nightmare, I spent many nights completely sleepless - rage ruled supreme. These days, I seem to be much calmer, not so volatile and, who knows, even a little forgiving, who can tell?

I said forgiving, not forgetful. We may forgive a lot of things, but we never forget. We never forget a good deed, or a bad one - it's human nature. At least, it is my nature, I can't speak for everyone - I leave that to politicians and policemen.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes - soul-searching.

I often sort of review my day - people I have spoken to, things I have done, that sort of thing. Sometimes I realise that something I have said or done may well have caused unwitting offence, and, if  I come to the conclusion that that is or may be the case, then the following day I will go to the person, whoever they may be, and give them an apology - it's the right thing to do.

Well, it's like the ould IRA man lying on his death bed and the priest kneels by the bed to give absolution.

"Are you ready to renounce the devil and all of his works my son?"

"Aahh," says the ould IRA man. "It's too late to be making enemies now, Father."

So, sometimes I put matters right the following day - as I say, it is the right thing to do.

Having said all that, there are times when we may well have been rude or upset someone and it is fully justified. In fact not only justified but compulsory! They deserved it, shall we say.

I had such an instance the other day. Someone said something utterly ourageous to someone else and, to be quite frank about it, it was offensive. Not only that, but the fellow who said it thought it was clever - being offensive without the fear of retaliation.

He didn't realise that I was in the offing, standing astern of him. So, being quite capable of holding my own in any verbal contest, I put him straight on matters and it won't happen again. Life is hard in jail without some idiot making it harder unnecessarily. Any-hoo, that night in my pensive pit it crossed my mind fleetingly that I may well have caused offence, so I decided to have a word the next morning. Unfortunately, when I approached the fellow concerned I found him being offensive to someone ELSE!

So, being an erudite sort of cove, with what some call a caustic wit, I went up and said, "Excuse me, but I would like a word."

Himself and the two or three cronies he had with him looked at me.

"Yesterday," said I, "I may have been rude. I would just like to take this opportunity to say that if I did or said anything which may have caused offence, I would like to say, with the greatest of sincerity, that I couldn't give a shit."

Even his own friends laughed at him - the clown.

And so, as the day draws gently to a close and I begin to prepare myself for yet another night's sleep in the tender embrace of Lizzie Windsor's minions, it occurs to me that it's only a week to my final home leave - and eleven days after I come back, it's my Parole Board hearing.

I will have to remember to keep a civil tongue in my head and not allow my caustic wit any sort of freedom - it may well be taken in the wrong spirit, and that will never do.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Coming up ambergris

Isn't it funny the way things turn out?

It seems to me that no matter what we may have planned for or expect, there is always that element of unforeseen chance that either makes or breaks us - and usually when we least expect it. I normally put it down to that fickle ould whore - the bane of my life - Lady Luck; and I suppose that's as good a way as any to describe the phenomenon - the phenomenon of pure chance.

Take the other day, for instance - last week, actually. There was a fellow by the name of Ken Wilman, and he decided to take his dog for its daily perambulation along Morecambe beach, probably something he does every day.

"Oh well," says he, "let's get it over with. Get yer lead."

Off he went with his mutt, who is nameless as far as I know, off for another freezing meander along the sands while the chien did its bit to pollute the Irish Sea. I can see him now, wandering along, watching his dog trying to catch seagulls, when he came across a foul-smelling lump on the sands.

"What the devil is THAT?" he may have said to the dog. "It smells worse than a Liverpool docker's armpit!"

So, he had a good look at it from a distance, like a skunk - nice  to look at but you wouldn't want to be too close.

"Weird!" said he to nobody whatsoever. "I'll have a look on the internet when I get home, see what it might be."

Well, imagine his surprise when it turned out that its appearance suggested there was a possibility that the foul lump could well be a thing called ambergris! (Notice the diplomatic way that I have avoided comparing anyone to the foul-smelling thing? That's called diplomacy, that is.)

So, good old Ken (remember Ken?) read some more about the foul object and discovered that it was not only called ambergris - the name (apparently) for whale vomit - but it could be worth a small fortune in shekels if it was ambergris.

Ken the beachcomber promptly returned to the beach - hot foot, leaving  tread marks on the cat as he went through the front door - snatched up the foul object, no longer noticing the smell (because the very mention of dosh is enough to block anyone's sinuses - look at the tanning industry, and a few others) and carried it gently back to  his home and wrapped it carefully in his wife's best frock. More research revealed that ambergris is used in perfumes. I've always suspected perfumes - they mask other smells.

Anyway, the point is that you never know when that fickle ould tart is going to stop kicking you in the cobblers and do you a favour for a change. Ken certainly wasn't expecting a bit of a windfall when he took the mutt out. Turns out that the lump of nasty-smelling whale vomit is worth a bob or two and Ken is sniggering all the way to the bank, as he should be too. Good luck to him. I bet Morecambe sands have been full of vomit-seekers ever since - but bon chance never strikes twice in the same place.

Well, Lady Luck seems to be putting it about a bit lately, and not out of evilness, as her usual wont seems to be. She's been quite kind to me too. My parole hearing is to be at 10:30 a.m. on the morning of March 5th, just four days short of twenty-seven years. The only thing that seems to be on the agenda is my risk management when I am released to the hostel, which I will be because my case has now been officially accepted by the local Probation Service. Of course, The SS - and possibly The Wallace - will be present for the hearing from Northumbria, so that's fine. They know me and my case better than anyone - sometimes I think they know more about me than I know myself.

Two years ago I was stuck in high security, tearing out my teeth trying to get sense out of the system. Now here we are, on the verge of release. I haven't got one foot out of the door, I've got both feet out - now I'm just trying to drag my arse out. The thing is, I could be released in about six weeks! Isn't it funny the way things turn out?

The Voice In The Wilderness

The creeks and inlets are filling

Arthur Hugh Clough 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.

It is a verse from his poem "Say Not The Struggle Nauqht Availeth". Well, for many many years I could identify with it, but these days things seem to have speeded up a little bit at last - FINALLY!

Oh I was always aware that people were working away to assist me in the background and behind the scenes, but there seemed to be little to show for it all. However, in recent times it seems that the tide has certainly turned and the tired waves are finally filling the creeks and inlets - ticking the correct boxes - and the Main is silently reaching high tide.

Last week I wrote that I had been given the paperwork which effectively seemed to be a get-out-of-jail pass - a recommendation for  my release - all we were therefore waiting for was a date for the Parole Board hearing.

I've got that date now - March 5th. That is just over five weeks away and, as far as I know, there is a bed already for me at the hostel.

So, provided that fickle ould whore Lady Luck minds her own business and concentrates her vindictive attention elsewhere, I will be finally released a couple of weeks after the hearing, so I expect to be a relatively free man around mid-March.

Wonderful! Not before time too.

On March 5th I shall be four days short of twenty-seven years in the dubious hospitality of Lizzie Windsor and her minions - it's enough. Even for a guilty man, it's enough.

So, watch this space. I expect developments soon.

I've seen a fox!

The other day, mid-week, I was wandering through the snowy fields when a large, grey dog-fox sprang up about thirty or forty feet in front of me and went running off along the dyke in that gait only a fox can use. I followed it, of course, and found its prints where it had gone to ground in a bramble bush.

Foxes are all very well, but they can take animals, lambs and hens and other small creatures, so I made it my business to put the fox OUT of business. I started following trails and tracks to discover where its den was, and saw the vixen the following day. That meant that there was a fair chance of cubs too, somewhere. I found the den and wanted to put a snare up to catch the fox but that's not allowed - seeing as it wasn't on prison land it was even more frowned upon.

"Find the den," I was told. "We will block the holes and gas it."

"Found it," said I, "but it's not on prison land."

"Not a thing we can do about it then," was the reply.

End of my fox-hunting episode. The fox is safe as far as I am concerned.

The tired waves may be breaking for me and slowly filling the creeks and inlets, but as far as the fox is concerned Arthur Hugh Clough was barking up the wrong creek and inlet and the tide is a long way from shore.

Still, once I am gone from here, if the fox should begin to be a problem, it won't be mine.

My trouble is that I actually like foxes. I see them as the under-dog, and being an under-dog myself for so long, I sympathise. After all, it's just doing its thing really.

Aaaah - say not the struggle naught availeth.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The last tango...

And so the dance begins.

I have had a document from the Parole Board, via my solicitor, to inform me that the board has decided that I must have an Oral Hearing and three hours are to be set aside for it. I don't have an actual date yet but speaking to The SS on Thursday last she said that she expected me to be out by the end of March - and that is a matter of a mere few weeks in the grand scheme of things. After almost twenty-seven years, a few more weeks is neither here nor there and will hardly register really. It will pass soon enough. Apparently I will be expected to go to a hostel but only for a maximum of two months - I am clearly not hostel material. At the same time, clearly I still have certain boxes to be ticked and the probation service need a couple of months of me in a hostel just to be sure of their ground. They have no fears of anything  going wrong, as I don't myself, but I suppose they have to go through the designated motions for their own peace of mind. Anyway, those two months will be spent with me organising my own place of abode, wherever that may be.

There is still no certainty about where I will be allowed to settle, not yet. Lincolnshire Probation Service have yet to accept me, if indeed they decide to do that. If they don't then I shall be going up to be under the control and tender, caring hands of the Northumbria mob - The SS and The Wallace. An idea, incidentally, which I do not find at all as repugnant as I do that of the local hostel, but I may be given no choice in the matter.

The Parole Board have stated that they require the attendance of several people to discuss my release prospects - so we shall see.

I spent four days last week at the local hostel and it wasn't too bad really, just a bit cold. Mind, it's cold everywhere at the minute, and set to get colder - more snow and all that goes with it. The best place for snow is on Christmas cards.

In the meanwhile, the two goats that are left are doing well and are becoming more friendly by the day - as are the alpacas really, but they are not so friendly at all, although friendlier than they were when they arrived here.

My pigeons are just that - my pigeons. Still living the life of Reilly, eating the best of chicken corn and staying in the loft most of the day out of the cold - but who can blame them for that? I was sitting down there today after I got back (early) from my latest (and last) town visit, and they were strutting around my feet, fighting as usual. I have no idea what will happen to the birds after I am gone from here but I feel sure that someone will want to take them on and look after them.

So, one more home leave to the local hostel next month and that will be that - all boxes duly ticked, everything done that has been asked of me and, provided nothing outrageously silly happens between now and·my appearance before the board, I shall be a free (-ish) man by March.  All I have to do now is wait for the Parole Board to set a date. So I shall sit here patiently while they do that.

And so the dance begins - the last tango in Boston!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Your goats ate my jacket!

I've got to go to the hostel at the city again tomorrow for five days, which works out at four nights. Look on the bright side, at least I may get a decent night's sleep for a change, but I'm not gambling on it. Well, junkies wandering about at all hours - who can tell what may happen?

That's not the end of it by any means! Next month I have to go for a further five days, and I have asked for none of them. It's all about the right ticks in the right boxes, nothing more, in preparation for my appearance before the Parole Board, whenever that may be. Anyway, I shall wander around the city for five days, slowly allowing my mind to degenerate into something bordering on acute insanity, and then return to the world of barmy goats.

I'm glad you mentioned goats - I have a couple of things to say on the subject.

As anyone who reads this puerile drivel on a regular basis will be fully aware, I had three goats - two little white ones and a little black one. I've been a bit under the weather for the last week or so and not been going to see the goats as often as is my wont, but the other day the little black one died. Nobody knows why, and I had always thought that goats were fairly tough characters - only canaries pop their clogs for no good reason. But goats do it too, apparently. So the black one died leaving the two white ones, who have now taken to escaping at every opportunity. The other day they escaped out of my yard and got into the yard next door, which is the realm of the pig boys.

The pig chappies have a little office - very nice and cosy too. The goats got into the office and managed to pull a jacket off a hook and rip it to bits.

The pig boy said to me, "Hoy! Your goats ate my jacket!"

Said I, "What are you telling me for? Tell the goats."

Every morning the pair of miscreants come for their strokes and feed and then, as soon as they think nobody is watching them, off they go, seeking escape routes and things to chew. My trousers are popular apparently, not to mention my hat and anything else they can get their neat little teeth into. The tops of my wellies must be very tasty too.

I haven't mentioned my alpacas. They don't do anything beyond eat and then eat a bit more. They don't eat until they are full, they eat until they are tired.

The pigeons are just that - pigeons - who go their own way but spend most of the time in or around the loft and not bothering anyone, although a couple seem to have decided to·move in with the goats for some strange, unfathomable purpose of their own. A couple have moved in with the alpacas too, so maybe they are conducting their very own diaspora - who can tell how a pigeon's mind works? I'll say this much for them, they build very neat nests.

So, tonight I shall be packing away a few odds and sods into my new suitcase ready to catch the train in the morning. Five days of me refusing the advances of junkies: "Pssst! Pssst! Want to buy some cheap shit?"

It's all character-building, of course. Absolutely useless as an introduction into society, but who am I to carp!

What I don't learn this coming week, I can learn next month and who knows, with a bit of luck, this time maybe my goats won't eat anyone's stuff.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Precipitation

Let me put it this way - it pissed down.

Don't get me wrong. I am not averse to bad weather at all - I quite like a bit of cold, it reminds me that I am still alive and that my circulation is still working. But I don't like rain. It leaves a feller pissed wet through, uncomfortable and feeling that the best place for rain is on postcards. However, if this was Ethiopia then a person would pray for the very thing I am slagging off.

The alpacas and pygmy goats are doing well, or at least they are still alive - which is more than the idiot trying to annoy me will be if he doesn't bugger off and get a job. (I shouldn't say such things - it's bad for my sentence planning.)

No further news about the parole hearing as yet but, like everything else in the prison system, it's only a matter of time.

Next weekend I am off out for the day, but there is nothing of any consequence planned beyond getting a decent lunch and buying myself a suitcase in preparation for going off to that den of sin and iniquity which is the hostel.

So, here I am, December 30th, just one more day to the start of yet another year in durance-vile, as the poets would say - but this one will be the last one. I often had my doubts that such a day would ever arrive, but it has. You can break the clock but you cannot stop the time.

2013... It all started in 1986, and that's a long time in anyone's calendar. Am I resentful about it all? Of course I am - time can't be recovered, it's the one thing we cannot avoid, the passage of time. Ever since the very first creatures crawled out of the primordial swamp and developed the ability to think, they have tried to find ways to stop the time, to retain the elusivenes of youth, but  so far everyone has failed. We see it all the time - creams, unguents, draughts of the elixir of life and all the rest of it. None of it has done a blind bit of good because sooner or later along comes the Grim Reaper with his weapon of mass descruction and, before we know where we are, we are paying Charon for the ride across the river - and let·me tell you now, he doesn't accept bus passes. Still, that's a long way off. 1've got no plans in that direction, not for thirty years or more yet.

2013... A new year and a new start for all of us and, although I am fully aware of the fact that my time in prison is all but over, there are an awful lot of people I will be leaving behind me when I go - as  I have seen many others go, of course, over the years. There are so many good fellows in jail - the Ordinary Decent Criminals or ODCs (as opposed to the Fiddling Fraternity). I am certain that many folk will recoil at me using such a term, understandably, but there really are a lot of decent fellows in jail - Ordinary, Decent, Criminals. Some have enormous numbers of years ahead of  them. It will be a long time before they find themselves in the same position I am in now, but they will, they will. There are some, of course, who even I wou1dn't let out under any circumstances, but let's not go down that particular road, not just now.

What I really want to do, I suppose, is wish everyone who reads me a very prosperous and happy New Year, and I mean that sincerely, not just words that we all say by rote, I really mean it.

So, let's see how next year turns out. This one didn't tun out too bad at all really. Happy New Year.

The Voice In The Wilderness

My Christmas presents

I got a Christmas present.

It came a week early but was still as welcome for a' that. I was handed the addendum report to accompany my parole reports and it had been written by (or concerned the reports of) the Offender Supervisor here at the Home for Gay Sailors and my my ould pal The Wallace! Actually it was The SS who wrote it but the Wallace's hand is quite visible somewhere in there.

The upshot is that I am recommended for parole, to be released to the hostel in the city. Now, to be fair, there isn't always a space available and, even if there is, the local Probation Service are not bound to accept me. Let's face it, others wouldn't (and who can blame them?). However (and this is the bit which tells me that I am being fully supported in my application), if it should prove that I cannot go to  the local hostel, for whatever reason, then The Wallace/The SS state quite categorically that there IS a space for me in the North East. Okay, nobody wants me there because of criminal associates and my former life of anti-social money grubbing, but the desire to have me released seems to outweigh the desirability of location. I don't really mind I suppose, wherever I go I shall make a success of it, despite what any doubting Thomas may think.

So, provided that nothing goes drastically tits-up between now and my appearance before the board, it's just a matter of time, which could be measured in weeks I shouldn't wonder. Almost twenty-seven years and I am finally on the cusp of shaking off the dust and smell of prison, which I should never have tasted in the first place.

Is that the end of the news?

Not a bit of it.

Last week I had additions to my zoo. Lincoln Prison has closed down its inner city farm, and this place asked for the animals. Although we didn't get them all, what we got were two alpacas and three pygmy goats. I cleared out two stables, with the assistance of a fellow who wouldn't be out of place in "The League of Gentlemen" or Royston Vasey. So now I am in command of three stables in a block and not a horse in sight. The first is the North Sea Camp Rescue Centre, the second is the goat house and the third  is the alpaca shed.

We were given to understand that the alpacas were a bit of a handful - truculent and liable to spit. Not a bit of it - they are as good as gold and eat out of our hands. The three goats, Blood, Sweat and Tears, are brilliant - into everything, seem to quite like people and are easy to handle. They eat out of our hands too, not to mention anything else they can get their teeth into. We are feeding them just about anything we can get our hands on - the gardener WILL be pleased when he finds out.

That's where I spend my days now, including Christmas and Boxing Days. It's really pleasant down there - nobody to bother me, a steady stream of tourists coming to view the exotica and an idiot who seems to think keeping gates closed is against his human rights.

So, all things taken into consideration, I had a nice selection of presents for Christmas. I can't complain at all - and not a glimpse of that ould whore Lady Luck nowhere. Next year will be better, so may I take this opportunity to wish all of my friends, and those who have nothing better to do apart from read my weekly drivel, a merry Christmas and a good, sound, prosperous New Year.

Thanks for all the Fish.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Going out and staying in

Here we are then, the end of another week of hectic inertia where very little of any interest happened. I went out for the day the other day but didn't do much beyond wandered around and spoke to one or two folk that I have become acquainted with during my excursions into that grand metropolis which is the local town. The tallest building is the church which never had its tower finished, but it's still visible for miles around in this flat landscape.

So, this last week has given me little to relate beyond the fact that it's either been freezing, raining, foggy - or a combination of all three. Oddly enough, I don't mind the cold or the fog, it's the wet that gets to me because the place gets filthy with mud. Still, that's what farms do - and let's face it, this place is essentially a farm, if not a very efficient one.

Next week, the coming week, may be more interesting because I have got an interview with my OS (Offender Supervisor) here at the jail, and I should think it will be to do with my coming parole hearing, probably her report.

"Do you agree with what I've written Frank?"

"Fine," I'll say, because anything else is argumentative and I can't see any percentage in that, so I won't bother. She either supports me or she doesn't, my carping on at her isn't likely to change her mind, so we will see.

That is Monday, tomorrow, then on Tuesday I have got my last day out for this year. I've got three more days out booked for January along with a home leave to the hostel in the city, after that I won't be bothering with any more. As far as I can see I've done all I need to do to satisfy their craving for ticks in boxes. If I haven't made a mess of anything in more than thirty days out, I am not likely to now.

So Tuesday coming will be my last liberty day of 2012 and, as far as I am aware, I will be spending it with John (my editor) and Sharon, who drives for him from time to time. I am quite looking forward to it because both are excellent folk in their own way. I shouldn't think that I will stay out for the duration and will be back in durance vile well before the 7 p.m. deadline.

The following day, Wednesday, is the day by which the Parole Board ordered that the new reports had to be submitted and, as far as I am aware, I should be given copies of all reports on that day so that I can give my comments and reactions and send copies to Andrew and, of course, to my solicitor, the Admirable Crook. (Bit of an unfortunate name for a solicitor really - or appropriate, it depends on how you look at it, I suppose.)

So, the final few days of the week will be spent in digesting the reports and responding to them in my own way. I had intended to have a portfolio of photographs to add as my contribution, just of me doing perfectly normal things on my days out - feeding the ducks, a bit of cooking, riding a horse, coming out of church, normal things like that. Unfortunately we haven't been supplied with the pics as far as I know. We may be able to submit them at a later date, we will  see.

So, a few days inside are on the cards for next week and that means that, apart from feeding my birds, I won't have to concern myself with the rain, the cold or the bleedin' fog - every cloud has a silver lining. Mind, it's also true to say that every silver lining has a cloud - I'd better keep my eyes open for Lady Luck...

The Voice In The Wilderness

Winter of discontent?

Now is the winter of our discontent - or maybe not.

Oh, don't get me wrong, the winter is coming all right, and if you want to listen to that bunch of crystal ball gazers at the world famous meteorological office, it's going to be a cold one. Mind, last winter we had a couple of days around here where it registered 15 degrees below zero. It doesn't come much colder than that around here - not since the last ice age anyway. So, it's going to be a cold one. In fact, they say that it's about to start in earnest next week, but we will see.

However, cold is cold, discontent is another matter. What have I got to be discontented about? Not a great lot really.

As far as I am aware, and provided that nothing outrageously stupid happens, I will be serving my last Christmas, New Year and winter in Lizzie Windsor's thoughtful and welcoming hotels for the mentally inept. The good ould SS is putting together a viable, robust and realistic release plan for the Parole Board and, as far as I am aware, there are no voices being raised in opposition. Everyone I talk to here tells me the same thing, which means that there will not, or shouldn't be, any voices raised - but there is many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. Anyone who knows me will be fully aware of my on and off relationship with that fickle ould whore, Lady Luck. For all I know she is already polishing the Doc Martens with a view to giving me a swift kick in the testacularities - a hobby she has been extremely fond of over the years.

But! Let's not be churlish here, let us be reasonably confident but, at the same time, remember, the words of the great Arab sage when he  said, "Put your trust in God, but first tie up your camel." Bearing that in mind I shall wear my cricketing box faithfully. It may not stop the handbag-swinging ould tart, but it may take the sting out of her size twelves.

However, there is always the chance that she, Lady L, has her eyes and attention somewhere else these days - stranger things have happened at sea - and she must be as fed up as me with booting the same fellow all the time. Let me put it this way: if Dolly Parton gave birth to triplets, and if I was one of them, I would be the one who got the bottle.

Given all of the above, and returning to my usual mental condition of blind optimistic pessissism, maybe everything will turn out quite well, and it could be a winter of reasonable contentment. I will have to hope for the best but expect the worst - it makes sense.

I have got a day out in the coming week, but I am not actually going anywhere and nobody is coming to spend the day with me, so all I intend to do is go out, collect my phone and make a few calls to chat to a couple of folk. Then I will just come back into the jail and that will be my day out - over before lunch. It doesn't matter, it's just a box-ticking exercise anyway. The following week should he more interesting hopefully.

Where does that leave me then?

Waiting for the snow and cold that is supposed to hit at some point during the coming week. Who knows, if it gets nasty enough it could still turn into my winter of discontent, for a couple of days anyway - we will see.

Ha! My pigeons have got the right idea - they sit in their warm, cosy loft, full of corn, and just give me pitiful looks when I suggest that they might like to go out for a fly around. You can almost hear their thoughts - "Get stuffed!", or words to that effect.

It's only fools like me who go out in the cold for no good reason, pigeons are nobody's fool and, let's be fair, they don't suffer from winters of discontent.

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's getting interesting

Well, it's all getting very interesting now, not to mention fraught with possible dangers I suppose.

Let me begin at the best place to begin a story - at the beginning. Let's face it, if starting at the beginning was good enough for good old Charlie Dickens, it's good enough for me.

