A fish and chip tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A very sick man

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

Having said that, there are a couple of little signs that just maybe something may happen before the Olympics. Actually I’m thinking about putting my name down for one of the events - the Not Moving A Muscle and Doing Fuck All marathon. I think I’m a certainty for double gold.

The other day they came to see me and asked me to sign a paper which said that I agreed to share a cell on arrival in North Sea Camp (if it should be necessary), so I signed that. There was also a question on the paper for this prison which asked:
“Would you accept Prisoner back in the event of a Serious Open Conditions Failure.”
and of course this place has agreed. They are not too keen on letting me go but they will have me back at the shake of a rat’s whiskers. I’m informed that the document was faxed back to North Sea Camp on Wednesday 10th and that I would know what was oing on within a week - so this next few days should provide something definite at last and I’ll believe it when I see it. Next week’s "Voice" should be interesting.

Has anyone noticed that when any of us (human beans, that is) is in a pensive or thoughtful mood we have a tendency to relax and go off into a daydream. Our faces completely relax and turn to rubber, sagging and drooping I expect. The overall effect can be of having a miserable countenance. We ain't (miserable, I mean), but that’s the perception of a casual observer.

The other day, I was leaning on the railing outside of cell, (well, it stops me from falling to the floor if I lean) and I was thinking of cabbages and kings, off in a world of my own I expect, miles away. My face must have looked even more miserable than usual because one of the female kangaroos came to lean next to me and asked, “Are you all right? Frank.”
Well, you know me, never miss a trick, never spurn a chance at a good joke, that’s me.
“No,” said I. “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked she, all concerned and walking right into it.

“Well,” said I, “it’s my brother, Cecil.”
I haven’t got a brother called Cecil - nobody has.
“What’s the problem?” asked Florence Nightinga1e.
“Well,” I settled down to fool her. “He’s a lot older then me and he’s been living in sheltered accommodation for a few years now. The thing is, nobody had seen him for a few weeks and the warden at the sheltered housing place got a bit concerned so he contacted Social Services about it. They arrived with the police and they all started knocking on the door of the flat but couldn’t get any answer. In the end they had to break the door down and when they got inside they found the curtains all closed and all over the place there were opened and half eaten tins of Chum dog food and there were spoons in some of the tins. They searched the flat and every room had these half eaten tins of dog food everywhere."
“What about your brother?” asked Miss Gullible 1962.
“They found him lying on the kitchen floor,” said I, sadly. “Oh my God! Was he dead?”
“No,” said I “But he had broken his neck trying to lick his own bollocks.”
She just looked at me and finally said, “You are a very sick man,” and burst out laughing.
Well, you know what Julius Caesar said just before the Senators perforated his torso:
“Coppula eams se non posit acceptera jocularum.”
(Fuck them if they can't take a joke.)

The Voice In The Wilderness

A fishy tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did I meet Boudica?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Godot ain't here yet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, I can subscribe to THAT!

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

To labour and to wait

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Say not the struggle naught availeth

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

OUTCOME OF PAROLE BOARD REVIEW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

All the world's a fool

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

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

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

Back to my ramblings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

And the dance goes on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will answer, "I did!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A deal is a deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good question and I can't answer it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Get off my back

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

On June 24th I wrote in the application:

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Page 4)

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

(Page 5)

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

(Page 6)

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

(Page 7 - Panel's assessment etc.)

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

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

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

It brings to mind the words of Leo Tolstoy:

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Patience is a pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," was the response.

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

"No idea," was his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wi1derness

Godot on his way?

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

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

"HURRAH!" we cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Limbo at the Lazy L

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

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

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

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

As I said earlier - hurry up and wait.

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

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

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

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

So... where does that leave us?

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Photo call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who else?

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

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

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

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

A picture of Billy M - good on yer Billy.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day in Purgatory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nostradamus never picked the lottery numbers, did he?

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

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

That didn't happen then.

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

Nostradamus said:

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

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

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

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

"Fine," said I.

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

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

He nodded. "You are right."

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

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

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

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

As my auld grandfather would have said:

Whatever you say, say nothing.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Ramblings of a sick mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know three fellows who never go near the shower.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A letter from the Invisible Man

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

An address from the Invisible Man

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

Where was I?

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

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

Wrong. Lying to solicitors serves several purposes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Questions of morality

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

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

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

What about the morality of it all?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's getting married?"

"What's her name?"

"Is that the King?"

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

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

One last thought on morality - Herbert Spencer said:

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

Macaulay said:

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

Oh yes, and British politicians:

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

An old dog, tired out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness