Nothing much happens - in three parts!

Part One - Porridge and common sense
 
Listening to the radio this morning whilst cleaning my teeth and generally pottering about in my kennel - I listen to the radio in Van Gogh mode, with one ear - I heard someone or other discussing humour in general and prison humour in particular. I think it had something to do with Ronnie Barker. The fellow speaking on the steam-driven wireless seemed to have a slightly unreal idea of prison life because he said that the humour in "Porridge" wasn't far from the reality of prison. What gammon.

I grant that "Porridge" was funny in places, and very entertaining in its way, but whoever wrote it got his idea of prison from someone who had a very romantic view of it all. There IS a lot of humour in prison, most of it pretty dark too, but it has little connection with the humour in "Porridge". Prison humour is far funnier, more prosaic, crueller, biting, vulgar, very often painfully near the mark or the knuckle - and there is ALWAYS a victim. As often as not, this victim is a member of the "enemy", but not always, not by a long shot. Anyone who really wanted to experience prison humour would have to spend considerable time there. It's no good talking to others who HAVE spent considerable time there because what is passed on will inevitably be a sanitised version.

Come to think about it - and to expand the thought a little further - I think that this applies to everything, almost every job and walk of life. Interviews with teachers, nurses, policemen, doctors, roadsweepers and kings only bring out what the interviewee WANTS to bring out. The innermost secrets are never disclosed, not in anything at all, ever. This is why these "in-depth" and "frank" interviews are just the opposite really. We, all of us, only reveal what we want to reveal - for all sorts of reasons, not all of them bad. That's why committees to investigate drugs, crime, the health service, armed forces and so on ad infinitum, are never too successful because of the self-censorship involved - and the fact that they generally ask the wrong questions anyway.

This brings me back to the prison estate. Prisoners are in the thrall of a group of young girls who have, in effect, taken over the prison system. These are the trainee psychologists whose uneducated and unqualified utterances and judgements on people are taken by the powers that be as gospel and are not questioned. A trainee psychologist can condemn any person in prison and there is no recourse. It is actually impossible to get these inexperienced children to change anything they write about anyone and they insist that they know better than the judge of the court in which the prisoner was tried and sentenced. It's not vindictive, not in most cases anyway; it is not even the lack of experience, although that plays a large part. The fact is that they simply do not care!

So, the prisoner has to deal with these charlatans and the only way is to lie. A prisoner learns all the right answers, totally meaningless to the prisoner really, trots them out and gets a tick in the right box. The charlatans then hold up the paper bearing the tick in the right box and declare that they have proof that the prisoner will not re-offend. It is as false and as worthless as an ashtray on a motorbike and Lily Savage's tits. It is as much use as a glass eye.

These psychologist have no insight at all into the people they are dealing with. How can they have? What can they learn in a few hours (total) of interviewing? The people who CAN have insight into a prisoner's mindset are the prison officers, yet prison officers are ignored and are the last contingent anyone will listen to, if they ever do.

Something is absent from the whole system - and that something is not experts, it's not committees and it is certainly not a shortage of psychologists. It's common sense - nobody uses it. I wonder if they are all scared to use it!

Part Two - Nowt to report

Jails are made of bricks and passions,
Broken dreams and ribald men...

Words originally written about Kilmainham Jail in Dublin - closed down and now a museum and tourist attraction of that fair city. Bricks and passions.. broken dreams... ribald men. I suppose that those words can apply to any prison really.

No news again this week - nary a word, zilch, zero, nada - unless, of course, we consider the fact that I now have a new personal officer, Miss Sensitive apparently having gone elsewhere. I have no idea where, and what's more, I don't really care where. Her record for underhand obstruction is better left unrecorded but it is up there with the best of them. So now I have a new one.

I was getting a cup of one day earlier in the week - hot water for tea - when one of the kangas said, "Wilko, " (he will never know how much I object to being called Wilko), "I am your new personal officer now."

"Wonderful," said I. "What happened to the other one?"

"She's gone elsewhere," said he, which in effect told me nowt.

That's a great word - "nowt". It has such a definite and unquestionable finality about it, leaving no room for ambiguity or confusion. It does exactly what it says on the tin, so to speak. Of course it is a northern word - all good words are, when you come to think about it. Compare "nowt" with "nuffink" - "nuffink" just hasn't got that ring of confidence about it. So, nowt has happened yet again in this emporium of misery and uncertainty... this pile of bricks and passions with its broken dreams and ribald men.

I don't know this new personal officer's name - he didn't deem it right to tell me and I'm not interested enough to go out of my way to find out. He did ask if there was anything I needed a hand with, but I think he only did that to show willing. If I had actually asked him to do something for me he would probably have been taken ill and been off work for three months suffering from some stress-related affliction. Of course this assumption on my part may be entirely uncalled-for and verging on the slanderous, but there's not much that can be done when experience tells me otherwise.

Now, I know perfectly well that I say a lot of things which some folk take exception to, I know this... but there is no need for them to do so. Not much that I say is personal or aimed at anyone in a particularly vindictive manner. I am usually pretty general in my outlook ( I hope), so if anyone takes anything seriously or personally, it is more a reflection on them than on me. I don't think I am a vindictive sort of cove at all. If anyone looks carefully at whatever is written or said, they will see that it is mostly written (or said) with the tongue firmly embedded in the cheek, that raddled part of my visage which botox is scared of.

However, if anyone should take exception to whatever I say or write, I can do no better than direct them to the words of Julius Gaius Caesar as he crossed the Rubicon:

Coppula eam, se non posit acceptera jocularum!

Which, as all we Latin scholars are fully aware, can be loosely translated as "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

And now, as the sun sinks slowly o'oer the barbed wire of my country estate, I can go back to contemplating the bricks... and the passions... and the ribald men... and the broken dreams...

Part Three - Paying Danegeld
 
It occurs to me as I negotiate the hazards and pitfalls of prison life (navigating the corners carefully, because I don't want any accidents at this stage) that some people seem to sail through with neither let nor hindrance, while others struggle to get their meals on time. Why should this be?

Of course I am fully aware of the main reason - and that is that some fellows never lift their heads above the parapet, are never on show and never come to the attention of the authorities. Sensible fellows, really. Then we have the obverse of the coin, people like me - the problem children who, for some reason, attract attention, much like a turd attracts flies. Maybe I should disguise myself, wear a mask or something - mind, some people would see THAT as a good idea too!

To get back to the fellows who sail through prison unscathed. The real fact is that they never question and will tolerate any ould crap and let it pass unchallenged. In days of yore they would be called quislings, Petainists, appeasers, the payers of Danegeld. It is a mistake to pay Danegeld, always has been - history shows that to be true. No matter how much is paid, or what concessions are made, the Dane will always come back for more.

At the same time, a balance must be found between stubbornness and appeasement - never an easy thing to do. As far as prison is concerned, I suppose it comes down to the quality of life - and not just for prisoners but staff too, to some extent, although they are being paid decent money and go home every night.

I try to tell people that being nasty to prisoners for no good reason isn't good for anyone's morale. The thing we all need to remember, and to bear in mind at all times, is that this is not a dress-rehearsal for something else, not a bit of it. THIS IS IT! This is our only shot at life on this benighted planet and we had better make the most of it because we won't get another opportunity. We can't go to some complaints department and say, "Listen, I've fucked that right up! I'd better start over again." Oh no, it simply doesn't work like that. We get one shot at it and one shot only.