I finally met The SS and a very nice, down-to-earth fellow she is too. We all know that I am a dyed-in-the-wool vulgarian, and that didn't bother her at all. In fact, when I mentioned it, she remarked something about how she had been known to turn the air a fetching shade of blue herself, given the right wind and tide.

The first thing that she told me, and I paraphrase here, was that I can forget all about going to settle in Gloucestershire - for several reasons, not the least being that the Gloucestershire probation wouldn't sanction it on the grounds that I have no "ties" there and that the accommodation was entirely unacceptable and unsuitable. None of this is a reflection on the people in Gloucestershire, who are more than willing to assist and support me. The original plan was for me to stay with John, who is editing my work and, as he so rightly states, there is a lot of work to be done requiring a great deal of face-to-face talk and discussion. Unfortunately, that will have to be done from a distance now - more protracted, of course, but still perfectly viable. We will manage.

Okay, so where CAN I locate?

The North-East is out of the question because The SS said that letting me go back there would be tantamount to setting me up to fail. Oh she of little faith! There will be no failure, I guarantee it, no problem. But she is right, of course - the perception is there. Once I set foot back in the area I will have every miscreant and  retired hoodlum knocking on my door to say "Hello" - and, of course, half of them will be under observation by the authorities to begin with. That would, despite the fact that I neither invited nor encouraged such visitations, leave me open to a conspiracy charge - and she fully understands that, as I do myself. So, the North-East has to be a non-runner.

"You can relocate here in Lincolnshire!" says she - or words to that effect.

"No I can't," said I. "I have to keep away from my friends because of the fact that they are farmers and farmers go shooting!"

"No," says she. "You can see your friends any time you like, you just can't actually enter their premises."

Someone please explain to me how to conduct a proper friendship but not be allowed to go and call on their friends?

Typical of the system. Produce a decent, robust release plan to put before the Parole Board - that's their requirement. However, actually try to do that and the screams of outrage can be heard as far afield as Ayers Rock!

"You can go to the hostel," says she. "Just for two months."

Let me get this straight here. I can't go to the North-East on the grounds that I may associate with persons of ill-repute, thus setting me up to fail. However, I CAN go and live in a strange town, in a house full of junkies and low-lifes - but that's NOT setting me up to fail.

Discuss.

"Oh," says she, "you are going on home-leave to the hostel in January too!"

Lovely.

So, after all the above has been said, I must add that The SS really seems to want to help me. It can't be easy for her, given the current political climate - and I'm not an easy fellow to deal with at the best of times, I know this. She genuinely wants to get it all in place to lay before the Parole Board and have me released to live for two months in the hostel, a stranger in a strange land. The two months is ostensibly to give me time to find a decent place of my own and get myself sorted out.

God is supposed to move in mysterious ways. He hasn't got a patch on the system.

So, as stated earlier, it's all getting very interesting, not to  mention fraught - so we won't mention that, eh!

When will the parole hearing actually be?

Pick a number.

I expect that I will be represented by Abigail again and, as usual, she will probably tell me to keep quiet.

The SS will be there, as far as I know, and so will The Wallace, a fact that I am pleased about. I have an inordinate faith in The Wallace - she inspires confidence. Hopefully The SS will too, in time. I think Andrew will be present and quite possibly several others, all prepared to discuss my future.

It would be nice if somebody bothered to ask me, but never mind. Oh yes, it's all getting very interesting.

The Voice In The Wilderness

It started off so well

I should have known, really.

The day started off with gale-force winds that were strong enough to demolish trees that had been standing since Henry the Eighth looked at Anne Boleyn and said, "Say what you like, she's got a nice, slim neck". It howled and blew, so my pigeons were kept in  the loft. If they had been let out, we'd never have seen half of them again. And all that is without mentioning the rain and flooding - so I won't mention that.

Anyway, I got out of the gate on time, just  after nine, and collected my mobile from my locker. I rang Herman the Big Plum.

"I'll ring you back in thirty seconds!", said he - and turned his phone off.

I just sat in the porta-cabin and admired the way the trees and the flag blew about the place.

It seems that the police had blocked off the road for some obscure reason (probably the weather) so he, Herman, had been sent on a bit of a detour by a kindly policewoman and would be ten minutes late. Some people think (unkindly probably) that being late should be a permanent state for me, and probably for him too - late as in "May the good Lord keep him".

"Where we going?" said he, when I finally got in the car.

"Who's driving?" I replied.

"Bollocks," said he politely. "We'll go for breakfast, I'm starving."

This from a man who has never missed a meal in his life. So, into town and we got to the bistro about ten minutes to ten - early. However, she let us in and fed us tea while she got the chef out of bed and pretty soon we were munching away with smiles of contentment. Very nice.

After we were evicted he asked, "Now where?"

"Skegness," said I.

Said he, "What do you want to go there for?"

Said I, "What are you - a policeman?"

Off we went and, by the time we got there, he was hungry again. See! Never missed a meal in his life.

I've got to say this - it wasn't worth the drive, or the price. We had three courses and it was all microwaved, as far as I could tell. However, mustn't be churlish, and we ate everything in sight, but I could have eaten more, especially seeing as it was Sunday. Lunch and over-eating on a Sunday is a British institution, or it  should be. It should be written in stone and imprinted on every child's tribal memory bank. Three things really should be sort of imprinted at birth electronically - over-eating on Sunday lunch. over-eating on Christmas Day and never kick your Granny when she is shaving.

After that we wandered about here and there until, by about half four, the poor ould boy was tired. Well, let's be fair, he had driven a  long way in the course of that day and had a long way still to drlve.

"Are you tired, mate?" said I.

"Knackered," was his erudite response.

"Want to drop me off early then and get started back?"

"I wouldn't mind," said he.

So we came back to the jail.

It started raining again, though the wind had dropped considerably, and I got a bit wet.

No news this week, of course - but everyone will have guessed that from the above catalogue of drivel. However, I've got a meeting with the S.S. on Wednesday, so that should be interestlng. Having said that, it will be raining again - it always is these days around here. I spend my time in a permanent state of damp.

So, I got wet in the final act of Sunday's drama - exit stage left. It started off so well too!

The Voice In The Wilderness

The clock of life ticks on

As the hour hand on the clock of life ticks inexorably toward that inevitable time when I shall be required to face my maker prior to sleeping in my tomb for the longest lie-in, I often find myself sitting peacefully (usually in my pigeon loft - sorry, the North Sea Camp Animal Rescue Centre) and musing on several aspects of the past, the present and those days still to come.

I used to be concerned about a lot of things in my salad days. Oh, nothing much that was particularly deep or meaningful, just the stuff that every Tom, Dick and Frank allows to annoy them. But, as I grew older, one by one those things failed to excite me much any more, and, the older I get, I find that vexatious themes grow fewer and fewer and further apart. Not much bothers me these days. Life is too short to worry about most things - there's bugger-all I can do about them anyway, so why drive myself mad?

However, as one more care drops from my list, from time to time another crops up to take its place. Things such as the morons who are making a virtue out of ignorance as they butcher the language texting in acronyms - not to mention being unable to pull their trousers up properly. They appear to have lost the skill of how to use a comb and knowledge  of what it's actually for. They no longer shave and seem to be quite delighted about the fact that they look scruffy. I could go on but there's no point.

However, it occurs to me that this is nothing other than me copying exactly what my elders said to and about me when I was young, with my long hair and clothing that would have looked comfortable on a clown. Remember platform shoes?

Hells bells, is it any wonder that so many of the older generation have chronic back trouble and have gone bald? It's all the crap they plastered on their heads in their youth - it killed the roots. And what about drain-pipe trousers? Is it any wonder that sperm counts were so low? Everthing was being slowly strangled! No wonder, either, that so many pop stars of the day sang in high-pitched voices - it wasn't skill, it was pure pain.

All of that (and more) to one side, these days things are different for us older boys - and girls. (Ha! Girls! Give me a break! Old boilers in purple rinses doing their best to pretend to be trendy.) At least we had decent music in those days. Today it is all the one note and single line of lyrics repeated over and over. Mind, to me it all  sounds like it has been done by a little kid hitting a cardboard box with a stick.

Today?

Well, I sit in my pigeon loft and watch my birds fighting, cooing and preening themselves - and, in a very short time, I start to feel a bit sleepy. That old soporific effect kicks in, the one I have mentioned several times before. Hey! Maybe that's what they should do with all politicos, of all persuasions and ideals. Put them into my pigeon loft for a while - or anybody's pigeon loft really - and let the soporific valium take effect. Maybe they wouldn't be so keen to send their youngsters out to war so quickly. And, who knows, maybe then they could turn their attention to teaching the kids to speak and write their own sodding language - and pull their trousers up.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Marquis de Sade's saddle

I've done it again! Flat on my back - fell off my bike.

Personally I blame Andrew. He took me where there was sand and I'm not too secure on tarmac, never mind the treacherous, slippery substance which seems to constitute most of the Wash - that and mud. Anyway, Andrew collected me at the usual letting-out time of nine in the morning. He'd got there early so he had gone to look at the wildlife reserve just up the coast. I'm not sure what he saw there but it seemed to put him in a good mood - perhaps a dipper slipped in the sand.

Where wasI? Oh yes. So off we went to the seaside where we parked up in a practically deserted car park on the front and Andrew got the bikes off the rack on the rear of his car. He had brought a saddle for me that was clearly designed by the Marquis de Sade on one of his more vindictive days.

Off we set, me pedalling like a demented grape-treader trying to earn a bonus. He seems to do it effortlessly - I haven't worked out the gear system yet. Well, we got a bit confused because we tried to ride down the coastal path but it ended in "No Entry" gates and it was the attempt to turn around on the sand that was my undoing. Down I went like one of Mike Tyson's victims in his heyday - flat on my back on the sand.

Sod it, I thought as I lay there, flat out, staring up at the clear blue sky above my head. Maybe any witnesses would presume I'd done it deliberately if I lay there long enough - so I lay there. Andrew started to come back - maybe he thought I had injured myself, but he just grinned when I sprang to my feet like a retired gymnast with a bad case of osteoarthritis.

"You have to be careful on sand," said he, or words to that effect.

Now he tells me, I thought.

Anyway, we got to the road and pedalled along enthusiastically all the way to the point - amidst traffic too! -  and I neither fell off nor crashed into any unfortunate motorist. Quite a successful ride really.

There wasn't a great lot to look at there so I collected a bit of literature for an insane twitcher I know and we pedalled back. In the car park Andrew changed my saddle for me because, to be quite  honest, the tops of my thighs at the back felt numb. Those skinny little saddles were designed by someone with a twisted sense of humour.

"Right!" said he. "Let's go up the coast a bit to the next town."
 
More suffering under drifting sand and a saddle that should have been burned on bonfire night. The trouble with the next town was that there was nothing there to see! So we rode back again - and I didn't crash once.

Funny places, seaside resorts out of season. There were a few people sort of wandering around but in my opinion there were more shops open than there were people on the streets. We DID see the parade going to the local Remembrance Service, and I was struck by the number of mothers and fathers with their children. Andrew commented that it seemed the more unpopular a war became, the more people supported the armed forces. I don't know how true that is, but it was true that an awful lot of young folk were marching.

After that, a wander around the undemanding streets of the town and into an emporium of sea-food delight for fish 'n' chips - very nice. (I've got a bit of advice for the shopkeepers of the town: if they want to sell more chips, it's easy - put more on the plates!)

That was about it, really. We drove back out to the point where we left the car and wandered off onto the nature reserve. We saw a couple of birds - neither of us knew what they were really, but we speculated as though we did.

And that was it, really. Not a very exciting day, but as we arrived back at the jail's car park I realised that I had really enjoyed an undemanding day with good company and conversation. A fellow could get to like that sort of day out - and that includes the bike rides. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll be able to get on the bloody bike without doing my best to break my neck - and some people might think THAT'S not a bad idea.

Still, the twitcher was happy. Who can ask for more - apart from a comfortable saddle on his bike!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Looking at the world through frosted glass

It gets filthier by the minute - the deluge pours from the skies and lesser mortals suffer under the onslaught. Water runs down  my neck and speckles the lenses of my bins - it's like looking at the world through frosted glass. It's pointless wiping them dry and clean because they are obscured again by the time I get them back on! It is times like this when I seriously consider becoming a Hoodie.

The pigeons don't care, of course. They sit in their loft, comfy on their perches, while they wonder why I am doing impressions of a saturated, drowned rat. We had a day off from the rain during the past week, but I can't remember which day it was and I can't be bothered to consult my diary.

However, there IS some news on the Parole Board front - wonders will never cease, I suppose. The other day, I can't recall which one (all days here seem to  meld into the same day), I had a letter from the solicitor to tell me that we can expect some sort of decision from the Parole Board in tbe guise of the ICM. (I think that is an acronym for Independent Committee Member*, but I could be wrong). Apparently, the prison quite simply has not supplied reports to the PB for my parole hearing. No date for it yet, of course, but the ICM has instructed the probation, the internal probation AND security to supply and update reports on my progress. The way I read it is that the ICM isn't entirely chuffed by the lack of up-to-date reports and has given a directive that these reports must be submitted by 17th Decemher. By then, of course, I will be a long time past my hearing date, but we mustn't be churlish, eh?

It also seems to me, from reading the scant information I DO have, that the only areas where the board is showing any interest is as to whether I have successfully completed any day releases - and I have well over twenty under my belt, so to speak. Also, have I successfully completed any home leaves? Well, I've been to the hostel in Lincoln twice and hopefully I'll get a couple more in before I appear before the board for an oral hearing, which my solicitor seems confident I will be asked to do. I'll have to get a wash and shave and put a whistle and flute on for that, of course - got to make the effort. There are no security concerns, and my risk levels are minimum, as far as I have been given to believe.

So, that's the position. With a bit of luck I may even have been to Gloucestershire for a couple of home leaves by the time of the actual hearing - we are trying. The requests have gone into the probation service and the police for clearance, all we are waiting for is for them to get back to us.

Where does that all leave me?  Well, sitting here, tapping away like a demented woodpecker and doing my best not to drown as I go about my business of feeding twenty-eight ungrateful pigeons - not to mention ring-necked doves, sparrows, robins, starlings and assorted avian interlopers.

I think I may have verdi-gris on my head with all the rain.

The Voice In The Wilderness

* Actually, ICM = Intensive Case Management (ed.)

A tit man for Mayfair

Bit of a strange day really, yesterday, Sunday 28th October in the year of grace 2012. We keep hearing about this Grace - who is she exactly, Iwonder.

Anyhow, to return to yesterday (and a lot of folk wish they could, I'll warrant, but I digress - again!). To get back to the day in question. It was a poor day to start with, for a lot of reasons, not the least of which being the weather - filthy is the only word for it. One of those days where it can't seem to make its mind up. Much like pointing at two shovels and saying to an Irishman, "Take your pick!"

I had a difference of opinion before I even got out of the gate, but leave that to one side, for the sake of sanity. Once out, I looked into the car park but saw nobody there to collect me when, almost instantly, a little silver Puma passed and there was Amanda waving and smiling at me.

Now THAT'S how to brighten a dull ould day.

I leapt into her trusty steed and off we jolly-well-went, headed for the bright lights of town.

We wandered around that teeming metropolis, ignoring the weather, until we decided to go to my favourite little bistro for our din-dins - and a very convivial din-dins it was too. Amanda is a good conversationalist.

Still, I was a bit miffed because none of the others who were SUPPOSED to arrive had done so. I attempted to get them on the phone but there seemed to be something wrong with it, and there was  a distinct possibility of it ending up in the river, feeding the fishes, as the Mafia would put it. (Or is that "Sleeping w1th the fishes"?) Whichever it is, the phone almost did it.

We sat there, chatting of many things, cabbages and kings, until we were on the verge of being evicted (or charged rent) so we went on our way and wondered what to do for the rest of the day.

Gibraltar Point has nothing there by the way, just in case anyone is considering visiting there for an exciting and interesting day ­ - forget it. Several twitchers were seen lurking about the highways and byways, but they inspired no confidence in me.