And that gives me the perfect excuse to repeat (as I have done more than once in these pages) the words of Stephen Grellet*, a man of great humanitarian outlook, when he wrote:

I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again...

The Voice In The Wilderness

*From Wikipedia:
Stephen Grellet (November 2, 1773 – November 16, 1855) was a prominent French Quaker missionary.
He was born Étienne de Grellet du Mabillier in Limoges, the son to a counsellor of King Louis XVI. Raised as a Roman Catholic he was educated at the military College of Lyons, and at the age of seventeen he entered the body-guard of Louis XVI. During the French Revolution he was sentenced to be executed, but escaped and eventually fled Europe to the United States in 1795.
Impressed by the writings of William Penn, George Fox, and Quaker beliefs, in 1796 he joined the Society of Friends. He became involved in extensive missionary work across North America and most of the countries of Europe, in prisons and hospitals, and was respectfully granted meetings with many rulers and dignitaries, including Pope Pius VII, Czar Alexander I, and the Kings of Spain and Prussia. He encouraged many reforms in educational policies and in hospital and prison conditions.
In 1804 he married his wife, Rebecca, the daughter of the publisher Isaac Collins.
It is reputed that he was the last living person who could have identified the "Lost Dauphin" of France.
He died in Burlington, New Jersey on November 16, 1855 and his body was buried there behind the Quaker Meeting House at 340 High Street.

Living with the demons of the night

Another week passes when nothing at all happens, nothing is said or done and I am starting to feel invisible again. I've read my recent crop of books and things are getting so desperate that I might start getting books from the library. The trouble is that I like to own my books and to read them at leisure, often over and over because I miss so much on the first reading.

However, I'm not here to discuss books, that is a subject better left for a much longer dissertation than this is destined to be. Forget books, they only give us ideas above our station and cause trouble anyway.

Last night, (there is nothing like a quiet Saturday night in) I sat here in my comfy kennel in silence. Telly off, because, to be quite frank about it, it's mostly puerile rubbish anyway. I didn't have my stereo on and I didn't feel like playing with my PlayStation. I've already mentioned that I've read all of my new books -that's a hundred and eight quid I'll never see again - and all I was doing basically was contemplating my navel and cogitating pensively.

Then I had a mini epiphany... The whole place was silent! Normally at about nine at night, there is maybe a bit of music to be heard faintly, a telly on that little bit too loud or someone chatting rubbish to his pal out of the window. Last night - not a sound. In fact, I bet there are graves where there is more noise.

This got me to wondering. What are they all doing in those cells all around me? Reading? Studying? Writing a letter home? Watching the telly? They would be doing all of those things, certainly, but there would be a a few who were simply lying on their beds, maybe even in the dark, and they would be living inside their own minds. Thinking of family, friends, brooding on enemies and the ills done to them, regrets, sorrows, and in some cases downright misery.

Of course, the dragon-chasers would be doing none of those things. All they are doing is wondering who they can lie to to get their next short-lived trip to a false oblivion. I don't want to waste my typewriter ribbon on them, so we will leave that little lot to their own devices.

Yes...all around me there would be men experiencing all of the emotions the writers have been scribbling about for centuries. How do I know this? Well, I'm glad you asked because I can help with that one. I know all this because I have experienced it all for years. Countless nights have been spent living inside my own mind. I've gone through the brooding, the hatred, the blame, the regrets, the sorrow and all of the other things too, and there was a time when it turned me quite mad.

Then I discovered the secret of life in prison - how to survive the nights. The days are easy, it's the nights where the demons live. Whenever I started to brood on the ills done me I would instantly get out of my bed and start to read or write, anything to stop my mind from travelling the road to rage and anger.

It works too!

In addition to that, the reading and the writing tires out the mind, and that is inducive of good sleep. It is no matter how tired the body is, that can be fully rested by simply lying down for a few hours. But sleep, that healing sleep, needs a tired mind.

I sleep well enough these days but that wasn't always the case of course. It must be the reading - and perhaps the little bit of writing I do helps too.

So, in conclusion, may I give a little bit of advice to those who suffer from any form of insomnia - have a good read, and the more boring the book the better. Having said that, I have to admit that I found Leon Uris a great writer and most people think he's boring, but that's probably more a reflection on me than it is on them. I once read Archbold Criminal Pleading Evidence and Practice 1992 from front to back and found it quite interesting, so perhaps I'm not the best judge of what constitutes a good read.

Finally, a story. Yesterday, a female kanga asked me if I was okay. I must have been looking a bit off! I jumped at my chance.

"No," I said, "I'm not."

"What's the trouble?" asked she.

"My brother has been diagnosed as having Zachary's disease."

"Oh. What's that?"

"His face is Zachary like his arse."

The Voice In The Wilderness

A rocky coast where ships can founder

It has been yet another week where news or progress is, shall we say, noticeable by its absence. Nothing to report and, as Henri Maria Remarque might have said, "All Quiet on the Western Front". 

However, being a prolific writer (of sorts), I am never lost for a few words, and this week is no exception. Incidentally, may I just say that I never sit down at my typewriter with anything specific in mind to write about. I just sit down, light my fag, have a drink of my tea and start bashing the keys, just to see what drivel I can come up with THIS week. 

And this week, what has come to my mind are two things. One - a couple of idiots on this wing (staff and not cons), have tried to deny that a certain governor works in this prison and that she doesn't exist at all! Not to worry, no doubt that little matter will be sorted out in no time at all.

The other matter is a conversation I had earlier in the week with one of my fellow zoo exhibits, another member of the Scum Class of two thousand and ten. (I've said this before, it's not easy being scum like me you know.)

So... there I was, standing minding my own business and waiting to collect my lunch, which, incidentally, Egon Ronay it ain't. So... (I've got to stop saying 'So') So... there I am with my dinner plate and one of the younger fellows comes to stand next to me and he begins to chat. Now... (that's nearly as bad as 'So') I don't pretend to remember his words verbatim - I'm not a policeman or a trainee psychologist - but the general thrust was...

Him: All right Frankie?

Me: Well, you know me, when am I not all right?

Him: Here! You've been in jail a long time, haven't you?

Me: I'll be starting my twenty-fifth year in March.

Him (in disbelief): Fuck me!

Me: Thanks for the offer, I'll bear it in mind, but playing hide the diddler with a geezer has never appealed to me.

Him: No! Listen! Did it go quick?

Me: What?

Him: The years!

Now... l've had this question, and variations, asked by a lot of fellows and it is a rocky coast where ships can founder if care isn't taken in the answer. These youngsters, whatever they may have done, sooner or later come round to the realisation that whatever it was may not have been such a good idea after all. They realise that this life is not some sort of dress-rehearsal for something else... this is IT! This is the only chance they will get at life and they want someone, anyone will do, to assure them that everything will be fine. They need a mother's hand to brush away their fears and to tell them that it's okay, things will be okay in the end and they CAN have a bit of cake for tea. Well, it's not that easy unfortunately. There is no mother's hand, and only God can change the past - no, on reflection, not even He can do that.

No, this is it I'm afraid - but I couldn't tell the young fellow that because he would end up as one more statistic on the list of suicides in jail. When all hope is taken away, nothing is left, and a weak character soon finds himself against the wall without a blindfold.

So, I sort of grinned at him.