So, back to the Ponderosa, and I thanked Amanda for coming to see me, and hoped she would be coming again. She said she is, but I wouldn't blame her if she didn't. Let's face it - a day out with me, in the pissing-down rain, is about on a level with removing your eyes with a blunt gardening instrument. Still, perhaps the next one will  be better. She is a very nice young woman, made a big impression on me, and is interesting to talk to - a welcome change from the usual drivel we hear daily on the so-called reality shows. She doesn't suffer fools gladly - but there again, who does?

One bright spot in the glum ould day was when we stopped for petrol and, as we were leaving, we ran into "The Goonies". Having said that, we must have seemed an odd couple ourselves to any casual observer - an old boy dressed like a hit-man for the Mafia (or, as someone said unkindly earlier in the day, a tit man for Mayfair), and a pretty young woman. Maybe they thought I was a senior citizen on a day out from some sheltered accommodation. Come to think about it - and looking round this place -·that's not too far from the truth.

My next day out is in November, and it is proposed to be a bike ride to Gibraltar Point. (See! Everything is explained in the end.) I only hope it is a better day as far as the weather goes.

So, as we can probably tell from the above, there is no news this week regarding any sort of news or dates for the parole hearing, despite several people attempting to GET such news. Oh well, all I can do is sit here, feed my pigeons and do my best to stay out of the nasty weather. Well, somebody has to do it.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A kestrel killed my pigeon

Thursday evening it was, just getting dusk, when all decent birds are settling on their perches for the night, fluffing up their feathers and indulging in a quick territorial fight with those other birds infringing on their personal spaces.

I leave the loft - sorry, the door to the North Sea Camp bird rescue centre - open. Well, in the evening I let the birds go in and settle at their own pace. It seems fair to me because that's what I like to do. I normally wander round there just as dusk is falling, give them all a drink and lock them in for the night. Thursday night was no different, I did exactly that. But as I rounded the corner of the loft, I saw a flurry of activity by the leg of my rustic bench (pause for sniggering) and a kestrel flew off. In the fading light it looked like a bit of a plastic bag wafting in the breeze, but when I got closer I saw that it was one of my birds. Clearly it was in a great deal of trouble. Its back had been ripped open and the back of its head was gone. I had no choice - I had to finish it off and threw the body in the bin, feeling very disappointed. Well, I have spent months bringing up each and every bird from chicks, so it's a  bit disappointing to lose one like that. The bloody kestrel had the front to fly back to try to get its supper, but buggered off when it saw me. I know this much - the birds are now getting into the loft early in the evenings.

So, that puts me down to twenty-eight birds, including The Stranger, who still hasn't got a ring on his leg because I haven't tried to arrest him yet. I'll let him get used to the loft first.

Well, next week I am off out for the day. I think I've got some family members coming but I'm not sure who, not yet. I expect I'll  find out during the coming week. I have also got good old Amanda driving down to spend the day. We can all go for a meal at my favourite bistro in town - that is always a good idea.

I've lost The Wallace! Apparently she has been required to hand me on, like an ould pair of wellies, to a lesser mortal. Of course she is going to oversee matters, but from a distance as she sits in her ivory tower of management.

And I no longer have to worry about home leaves, that is all being done by others in THEIR ivory towers. So that's nice to know.  One day, when the wind is in the right direction, I will have an ivory tower of my own, but I don't imagine that anyone will be waiting for me to make any life-changing decisions for them - I wouldn't want to really.

Finally, my solicitor has requested a date for an oral hearing from tbe Parole Board, so I can only hope he gets one soon. Well, at least it won't creep up on me like a kestrel at dusk, sharp talons and equally sharp beak tearing at my back and skull. Mind, after all the years, I probably wouldn't notice until I felt the blood running down my neck. Make a nice change from the knives in my back I suppose.

Ha! That makes me sound quite bitter, but on reflection I realise that, actually, I'm really not!  What is the point of harping on about the past? Nobody and nothing can change that - not even God. Let it go. Put it down to experience and move on to better pastures.

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

The Voice In The Wilderness

What's in a name?

That time has finally arrived - as we all knew it must. The Wallace, that eminently admirable personage formerly referred to as my probation officer, no longer is. Now, that's not as bad as it seems - not a bit. The Wallace should really have dumped me onto someone else some considerable time back. Being a manager, and therefore not mandated to deal with individual cases, she would normally be doing "overviews", whatever that entails. But The Wal1ace kept me as her project, probably to keep herself amused, and she was more than likely interested in how I managed to cope with everything. The point is, she has passed me on to another prob. off., but assures me that she will keep an eye on matters.

Now, all of this made me realise that I have a tendency to give little nicknames to just about everyone and everything. It's the mentality of dealing with the prison estate, I suppose. They are quite terrified that anyone should learn their names or what they do for a living - maybe they are ashamed of it, who knows. However, once a feller gets into that sort of mindset he soon finds himself giving names to everyone and everything. I have even gone so far as to give my pigeons names.

Now, let me see... There is Houdini - you can't keep him in the loft, he escapes out of everything. Then there is Big 'ead and Little 'ead, Gannet - who can't get enough to eat - and Oliver who, no matter how much he gets, always wants more. Titch and Tiny, Patches and  Big Blue and Little Blue - the list goes on. After all I've got twenty-nine of them counting the two squeakers I got yesterday.

There should only be twenty-eight but I've got an interloper who seems to have moved in - The Stranger. I know he is an interloper because I put brightly-coloured rings on all of the birds and this one, The Stranger, hasn't got one. As soon as I can get hold of him he WILL have a ring on his leg - a red one - I've got it all  ready for him. I was counting the birds the other evening as it was getting dark, just to make sure they were all in, and I had one too many. I thought I had miscounted so did it again. Three times I did it, and then I saw this blue checker sitting on a perch with no ring on. Not just sitting on a perch but full of feed and all fluffed up as he settled in for the night.

I had discovered a squatter!

Anyway he is in there now - goes for his daily fly with all of the others and comes back as though he had lived there all of his life. Let him stay, that's my attitude - it does no harm at all and, with winter creeping up on us stealthily, who can blame him for wanting to live somewhere where he is fed and warm, away from the elements.

So he's got a name as well now.

Which brings me neatly back to names and my new probation officer. I know her name, of course, but can't use it - I wouldn't want to upset the apple cart before I've even got the apples in it. But her initials automatically give me her nickname - The SS. I DO hope she's got a sense of humour. She'll need it because, as we all know, there are certain people in this world who take a fairly irreverent view of the rest of it - and I'm one of them.

And so the end of an era arrives and another begins. The SS will be handling my appearance before the Parole Board, whenever THAT may turn out to be - there is bugger-all news about it at the minute, beyond the fact that outside influences are attempting to get a date. Watch this space. Maybe The SS can get some sense out of the system, but, to be quite frank about it, I would be more inclined to put my money on The Stranger or Houdini - one can get in where least expected and the other seems to be able to get out of everything.

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's a funny ould world

It was kind of misty when I went out for the day yesterday - it was a bit cold too. Not that I let that bother me much - in fact not very much bothers me much. It's all much of a muchness, as the bard would have said. (Too many "muches" there - too much in fact.)

So, seeing as nobody was collecting me at the gate I had to get the prison bus, which I don't mind really. I just sit there letting folk know that I am out via my mobile. Incidentally, there are now no facilities for recharging our mobiles, which we bought at great expense - thirty quid for a basic unit when better ones can be got for two quid at any boot sale (but leave that to one side for now). So, seeing as we can no longer recharge our phones they therefore must become useless and redundant. So I have asked for my money back - what good is a phone that can't be used?

So, in the prison bus and into town, where I had a little wander about whilst chatting to several friends on the phone and finally discovering that Big Anthony and his son Little Anthony would be late arriving to meet me. Apparently Big Anth bought a new car on Saturday - a Vauxhall Insignia, a very nice car - but when he went to put fuel in it on Sunday morning at the crack of dawn, he had put 94 quid's worth of petrol in it before he realised it was a diesel car!

Lunacy rules and will never die out at this rate. I've always thought the diesel pump fittings wouldn't go into a petrol car and vice versa, but what do I know eh?

So, they had to wait for the AA to come out and drain the tank and give it a rinse out - let's hope that they used liquid common sense.

Anth phones: "I'm sitting at the security gate."

"What security gate?"

"The one at the prison," says he.

Says I, "I'm sitting in the town centre! You can't miss it. There's a church - the only tall building in the town. You can see it for miles!"