Me: How long have you been in jail?

Him: I've done nearly four years now.

Me: And if you look back on those four years I bet they have gone by like the snap of your fingers, eh? (And I gave my fingers a snap.) Just like that.

Him: Yeah , it's pissed past.

Me: And you look at the years ahead and think they will never pass, right?

Him: Yeah.

Me: Don't worry about it. Live each day as best you can, get whatever small pleasures you can for each day and, before you know where you are, you will look back and it will all be gone, just like a snap of the fingers! (And I snapped my fingers again.) Just like that.

Him: Yeah! Yeah! You are right.

Well, what I didn't tell him was that he would also be older, not a patch on the man he is now, bent-backed and tired. But let's not tell him that part, he can discover that himself. All around me are young men, some not much more than teenagers really, and they have twenty, thirty, forty years to serve. May the good Lord have mercy on them, because the prison system won't.

The Voice In The Wi1derness

Paranoid eyes?

This week I have something to report for a change. During the early part of the week I was given a paper informing me that on Thursday 14th I had a video-link conference scheduled for 2:15 pm with The Wallace, my probation officer. I had been informed of this much earlier, of course, by The Wallace herself, but the paper made it official.

I'd  better mention The Wallace, as I call her (the name she used in the film 'Braveheart'). I don't call her that to her face of course - she's taller than me and probably packs a healthy right hand. (I'm foolish, I never said I'm stupid.) I like The Wallace and I can easily see her in one of those period dramas dressed in plaid and saying, "0ch wee manny , eat yerrr gruel and ye'll grow up tae be a big lad like yer mammy."

Anyway, to get back to the point, I went down to the legal part of the visiting area on Thursday afternoon and they put me into a little room and there was The Wallace on the telly! I got seated and the kangaroo buggered off - these things are private apparently.

"Hello Frank," says she, but I can barely hear her and she can barely hear me. I thought we would be reduced to sign language, and I only know one sign - it's universal and everyone knows what it means but I would never use it with The Wallace because I like her and besides, I refer the reader back to my earlier statement concerning her right hand. It turned out that I had to use the phone to speak to her, so we got that sorted out and settled down for a chat with me doing my usual slagging off of psychologists - but that's another matter.

The Wallace can't understand why I am not being progressed to a less secure establishment. Neither can I. I'm not at all sure if I should be saying this, but I'll say it anyway. The Wallace says that I should be released into the community because I can be managed better there, or words to that effect. She said much the same thing at my last parole hearing and intends to say it all again at the next. It won't do any good of course - they ain't listening to anything like that. All they want are further reasons and excuses not to let me out of jail. Considering the junkie rats who are being released on a daily basis, with the system being fully aware that these people will reoffend at the very first opportunity, it gives me pause for thought.

However , I'm not here to condemn other people, leave that to those who enjoy inflicting misery on others, I'm only discussing my own position here. The question has to be, why will the Parole Board not only refuse to sanction my release but not even sanction my move to a less secure establishment? It took me twenty-three years to get downgraded to a category 'B' prisoner and that only came about because they lost a court battle!

The Wallace has no idea. She has asked but can't get any sort of answer, let alone one that makes sense.

So where does that leave me? Well, all I can do is plod along in my own inimitable way and adhere to the words of that famous poet, Roger Waters, he of Pink Floyd fame:

Button your lip and don't let the shield slip.
Take a fresh grip on your bullet-proof mask.
And if they try to break down your disguise
With their questions...
You can hide behind paranoid eyes.

I've just realised that The Wallace will read this - I'd better get more than a bullet-proof mask in that case! I've said it before - it's not easy being me.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Leave it with me - I'll get back to you...

It will be remembered that on November 18th of last year I took part, reluctantly I might add, in a Sentence Planning meeting - me, a Governor, a supernumerary and someone taking the minutes. In fact I reported on the meeting and wrote a quite hopeful and enthused vignette for this blog. I was complimentary - nice in fact. I saw no reason to be otherwise. At the end of that meeting I was promised by the Governor who was in charge that I would receive a copy of the minutes as soon as they had been typed up and that if I had any problems doing so to contact her on the subject.

Since then I have made several applications for these minutes and sent each and every application to the Governor involved. Not once has she responded and, needless to say, I have never received the promised copy of the minutes.

Now, this didn't bother me over much - people are busy, computers break down, typists run off to sea with one-eyed Lascar sailors and all sorts of things go wrong, often as not nobody's fault. Trusting soul that I am I saw nothing sinister in my lack of success in obtaining those minutes - not until yesterday that is. Yesterday, Saturday 9th January, I received the "Summary" of the "recent Sentence Planning meeting" and, not to put too fine a point on it, and not wishing to be needlessly rude or crude, it is all a complete and utter bollix! There is not one single word of any sort of a positive nature. Everything in that summary is negative, everything.

However, that's not what is exercising my ire, as they say, oh no. What is attracting my animosity is the way that what I said to the board has been substituted for what they think I SHOULD have said. My words have been twisted and perverted and on a couple of points words have been attributed to me which were never said at all.

The sort of thing I mean is, during the "little chat" I said that the Lifer Manager at Whitemoor seemed to dislike me, although we had never met, and he seemed to have a problem with my obtaining three degrees. I said that he seemed to resent me for some strange and quite obscure reason.

The "Summary" states: 

Wilkinson said that the Lifer Manager was jealous of him.

There is a world of difference between resentment and jealousy. I have to say that I resent the way this "Summary" has been written, but that doesn't make me jealous! I'd have got my spelling right for a start.

There are several instances where such perversions have taken place and, in all fairness, it could be simply that the person who wrote the summary doesn't really understand the meaning of the words - though I doubt it. I think they knew exactly what they were up to, otherwise they would have given me a copy of the minutes of the original meeting! That seems logical to me.

Logic! HA! Logic and the Prison Service - never the twain shall meet. In fact I think it is against the rules to employ logic or to apply it in the prison system. It is certainly stupid to expect to find any applied logic being employed.

So, I have sent the "Summary" off to Mike Pemberton and of course he will send a copy back for me to send to the website. I have written an official complaint out about not getting a copy of the minutes of the meeting, and if that fails to produce the required result then I'll ask the Ombudsman to get involved. I can't see any reason why they can't supply me with a photocopy of the handwritten minutes. Whatever I get from them now will always have that odour of suspicion about it, much like Governors in general I suppose.

Finally, let me give a bit of advice to anyone out there who may be thinking of a career as a prison governor. You only need two skills:

1. You will need to learn how to say 'NO' in a thousand different ways and several languages.

2. You will have to learn how to repeat the following sentence with heartfelt sincerity:

Leave it with me. I'll look into it and get back to you.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Lap dancing for the over sixties

There is no news this week, not of any sort at all, but that's only to be expected considering that it is the beginning of a new year and nobody has really recovered from the debauchery and hedonism of that particularly pagan celebration yet. Next week should see things getting back to some sort of normality, or what passes for normality in places like these.

Oh! Before I forget, there IS one bit of news, or it might just be gossip or wishful thinking, you never can tell around here. Our wonderful Number One governor, he with the ego as big as Brighton Rock (ha ha), has departed, gone, left, moved to pastures new. Of course I asked about it and was told that he hadn't gone. So, as I say, gossip or wishful thinking - the fuel of prison life.

So, nothing to report at all really, but I did have an interesting conversation the other day with a kangaroo who clearly was as bored as me.