We finally met up at a quarter to two. Only five hours late, and not a petrol tanker in sight - although that could be seen as rhyming slang.

Having said all that, I enjoyed my day with the boys - great - and had several chats to several people on the phone. I spoke to Susan May, or Suzie the Floozie as I used to call her years ago. Hey! I've known Sue for a long time now - donkey's years. Amanda clocked in and we had a performance with me trying to send her a phone number. I can't work the bleedin' phone at all.

I finally got back to the shovel and pick at about a quarter to seven and instantly got myself into hot water because I had more money when I came back than I had when I went out. I shouldn't have told them - it's as simple as that. We are asked to be honest but the instant we are we get into trouble. However, that's all water under the bridge, so to speak - and it had gone cold again after a lovely sunny day.

All in all, I enjoyed myself and went to bed a tired but replete fellow. I'll see them all again in three weeks, only this time I won't get into trouble for having too much money. See! I'm back to the "muches" again. It's too much, I tell you, and it don't suit me it don't.

If every day was as satisfying as yesterday, I couldn't complain - but I probably would, just on principle.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Too old

I've got to admit it - I'm cream crackered!

Now, normally I would be writing this at about half-past eight in the morning - but not today. This morning I was up and out at the crack of dawn to feed and water my pigeons - as big a bunch of pests never seen before. They sit on my boots, scratch about my feet and, every now and then, one called Gannet decides that it will do me good if it craps on my head. Some folk will say, "I wish he wouldn't use words like 'crap'." Well, it took me a long time to actually use words like 'crap'.

What am I doing crawling out of my pit at the crack of daft o'clock? Even the bleedin' sparrows are still in bed!

I'm too old for this shit. I should be sitting in a nice, comfy chair with a blanket around my knees to keep me warm, in front of a roaring fire and a little nurse standing by with fresh incontinence pants in case of accidents. I should have a budgie for a pet and a little Yorkie barking all day to annoy the neighbours and shitting  on the carpet. I should be sitting waiting for my meals-on-wheels and pissing myself in the queue at Tescos so I can get to the front and pretending to be deaf.

What have I been doing today (and every day really)?

I have fed and watered twenty-four pigeons, half of them individually and by hand. Then I helped the chicken man (not Chicken George) to lug a dirty great big laying rack from the piggery up to the new chicken shed. Ha! New! The builder should be called Bob. I've seen derelict buildings that looked better.

Anyway, dragged the laying thing up there and then I went and had a look to see if there was any greenage for the chickens. After that I wandered down to the bottom field to see what mushrooms were free and unattended.

That was the morning taken care of and, as soon as I had finished my lunch, I went and picked the mushrooms, walked the perimeter of the prison farm fences looking for abandoned or injured birds, and then it was back to my rescue centre to feed the ones I've got now. By then it was tea time and, right after tea, which I didn't eat because I didn't have time (I'll have it later tonight), I was back to see to the pigeons - counted them all into the loft and settled them in for the night.

Was I finished? Not a bit. Then I was up to the realm of Chicken George to help him to settle HIS charges for the night. At least we saw a barn owl and a couple of bats.

I got back to my cell at a quarter-past seven this evening and, apart from meal times, I've been running around since five minutes past seven this morning - no wonder I lose a little weight. Mind, that seems to have stuck at twelve stones, so perhaps that's the weight I have to be, as nature decreees.

Was I finished then? No! I had to write this and then I have to write two letters AND have my shower. After that I've got my tea to eat - and if I can keep my eyes open after that it will be a miracle!

My solicitor tells me that he has requested from the Parole Board a date for an oral hearing. If they don't give such a date, then he is threatening a Judicial Review.  As I said somewhere else - I'm too old for this shit.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Everyone needs a break

It's true! Everyone needs a little break from time to time and, Zeus knows, I've needed one for years.

Well - here's the bit I particularly like - I've had one.

Last weekend I went out for a really pleasant day with Andrew. I'm not sure that he found the first part of the day particularly pleasant because I dragged him to a car boot sale. Fascinating things, car boot sales. It's astonishing what people find to sell and even more astonishing what people THINK they can sell. The world is full of optimists, that's for sure.

I dragged Andrew around every stall. I was looking for an old-fashioned safety razor, those things with the separate blades and the screw-on handle. Didn't find one, of course, but I did buy something which I have since found I neither need nor want. But this is the nature of car hoot sales - we discover things we just never knew we couldn't live without. It's not all bad news - Andrew did okay too. He found half a dozen old Beano or Dandy annuals, I'm not sure which - a bit of light reading for his boy there then.

By the time I had perused and searched every stall on the site, I could see that Andrew was both bored and a little bit chilly so off we went into town where we wandered around a couple of shops as I continued my quest (pointlessly, I might add). Finally we got bored and retired to our favourite eatery where we had our Sunday din-dins.

It was after that that the torture began.

Andrew drove us out of town to a car park where he got the bikes off the back and I had to get changed for that popular pastime of crushing your bollocks on a bike seat designed by a devotee of the works and doings of the Marquis De Sade. Actually, apart from the crushing of the personal testacularities (copyright word, but you can borrow it), I enjoyed the bike ride enormously and this time didn't crash once - that's progress. We went several kilometres up the side of the river toward the city and sat on the grass for a while watching a marathon row - thirty-one miles, and anyone who thinks that's a stroll in the park has got to be joking.

We saw a lot of rowers - single sculls, doubles, right up to full coxed eights. There were a few older rowers. One pair of brothers had rowed many marathons together and we worked it out that they had rowed in total over a thousand miles - that's a long way to walk, never mind row. However, most of the rowers seemed to be mere youngsters - striplings, callow youths, both boys and girls.

One pair were about fourteen years old and they rowed the whole way, thirty-one miles - and didn't finish last. Anyone who despairs of today's youth, go and watch the kids rowing marathons. THAT, my friends, requires guts, determination and strength of character, and those kids had it in abundance - they'll do well in life.

We rode back to town to watch the end of the race and it was quite heartwarming to see the way the watchers on the banks were encouraging the rowers. It taught me that, however hard something may seem to most of us, there are always some who will accept the challenge AND complete it. I take off my homburg to them.

That was the weekend. The following week, I caught an early train to the city and booked myself into the hostel there and then went down to the railway station to meet John, my editor, as he got off the train. We spent a very pleasant day together and chatted of cabbages and kings until I saw him off again at about half four in the afternoon. Back to the hostel, where I got changed and, wearing a nice suit plus black homburg - I must have looked like someone out of "The Godfather" - I went into town for a very pleasant meal and then back to the hostel for a kip, with another day ahead of me.

The next morning I was waiting for Herman the Big Plum to arrive and collect me by vehicular transport when my phone rang, and it was The Wallace checking up to see if I was okay. I assured her I was and, as we were chatting, Herman El Plum arrived, so I left The Wallace to chat to the hostel boss and went off with Herman.

We drove into the town, where I introduced him to my favourite place to refuel the human body, wandered around the shops and Herman decided to take me to a nearby seaside resort. I've never been there before and, to be quite honest, I'm not keen to go there again. It's like every other seaside resort really - twenty-seven thousand ways to get dosh out of the punters. In fact that's government policy as far as I can see.

Herman got me back to the hostel at about six and off he went on the long drive home while I showered, changed and went out to have a bit of din-dins, then retired for the night.

The following day I packed my suitcase, said "Bye bye" to the people at the hostel and caught the train back to the town, where I managed to persuade Jenny (shop manageress) to let me put my suitcase in her place while I went for lunch and did a bit of shopping. Then I caught the half-four bus back to durance vile.

And that, my  friends, is the tale of my little break that lasted four days - and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Quite looking forward to the next one too. It's true, everyone needs a break - to climb a mountain or jump in a lake. I went for a bike ride and bought myself a homburg. I'm not sure which I enjoyed most - the bike ride had more pluses than minuses, and the homburg causes glances to be cast in my direction (and only a few actually snigger).

Come to think about it, people have been sniggering at me for years.

As I was coming back to town on the train, it occurred to me that a year ago I wouldn't have believed that I would he sitting on a train, feeling quite rested - and not a pair of handcuffs in sight. I must be getting old - but I DO like bike riding now.