At this point I want to mention the art of asking stupid questions - and it is an art, well around here it is: "Are you reading that paper you are sitting on?" We all know the sort of thing I mean.

Right, to get back to the interesting conversation. During the course of it, the kanga asked me, "Frank," said he, clearly under the impression that we are related, "Frank, you can't have long to go now. You've been in a long time. How long?"

"Nearly twenty-four years," said I. "And thank you very much for reminding me."

He ignored that but went on. "You'll find things a bit different out there now. It's all changed now."

"Everything changes, in time," said I. "Even rivers change."

He ignored that too but went on to ask the question that started this whole thing off. "When you do go home," said he, "what will you do for a living?"

"Well," said I, "I've given that a bit of thought and to be quite frank about it I am torn between several possible careers."

"Oh yeah!" said he. "You mean with all the education you've done?"

"Not really," was my answer. "But I have got options."

"I wish I had options," said he. "What have you got lined up?"

"Well," said I, getting ready to deliver my normal plethora of idiotic abuse. "I can't make my mind up whether to be a film star or a drug dealer. Mind, I've also been thinking about lap-dancing for the over sixties with a little part time job doing favours for sailors down the docks. According to Blackadder there's good money in that. I considered being a model but I haven't got the legs for tights. I'm keeping my options open, I haven't decided yet."

I kept my face straight through all that too.

He looked at me and finally said, "You know something, some people think that you are just taking the piss half the time."

"Ah!" said I. "That's because I am taking the piss."

"It's no good talking to you," said he and went off to be bored elsewhere.

Why do people ask stupid questions? Maybe it's just me. Maybe I attract them. Maybe I have the face that cries out to the rest of the world and invites silly people to ask silly questions and I haven't got the decency or social grace NOT to take the opportunity to take the piss. This clearly makes me a bad person.

Mind, when you think about it, lap dancing for the over sixties isn't THAT bad an idea. I might get on the telly!

Yeah! Crime Watch!

Happy New Year.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nobody lives forever

Today is Sunday 27th Decemher 2009 and, to all intents and purposes, Christmas is over. Just the New Year to get out of the way now and that will be that until next year. That's what it means to most convicts anyway. But, as we all know, I have to be awkward - nothing is simple with me. I have my birthday in between Christmas and the New Year and what this has meant over the years is that whatever presents may have come my way have always come with the words, "This will do for your christmas AND birthday." I've told you before - it's not easy being me!

Lots of things happen at this time of year. We have all of the awards - "Man of the Year", "Sports Personality of the Year", "Biggest Mug of the Year" and all the rest of them. Then we have all of those programmes on the idiot box where everyone tells everyone else what hopes they have for the coming year and, of course, we have the insane and pointless practice of making New Year resolutions which we have absolutely no intention of even attempting to keep. 0h, we think we intend to keep them, but that's only because we are usually pissed out of our brains when we make them - apart from us poor little cabbages in prison, that is. (Although I am certain that there are a few drunks in here too!)

None of these, or any of the other seasonal lunacies, is attracting my attention this year - not a bit of it. What is exercising my three working brain cells at the minute, and has been for some time now, is the fact of my own mortality. Nobody lives forever, although there are one or two around who give the impression that they might. Every time we turn on the idiot box, there they are, and seem to have been since Adam and Eve were arguing about the best fruit to use in the cocktail and settled for apple.

When we were young, we just knew that we were indestructible and would live forever. William Hazlitt got it right when he said:

No young man believes that he shall ever die.

It's true too - that's how politicians can persuade young men to be soldiers and go off to war.

The young never die. No, it is the old buggers like me who do that. The older we get, the more aware we become of our own mortality. We know that we are not far off meeting the Grim Reaper when our contemporaries begin to drop off this mortal coil and we suddenly find that we are attending a lot of funerals. 

Willy the Bard told of the Seven Ages of Man, and I suppose that he too got that more or less right. What I mean is that the Bible mentions "three score years and ten", which would give Shakespeare's seven ages ten years to an age. In which case, I am into my seventh - three years in, in fact: the old dotard, sans hair, sans teeth, sans just about every­bleedin'-thing.

Yes... I am becoming aware of my own mortality, no two ways about it. Oh, I am not saying that I am about to snuff it and everybody should start a collection for flowers, nothing like that. I'm good for another thirty years yet, and, with the advances being made by medical research, that could well extend a long way. However, medical research and the passage of time to one side and notwithstanding, I am fully aware of my own mortality. And it comes home to me most sitting in a cell in the silence of a quiet night, surrounded by the sobs and groans of the tough guys.

It also comes to me that I could do no better than to finish with the words of Nicolas Sarkozy:

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

Good luck for two thousand and ten.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The cheating game

Yesterday, Saturday 19th December 2009, a couple of things happened which, whilst completely unconnected, are worth a bit of a mention - well, I thought so.

The first came about as I idly watched a pair of hooligans pretending to be Ronnie O'Sullivan on the snooker table. As everyone is fully aware, I am not allowed to name either Noel or Israel so I have to give them noms-de-convenience. Therefore, I shall call these two fine, upstanding villains er... Christmas and Syria. No connection there then.

So, Syria is playing properly in that he attends the table when Christmas takes a shot. On the other hand, Christmas buggers off when it is Syria's shot and Syria has to wait until he comes back. This is annoying to Syria, and so it should be.

In the end I say to Syria during one of Christmas's absences, "Why not just cheat? Move a red!"

"What!" answers Syria in shock. "I'm not cheating!"

"Why not?" I ask, curious.

"I don't cheat," says he sanctimoniously.

"So," say I, "you are quite happy to rob, cheat, steal, lie and point guns at people, but not to cheat at snooker eh?"

A crook by definition spends his time cheating society yet won't cheat at a silly game! Curious indeed.

The second thing was a letter from my probation officer. She tells me that there is to be a video-link on Thursday 14th January at 2:15pm during which she hopes to see my sad and raddled countenance and have a chat. I've never been involved in such an enterprise before, it should be very interesting to say the least. I'm not at all sure why she has this desire, but I suspect it probably has something to do with the new parole hearing scheduled for the New Year. She has to make a report. She also seems a bit, shall we say, 'put out' by the fact that she wasn't asked to contribute to my recent Sentence Planning Meeting/Board. (Incidentally, at that board they promised me a copy of the minutes - I am still waiting.)

Well, Syria may have an aversion to cheating but the prison service has no such moral qualms. It will not only cheat but will lie blatantly to achieve its own ends. So, who is the better? The prisoner, who makes no secret of the fact that his social conscience leaves a lot to be desired, or the person working for the prison service, who does exactly the same thing with the full support of a failing system?

I hope everyone who reads this has a good Christmas and I wish them all the luck they wish for themselves in 2010. Dear me, the year two thousand and ten .... I'm still struggling to get used to the nineteen seventies!

The Voice In The Wilderness

The case of the vanishing men

Once upon a time, in the not too distant past, prisons ran more or less calmly without drama or crisis (apart from the odd riot here and there - though a good riot never hurt anyone and often helped clear the air of tension, not to mention presenting the prison with an opportunity to get rid of a few less desirable elements).

So, prisons ran fairly calmly and, left alone, would continue to do so. Each wing had a wing governor - an Assistant Governor who held the acronym A.G. Above him was the Deputy Governor who everyone called 'The Dep'. Then we had the Chief Officer who ostensibly held sway over the staff and their behaviour, but at the top of the pile sat the Number One Governor. The Number One! A prisoner could get up in the morning, go to the Principal Officer's office and make an application to see the A.G. of that particular wing. The P.O. would ask what it was about and, if he couldn't deal with it, he would send the con into the next room where the A.G. sat dispensing decisions. If the A.G. could not deal with the matter, then the con would be added to the list for lunch hour. If the Number One was on a day off, then the Dep would take the lunch-time applications. At lunch-time, the con would see either the Dep or the Numher One, get a decision and, hey presto - job done.

Today, just a few short years later, what do we have? Well, we now have governors for bins, table tennis balls, low flying ducks and knitting circles for one-eyed lesbians from third world coutries. The prisons are crawling with governors! However, try to get to see one, or worse, actually speak to one and ask for a decision about something. Go on, just try it. These men (and women) will not even condescend to answer a WRITTEN application let alone see (and God forbid actually SPEAK) to a con. As for a decision about
anything - forget it. They don't do decision-making - bugger that, they might be held responsible for it! No, they hide away in their little dens and hold perpetual meetings about insane things which serve no other purpose than to irritate the prison population. Prisons are no longer being run for the benefit or betterment of their charges. Oh no, they are being run for the convenience of the staff!

Where are these governors? They have all disappeared into thin air! They have gone! They have vanished! Why don't the media send a group of investigative reporters to find these poor, lost souls? Surely their families miss them and have reported them missing to the police!

Mind, the police are not much better I suppose, they are far too busy running down old age pensioners for not paying their telly licence fee.

Oh dear, I'm just getting old, that's my trouble.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Business as usual?

It occurs to me that I may give the general impression that prisons in general (a lot of generals there - more than the Italian Army), and this one in particular, run fairly smoothly. Well, I'd better correct that I suppose. This emporium of misery and soul-crushing staggers from crisis to crisis and nobody seems to know what anyone else is doing. Nor do they care. Still, what can you expect from a prison with a governor who has an ego the size of a small planet?

Be all that as it may, I mention it in passing because some fool managed to lose a quarter of the wing's canteen sheets this week and consequently those fellows can't have any canteen - no tobacco if they smoke, no stamps to write home to their folks with or to send Christmas cards with, no toiletries, no little bits of food to supplement their diets, nuffink. And, what does the prison do about it? Sweet bugger all, that's what, and the reason is simple: they don't care. Why should they? They go home every night and can toddle off to Tescos with the best of them.

But I am not desiring to discuss the hubris of this prison and the shrinking violets who ostensibly run it. No, I want to bring up the subject of the Parole Board. I had my last parole board in March of this year, nine months ago. Apparently we, us prisoners with no prospects, get such a board hearing every three years, unless there are exceptional circumstances. I have received a letter from the Parole Board informing me that I have a parole hearing next month, January. This will, of course, be a paper exercise because my solicitor will request an oral hearing and then it will all be postponed for a few months. The point is, I have a hearing scheduled for next year.

Are they going to free me? Of course they aren't. I have only been in prison for coming up to twenty-four years, that's not half long enough. I'm just learning the rules! Besides, I haven't been punished and tortured enough yet, not by a long chalk.

My guilt or innocence has nothing to do with it. The prison service sees itself as far better judge than the men (and women) who sit on the Benches every day dealing out the years. These judges sit and listen to cases, all the ins and outs, and then come to a studied decision. But when the prison service get hold of a poor unfortunate, they completely ignore whatever the court felt was a just and fair sentence and impose their own.

Who is behind such decisions? Who is running the engine room? I'll tell you - trainee psychologists who have recently left school and who have absolutely no experience of anything at all. They don't look old enough to have left home never mind making life-affecting reports and ruining lives. They may be doing their best; they may be full of good intentions - but the good Lord preserve me from people who are doing their best and the road to perdition is paved with the souls of the well intentioned.

Speaking for myself, I'd better get off my gluteus maximus and go and see about getting my canteen, or at least get some bloody postage stamps - or nobody will be getting any letters from me this week.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Hope

The question has been asked - would I write a piece or vignette about my years in prison and my hopes and aspirations for the future?

Well, the years in prison - almost twenty-four and counting - would take a long time, and that would be WITH my diaries to help - diaries, incidentally, which I keep every day (it's therapuetic). Putting all that to one side, the story would be a long and very unsavoury horror story worthy of the pen of Mary Shelley, or even one of the major political parties' manifestos.

So I won't write about my years in prison, not here anyway - I am already doing that in 'An Abuse of Justice'. Which leaves us hopes and aspirations, and once again I have to say that it would take longer than a short effort such as this will allow. Ah! But all is not lost, because one word springs from the question which I can say something about. The word is 'HOPE' and, when it comes to prison, hope is often the only thing we have.

Hope - it springs eternal according to the poet, and as far as I am aware, he knew nothing at all about prison. Maybe he would have seen things differently if he had. Arthur Clough had something to say about hope, although not in so many words. 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 know that I have used this quote before, but I DO like it - it speaks to me, as it were. It first came to my attention several years ago via the agency of Hilary Hinchliffe, as fine a person as ever graced this sorry planet, and even now the ageing, yellowing piece of paper which she sent to me bearing that verse still sits on the wall before my face - and ever will.

Hope - often the only thing a prisoner has to keep him going. Oh, they can take so many things away from us - our freedoms, our rights, our families, our decency, even our life sometimes. But they cannot take away the hope. Even the meanest prisoner can, in the confines and privacy of his own cell and mind, cling on desperately to hope. It is often all that is left.

Of course, some prisoners give up and lose that hope. It is quite simply crushed out of them by an uncaring system, and when that happens yet another mother..father..brother..wife..son..daughter.. gets a letter to tell them that their father..mother..son..husband.. has committed suicide in their prison cell.

But the majority of the prison population carry on with that small fire burning in their hearts, the fire that is hope. We all have it. One day we will end this nightmare and come back to the world where people treat each other with common courtesy generally, and decency. We all aspire to going home, the promise of seeing a friendly face at last, the pleasure of closing our eyes and sleeping properly at last, the chance to finally let down the guard we have held up for year after year, the hope of better times.

I do not even try to say that every prisoner is a good, decent sort of cove, because they quite simply ain't, not by a long chalk. However, as bad as some may be, and they are, that gives no one the right or mandate to crush hope out of them. Eleanor Roosevelt said:

No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.

Well, removing hope from those who need it the most is really putting them into a category as unworthy, inferior - in all the years, through all the tribulations, I have never given anyone permission to look on me as inferior.

Happy Christmas and all my very best wishes for the coming year. May everyone receive the good fortune they wish for themselves.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The human touch

On Wednesday 18th November I had to go in front of a Risk Assessment Management board, one of those wonderful devices created by the prison service which tell the future. (Why are more of these people not winning the lottery?)

So, there I was, sitting in my kennel reading (again) a book by Geert Mak - 'In Europe'. I have read it before but I always get more from a book on the second or third reading because I race through in the first reading - I can't help myself, I have to know what is on the next page. However, that's not important, we are not discussing books here, we are discussing RAM boards.

It will be remembered from last week that Sympathetic Salome had informed me about the board and shortly after 2.30 on the afterrnoon in question she arrived to escort me before the board which was being held in a little back office where no-one would hear my screams of pain and outrage.