What made the most lasting impression on me after those four days? Seeing all of those kids rowing such a long way out of sheer desire to just do it - and as long as we have kids like that we won't go far wrong.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day on my own

I found a car boot sale all by myself on Sunday - who's a clever little nitwit then?

Mind, I very nearly never got out at all because, when I went to the gate lodge to book out of the jail, the kangaroo said, "Computer says 'No!'"

Apparently, somebody had forgotten to register the fact that I had  a day out booked. Anyway, off I went to see my personal officer, who was fortunately on duty that day, and he managed to get it sorted out for me quickly enough. However, I didn't get out of the gate until after 9:15 and the bus into town had gone already. The fellow on the gate said he would phone the van to come back for me. So I set off down the road, just like Dorothy on the Yellow Brick Road - only this one isn't yellow OR brick, it's just tarmac and full of potholes.

The van finally came back to get me and I got the driver to drop  me at the college because I saw a boot sale going on in the car park. I told him I would walk into town from there.

What I was looking for was a fob for my pocket watch and an old razor which I could use because, to be quite honest, the modern ones are about as much good as a glass eye. Oh, they are very sharp, you just can't get them under the nose - pathetic!

Well, I didn't find either item and, after wandering around looking at the wide range of stuff people sell, and trying to have a conversation with a deaf woman who was most likely drunk to boot, I wandered into town.

A day all on my own - the first one I've had since I've been here. Everyone who would normally meet me, the whole lot of them, were otherwise engaged, so I happily spent the day keeping myself company. At lunch time I went to my favourite riverslde bistro, where the waitress was surprised to see me dining alone.

Half a chicken and the trimmings, out on the terrace with cold orange juice to wash it down, all for eight quid - you couldn't get vexed at that if you wanted to.

I went into the park after that, because there was a sort of fete on with rides for kids, tombolas, stalls and all that kind of thing. The crowds were quite thick considering that it was Sunday. I wandered around, saw several people I knew, and by about four in the afternoon the sun's heat had sapped me. I was running out of petrol. I came back to the prison then and realised that I had enjoyed the day a good deal.

I expect the coming weekend to be a little more hectic but just as enjoyable because Andrew is coming to meet me and is threatening to bring the bikes and a picnic basket, so I could end up with a sore arse and not a decent cane in sight.

The next day I am off to the city where I will be meeting John, the writer and editor, to discuss various matters. He used to be a reporter on "Private Eye", or something like that. Anyway, I will spend the day in his company so that will be a pleasure and the day after that I have got Herman the Big Mug coming down from Hartlepool to  spend the day with me and to deliver me back to the jail gate in  the evening. No doubt I'll make a report on it all in the Voice next week.

Finally, I think I wi11 mention Margaret. Margaret works in a charity shop in the town and she is one of the most pleasant people I have met in a long time. Margaret, the world is a better place because of people like you, but you need to do something about the haircut. It's worse than mine - and I'm as bald as an orangutan's arse. 

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Red-legged League

Thoroughly disreputable shoes!

We've all got a pair of thoroughly disreputable shoes, or slippers, or a cardi, or t-shirt - something. We've all got something like that. Something we've had for years and which is so comfy that it is practically criminal. It's no good washing these things or cleaning them in any way whatsoever. In fact, a good wash would probably  encourage them to fall apart. Everybody wants us to throw them away, of course, but that would be like abandoning a favourite child - it's not happening.

In my case, it is a pair of Kappa trainers which I bought about ten years ago in a sale from Sports Direct at the amazing price of seven or eight quid. They are black leather and, over the years, they have managed to develop a couple of small splits - but comfortable isn't the word. I may get buried in them.

Some people think me being buried is a great idea anyway, with or without the thoroughly disreputable shoes.

Pigeons!

I now have a dozen rescued birds, all young ones which have become orphans via one route or another - nests destroyed, abandoned by parents - all manner of reasons. The thing is, I've got them now. I've managed to get seven to the stage where they are all feeding themselves and flying - but not actually going anywhere. They seem to prefer their adopted home, the North Sea Camp Rescue Centre - my bleedin' pigeon loft. I've got half a dozen others, all tiny things which have to be hand-fed three times a day and which are very demanding as soon as they hear a human voice.

One of the older squeakers used to be called "Tbe Cuckoo" - but that's been changed now to "The Gannet", for obvious reasons. It follows me around like a dog, squeaking and trying to shove its head between my fingers. "The Gannet" is perfectly capable of feeding himself but he still prefers to have me feed him. I'd give him a thick ear but he is a member of the gang called the "North Sea Camp Red-legged Hoodies", and it would take a brave man to tackle just one of them - to tackle all of them would take a suicidal idiot.

They all have red rings on their legs for identification purposes, so that I can recognise them once they decide to strike out on their own - and one day, they will.

In fact, it's much like my own position. I have to go to the hostel in the big city again shortly for an overnight stay, but one day I will be able to strike out on my own. The only thing that is different between me and the pigeons is I don't have a red ring around my left leg - well, apart from the ones made by my wellies.

So, it's me for the wide open spaces again. It's not a city I am particularly fond of, but that's probably because I am being compelled to go there. If I went by choice I would probably enjoy the place - it's nice enough. In fact, going there voluntarily might cause me to get to like the place. It could grow on me, like an old pair of Kappa trainers - but I bet it would cost a sight more than seven or eight quid.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Spitting feathers

They were all in this morning.

I crawled out of my pit at about twenty minutes past six - or, as  my pal calls it, "Daft o'clock" - and, after the usual rituals, I  was on my meandering way down to the old stable block which is where my pigeon loft is. Not that it is a pigeon loft any more - it  is now the "North Sea Camp Rescue Centre", although so far all I've got in there is a motley gang of young abandoned pigeons which I am rearing to maturity. Once they reach that happy state - a state, incidentally, that I hope to reach myself one day - they can go their own way in the world. However, seeing as the loft is the only home they have ever known, they will stay there, going out for a fly-­about each day and spending the rest of their time sitting somewhere comfy - like on my chair.

Take The Head and Houdini, for instance. They are just about grown now and are outside flying around most of the time, but, as far as they are concerned, they live there and I can sod off - they ain't going no place.

So, they were all in this morning when I went down there, and that includes a couple of others who use the place as a sort of pit­-stop - but I don't mind that.

They all run around the floor in a gang - it's only a matter of time until they all decide to be hoodies. When THAT happens, the rest of the birds around the place better start watching their manners.

Oh yes, and on Thursday I had to go and see someone at the Offender Management Unit - or, as the acronymous crowd like to refer to it, the OMU.

Off I went at the appointed time and the interviewer got me seated and asked, "What's going on with you then?"

Me: "Nothing."

Her: "We haven't seen much of you lately."

Me: "Well, you know me - I don't harrass people."

Her: "I know."

I asked her if, as has been suggested by John H, I can go over to his place for a few days to allow us to discuss my writing, him being my editor.

"No," was the reply. "You must take your home leaves to the address to which you will finally be released."

"Every time I come up with an address," said I, "you veto it."

"Well," said she, "we've had word from [The Wallace] that she has organised a home leave for you at the hostel, middle of next month. Will you go?"

"Of course I will," said I. "But why not have a couple of days at the Junkies' Paradise Hotel and then a couple of days somewhere with decent people?"

Anyone would think that I had made an inappropriate and extremely rude suggestion. Clearly there is absolutely no intention of ever allowing anyone to get a decent start out in the real world - they want us to go and live in a world of junkies, low-lifes, chancers and free tickets back to jail. The thing that puzzles me is that the jail is full of people with no family or friends and no sort of support mechanism waiting for them - I've got all that. They NEED the hostel, the resettlement place - I don't. They can't get a place - I'm being forced to take one up.

If anyone can give me a logical explanation, I would appreciate it - I'm utterly perplexed by the distorted thinking involved. Perhaps I should ask if I can move into the pigeon loft with all of the other homeless characters who live down there - I'll even try to grow feathers if that makes them feel any better. I don't hold out much hope of the feathers, to be fair - I can't grow hair, never mind feathers. The only feathers I get are those I am spitting as I try to get them to see sense.

The Voice In The Wilderness