"It's on the wing," said Sympathetic Salome.

"Have you been pulling me to bits?" I asked in a jocular fashion.

"Certainly not," said she - and I believed her!

In we went to be confronted, not by the usual collection of dire, po-faced, miserable sods such as Oliver Twist faced in the Board of Governors at the work'us, but by nothing more than three pleasant young women, one of whom was of course Sympathetic Salome, she of the honest face and decent manner.

"Have a seat!" or words to that effect, said a young woman wearing glasses who I can't name, beyond the fact that it was Governor Karen Bourne whose name must be changed to protect the 'concerned' amongst us, such as Fiddler the Wise. (We all know Fiddler by now.) I shall call the governor Freda the Fair and hope she doesn't take offence - none is intended.

The third person, another young lady, was taking the minutes of the board and I shall call her Quink the Quill, and my remarks about not taking offence apply to her equally.

So there we sat - Sympathetic Salome, Quink the Quill and Freda the Fair - with me of course: the Sacrificial Lamb.

I have got to state here, right now, unequivocally and without any form of prejudice whatsoever, that I have never, in my twenty three and half years in prison, been treated so fairly by any board anywhere. I have to ask myself - why? Obviously my own attitude had a good bit to do with it. I don't care for men much. What I mean by that is that for some unfathomable reason, men always come across as aggressive on these boards and I react badly to aggression. However, I am never rude or offensive to females and I do not generally find them to be aggressive - so I give no aggression back.

Well, we all had a good, long chat and I gave them a short extract from 'An Abuse of Justice' to read - 'March 12th 1996 - Ambitions' - and after it had been perused, Freda the Fair said, "I don't know anyone who could have written that!"

Sympathetic Salome said, "Anyone would think you were outside. It doesn't seem to have been written by someone in prison."

Quink the Quill didn't say anything as far as I can recall.

The final outcome of the whole affair was that I would be assessed for the C.S.C.P. programme as quickly as possible - but I probably would not need to do it - and they wanted me moving on to a Category B prison as soon as possible. So everything will be fast-tracked. And that seemed to be that.

I asked about a copy of the minutes and Freda the Fair assured me that when Quink the Quill had typed them up I would get a copy.

"I'll put them onto my website," said I.

"What website?" asked she.

"Mine," said I, and gave her a letterhead from Andrew so that she could go away and have a look.

I have to say that it was a very convivial affair and although I always keep a sort of poker face, the three young women seemed to laugh quite a lot. Not a sour note to be heard anywhere. Oh, and it wasn't a RAM board after all, not according to Freda the Fair anyway - it was a Sentence Planning board! A Sentence Planning Board after all of these years eh? I've got a sentence plan, the best one in the world - I plan to go home as soon as possible. If anyone can suggest a better plan than that, I am fully prepared to listen.

Finally, may I just say to Sympathetic Salome, Quink the Quill and Freda the Fair, thank you. Thank you for a pleasant hour or so, and for treating and talking to me like a person rather than a nasty smell in the room. I could get used to that kind of treatment, I really could.

So you see, not everyone in the prison service is determined to kick me in the testicularities. Perhaps Lady Luck had a week off!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wham, bam - thank you RAM!

It makes a change to have something to report this week, although even I have to admit that it's not very interesting. It would seem that I have a Risk Assessment Management (R.A.M.) board on Wednesday of this week, the 18th in fact. Having said that, I have been given no official instruction on the matter, not a word. RAM boards sit every year and I had one in April or May, just six months ago. 

All of that notwithstanding, I am informed in a left-handed fashion that I have a RAM board on 18th November. To this end I have had a long chat with a female, whom I am not allowed to name for several reasons. I am not allowed to name or be nice about any member of staff because, apparently, it makes them feel vulnerable, according to Fiddler the Wise (a gentleman we have met before and who is officially known as the Brain of Britain 1926). So that's one reason I can't name her - the other reason is I don't know her name.

So, we had a chat and basically it all came down to, "I am fully aware that a large amount of the information which the board will take into consideration is completely false, but I can't do a thIng about it. However, leave it to me. I'll look into it and get back to you."

This woman deserves a name. She is destined for greater things with an answer like that - I would guess a desk at the Home Office as a minimum. I shall call her Sympathetic Salome, or SS for convenience.

So, SS assured me that she will be sitting next to me on the board and will no doubt do her best for me. It's all a waste of time really because we know what will happen. They will simply dictate to me without any input from me. They will listen to nothing I have to say. They will not accept the fact that I am not the person I may have been a quarter of a century ago, and they will not even accept the fact that I am an appellant! The fact that Sympathetic Salome has been speaking to my solicitor, who has informed her categorically that my case is currently with the C.C.R.C., will cut no ice with the ostriches on the board, who have their own agenda which has nothing to do with facts. Besides, their heads are firmly buried in the sand of error.

Ah! But then we come to the real reason why I am being given a RAM board six months early - somebody is after me. Twice in the last couple of weeks I have had delegations at my door to tell me that I had been downgraded from Enhanced to Standard and they were to take away my Play Station.(They can have it, I'm fed up with it anyway - but that's not the point.) Twice I have asked "Why?" No answer has been the reply - they don't know, just someone wants me downgraded. Well, if that's the case, they will have to get me to commit a couple of offences against discipline, which I never do these days. The only other method is to give me courses, and when I refuse to do them - BINGO! Downgraded.

So there it is, that's why the board. Whose hand do we see behind this? Well, it could be several people, including Fiddler the Wise or one of his minions, because they have a tendency to pass their dirty work down to others to do. It could be anyone in fact, but I am not about to allow any of this to get to me. Why should I? It's all a bit childish. Here I am, a geriatric pensioner who has been enjoying the tender administrations of the prison service for almost a quarter of a century, and they are still not happy. They seem to struggle with the concept of "leaving people alone", especially people who are not bothering anyone at all. Maybe they haven't heard the old saying:

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

We shall see I suppose - on Wednesday 18th in fact.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Invisible man

Another week passed, another week of nothing at all being said to me about anything at all - every day is the same day and it is very much Groundhog Day around this place, or any other prison come to that. It sort of makes a bit of a nonsense of the prison service's practically indecent haste to move me here in March of this year. Nine months now, nine months of no activity whatsoever as far as any prison activity is concerned.

I have become the invisible man. Even my complaints and requests are ignored.

Now, any casual passer-by could be misled by all this and get the idea that the invisible man is having a bit of a grumble, but the fact is that I'm not, not a bit of it. I'm quite happy being the invisible man INSIDE the prison, as long as I don't become invisible outside as well.

I had a letter this week from one of my brothers, Jimmy. He lives in Sunderland and is a nice enough fellow with a very poor sense of responsibility - he is a bit carefree. Jimmy has reached the stage where he understands that he only has one life and nothing he can do is going to change the course of history. He understands too that he cannot please everyone all the time, so he just goes about the place pleasing Jimmy, but not in a selfish way, not a bit of it. Jimmy smiles a lot.

So, I had a letter from Jimmy giving me a certain amount of family gossip and scandal - that's normal in my dysfunctional clan. He also informed me that he had something to tell me but clearly he had no intention of putting it in a letter; he understands that my letters are censored.

THAT brings me neatly back to letters in general, and it seems that the post office lemmings have decided to stop voting for their own demise and will have no more strikes this year - so perhaps the invisible man might get a few more letters now.

And THAT brings me conveniently back to the invisible man:

One day, Superman is flying around Gotham City seeking crooks and criminal deeds, when he looks down and sees Wonder Woman lying on the roof of a building in the nekkid. He flies down and in a split second has done the dirty deed and flies off again. Wonder Woman didn't even open her eyes! The Invisible Man stands up, rubs his bum and says, "What was THAT!"

Oh leave me alone - it's not Chubby Brown you have here you know!

Finally, and I bet there are some folk who think it was a big mistake to teach me to read and write in the first place, I have been accused this week of being a recluse. What they mean by that is that I rarely leave my cell these days, apart from the essential things. Well, I've got nowhere to go! After all of these years I have heard all the stories and there is nothing new at all. So the choices are:

a) Listen to my fellow scum talking the same ould rubbish that I've been listening to for over twenty years
or
b) Lock myself away in my cell, listening to good music and reading various books or writing about my experiences in the year 2003

Mmmmmm, let me think about that for a while.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Prison politics

I had a letter this week from Campbell Malone, a miracle in itself really - not because he rarely writes but because of the Post Office lemmings who are heading for the cliffs at a rate of knots. Mister Malone has sent the information about the new witness off to the C.C.R.C. and invited them to interview the witness, a man who I am still reluctant to name in such an open forum as this. However, it occurred to me that maybe it would have shown more willing if we had sent someone to interview the witness ourselves - demonstrate our keenness to have this person as a witness after all of the barren years.

Now, are we sitting comfortably? (At times I think this place is about on a par with Watch With Mother...) Are we sitting comfortably? Excellent!

When I speak or write about my solicitor and about the case or those connected to it, I use the collective 'We'. This got me thinking about the Stockholm Syndrome and it suddenly occurred to me that right at this very minute I am living in amongst a few cons here at Long Lartin who are actually suffering from what I call the 'Long Lartin Syndrome'. It's much the same as the Stockholm Syndrome only it is pathetic.

For some reason, partial running of the prison has been gifted to a small number of prisoners. Now we shouldn't be surprised by this - for years the prison system has been doing its best to abrogate all responsibility for running the jails.

Here at Long Lartin they have 'Prisoner Committees' and 'Prisoner Wing Representatives'. These self-serving grafters have wormed their way into everything and no matter what area it is it will be the same names involved in everything. They have managed and been allowed to build themselves a power-base, and the people who ought to be doing things have allowed prisoners to take over. Only selected prisoners of course - only those suffering from the Long Lartin Syndrome.

What brought it to my attention was when I applied to a governor to have free televisions for the retired, the old codgers amongst us - not very many I may add, probably a dozen in the whole jail. We get a tenner a week pay but that is a fixed sum, it can never be improved on, although the governor, FerdieParker, fixes the rate of pay for us geriatric scum. Out of that tenner we lose a quid automatically to pay for the weekly rental of our tellies. Then, if we need some toiletries and maybe a bag of sugar and a magazine (so we know what is on the poxy tellies) we don't have much left for essentials, never mind luxuries like soap!

So I put an official application in to ask for free tellies for the decrepit crowd. The answer came back telling me that I would have to ask my prisoner representative to bring the matter up at the next meeting! I wrote back on a complaint form to tell the "Powers That Be" that I do not make applications to inmates. The answer came back telling me that it wasn't an application.

What else is it then? If I cannot bring a matter before the governor unless I go through an inmate, that's an application by anyone's criteria.

I wrote back and pointed out that I don't make requests to self-serving grafters and THAT annoyed the wing governor so much that he accused me of being offensive! Offensive to whom?

I asked who appointed these rats and was informed that they had been selected from volunteers. So I have asked other cons around the place about voluteers and nobody knows anything about any lists of volunteers. It transpires that these grafters are all self-appointed!

The worst part is that they are even trying to tell other cons what they can or can't do! The tossers actually think they are no longer in the ranks of the lowly or common convict!

Last week I had to spend an hour dissuading one of our more volatile members from committing an atrocity on one of the so-called prisoner representatives, and that should never be the case. So, we have the Long Lartin Syndrome fit and well and running the place. It's very gratifying to know that my interests are being served, it really is.

Ah, prison politics! I struggle to keep out of them, I really do - but you've got to love 'em.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A laugh in the face of adversity

And so I come to yet another week-ending where nothing has taken place that is worth mentioning. We've had the postal strike of course - the lemmings heading for the cliffs, but they can't see it. Well, I suspect that they can, they have just managed to put themselves into the hands of yet another nitwit who thinks he is far more powerful than he really is. The fool has even had the temerity to compare himself with Scargill and to add that he has more power. That must be the power of self-delusion, a wonderful thing.

So - nothing to report at all.

Instead I will tell a little story that happened a couple of weeks ago here in the wonderful world of Long Lartin jail. But before I start, I'd better point out, as I'm sure you're all aware by now, that I am not allowed to use the names of any members of staff. They are all hiding their identities - from the Taliban, the general public, Special Branch, even their own families, for all I know. Whatever the case may be, their identities must remain confidential, so I must either make names up or call them nothing at all.

This story, then, concerns a female member of staff - Miss Nothing-At-All.

One day, a couple of weeks ago, I was standing leaning on the rail watching a couple of the fellows playing snooker down below me, on the ground floor - and let me just point out here that John Higgins has nothing to worry about from these two. So there I stood, or leant, and I must have had a pensive look on my visage because Miss Nothing-At-All, who had been passing, found it necessary to stop and say, in a sympathetic manner, "Are you all right, Frank?"

Well, show a greyhound a hare and he will go for it.

"As a matter of fact, no, I'm not," said I.

"Oh," says she, leaning on the railing next to me and getting comfy for a chat, "What's the trouble?"

"Well," says I, "it's my brother Tommy."

"What's wrong with him?"

I sighed, heartfelt too. "He's a lot older than me, (I'm the oldest in the family) and he isn't all that well to start with . He lives in one of those sheltered housing things, you know, a flat in a block with a sort of caretaker looking after the old people."

"Oh," says she, "I know what you mean. My auntie lives in one."

"Well," says I, "our Tommy hadn't been seen for weeks so a couple of the family went round there with the police and the social services and they knocked on the door for ages but they couldn't get any answer."

"What did they do?" asked Miss Nothing-At-All, doing a good job of sounding concerned.

"Well," said I with yet another sigh, "they did the only thing they could do, they kicked the door in and went in. The whole place was stinking and they found opened tins of dog food all over the place - some had been half eaten and still had forks stuck in them. They found our Tommy lying on the floor in the kitchenette."

"Oh God!" says she, "Was it food poisoning?"

"Nah!" said I. "He'd broken his neck trying to lick his own bollocks!"

Now, most folk would find that quite amusing - I did, but then I have a twisted sense of humour. Miss Nothing-At-All said, "That's horrible!" and went on her way. Obviously another one of those who take themselves far too seriously and, as they say in Ireland, are 'slightly up themselves'.

I tell people that they have to learn to laugh in the face of adversity. The alternative is to cry our eyes out, and I forgot how to cry a long time ago. Who was it who said, "When we get old nobody gives us time to cry"? Oh! I know! That would be me.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A bit late to be making enemies

Once again there has been a week where nothing worth mentioning has happened. I had no response from my solicitor about the new witness evidence, not a word said about a transfer to more relaxed and progressive locations - and that fickle ould boiler Lady Luck must have sent her boots to the cobblers because she hasn't kicked me in the polar regions all week.

Having said all that, the reason my mailbag has been so poor this week could well be on account of the behaviour of the postal workers who seem to be determined to commit suicide and won't be happy until their industry has gone the way of the coal mines and everything else in this country - apart from the service industries, of course.

So, the upshot is - nothing to report.

I did have a letter from the young fellow who is the new witness in the case, although he has not mentioned the case at all. I explained in a letter to him last week that discussing the case and details may be a poor plan - well, you never know who might read the letters. He wrote to tell me a little bit about himself and his family - a nice gesture really, I could do with more correspondents in general. I call him a young fellow but really he is in his mid thirties - but at my age that makes him a young fellow - I hope he doesn't mind. Some people can be a bit touchy about their age - ask Sza-Sza Gabor about hers, see what she says.

So, here I sit, staring at the page before me and wondering what words of wisdom I can impart and I have come to the conclusion that there's not much to be said. But to get back to the business of age for a minute or two, I wonder why some folk are so bothered about it, being old I mean. We all get old, we all start to fall apart and sooner or later we will all have to face the fellow with the scythe - the Grim Reaper.

This reminds me of a story I once heard at my mother's knee (or some other low joint) and it went like this:

An ould I.R.A. man is dying and he is lying on his death bed While the priest, Father McGonagle reads the Last Rites.
The priest says to the dying man, "Are you ready to renounce the devil and all his works, my son?"
The dying I.R.A. man opens his eyes and croaks out, "It's a bit late to be making enemies now, Father." (Pause for sniggering).

So, as must be blatantly clear and obvious by this stage, I've got nothing for this week. I suppose I could mount a tirade and an abusive rant about the various fools operating within the prison and legal system, but that would only serve to annoy them really - and, as the ould I.R.A. man said, 'It's a bit late to be making enemies now.'

The Voice In The Wilderness

What's in a name?

It seems that Lady Luck (that perfidious ould tart with the Doc Martens and the desire to do me personal injuries at fairly regular intervals) has gone on holiday. She was here at the start of the week, giving me my normal casual kick in the knackers (she does it out of habit these days), but she must have gone off to Benidorm or the Valley of the Shadow or wherever it is she goes to get her boots re-spiked. Now, I know that none of this will be making any sense - and that's the story of my life in many ways - but I will explain.

To begin with, I am not allowed to use proper names of people who work in the prison service, not even to be nice to them because, apparently, they may be identified! So what? Are they ashamed of what they do? Is it a secret? Does the idiot who made that wise observation know what a Voters' Register is? Has he never heard of the internet and its search engines? Anybody working anywhere can be identified, and that includes those working for the Security Services, so telling me that using a real name may cause a problem for someone is complete and utter rubbish. And I can't use other prisoners' real names for the same reason - but it is okay for the prison to do so at their convenience. Never mind, instead I will make up pseudonyms for the characters in this effort - everybody knows who they are anyway.

I have recently been involved in lengthy discussions with a Governor of Security about what I can and cannot send out of the prison. But I have no desire to upset this erudite and wise fellow and so he will require a nom-de-guerre. I shall call him Fiddler the Wise. Fiddler the Wise has decided that I cannot send out the true tale of my incarceration from the year 2001 onwards. The fact that I have already sent out the years 1986 to 2001 (1,400 pages) has obviously slipped his mind. Those one thousand four hundred pages are full of names of kangaroos and cons and their deeds, none of them very nice either. Not much he can do about that now, my ould pal Fiddler the Wise. However, he CAN and HAS stopped me sending out the tale of people who have acted decently. In fact I wrote something nice about one kangaroo and THAT caused all the trouble in the first place! Maybe they don't know how to handle it when someone is nice about them - no experience you see! No precendence, no yard-stick to go by.

So here was Lady Luck dealing me one of her specials in the nether regions. It didn't really hurt - it never does these days, I'm immune to it all now. But then the cruel ould hooer went off to wherever she goes on her holidays, probably helping the Taliban decorate or something. And no sooner had she gone than a letter arrived out of the blue from a fellow who, on the face of it, would seem to be a brand new witness in my case. I can't give his name or where he lives because I should think it is sub-judice and probably has to be kept secret so that the police don't kick his door down in the middle of the night to get him to change his mind about telling the truth after almost twenty-four years.

This fellow says he saw someone disposing of the clothing and the weapon involved in the murder! That's new evidence in my book. We now have an actual eye-witness to something that is actually to DO with the murder - the only one we have ever had. There has never been one single witness to anything at all to do with the murder up to now. Let's see what happens when the C.C.R.C. get the information. I sent the letter and its envelope to Campbell Malone asking him to get it transcribed and to send the original to the C.C.R.C. along with a transcription.

New evidence! Wonderful!

The interesting part is that the witness hasn't asked me to keep his identity secret! He is clearly not ashamed of anything. Of course Fiddler the Wise will say that the whole thing isn't personal and that he is merely doing his duty, it is his job. As George Bernard Shaw put it:

When a stupid man is doing something he is ashamed of, he always declares that it is his duty.

The Voice in the Wilderness

A retrospective

Once again a week has gone by with nothing happening worth talking about or telling anyone about - story of my life really. Everything has come to a sort of standstill, a hiatus, a pause.

I should imagine that we all feel this way from time to time - that we are waiting for something but we have no idea what that may be. It happens to me occasionally and generally leads to a bit of a period of reflection, soul-searching, a retrospective - call it what you will.

Well, I had a bit of a reflect the other night in the silence of my kennel and I got to thinking about why I never get depressed or feel sorry for myself. It is not as if I haven't got reasons to indulge in a bit of self pity, but I never do.

Someone once said that you will never see a wild animal or bird feeling sorry for itself. A wild bird will simply drop off a twig dead, but it will never feel sorry for itself. Why do I never feel sorry for myself? Maybe I am wild too. Thinking about the matter seriously, I think that a case can be made out that I used to be pretty wild - unaware and heedless of danger. Nothing scared me, and that is quite stupid. Mind, stupid and me - the best of friends in many ways.

There's where my wildness came from - my lack of fear. A sensible person understands that a bit of healthy fear never hurt anyone and can be very necessary for self-preservation. I've never been scared of anything much, ever. It's got me into a lot of trouble - and out of a lot too.

So, where am I going with this? Nowhere, that's where. 

E.M. Forster once said or wrote:

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Gird the loins!

And so we come to the end of yet another week as a guest, albeit a reluctant one, in one of Lizzie Windsor's universities for the mentally inept, criminally insane, socially inadequate and well-brought-up young ladies - and that's just the staff. Nothing happened. No progress. No regress. Nuffink.

However, I did have an encounter during the week with a fellow I have known for many years and who has been there to witness one or two of my 'episodes' in days of yore. I won't use his name - the authorites would not appreciate it, and neither would he I shouldn't wonder - but he knows who he is and I shall let him read this when I'm done anyway. Well, the way I see it is that everyone is entitled to their privacy, even in a place like dear ould Lizzie's gaff.

I went to this fellow's cell for some reason quite recently, to see him on some matter or other, but he wasn't there and I came away until I ran into him at some other juncture. Later, something occurred to me. Looking around my cell as I write I have, over time, collected and accumulated many little things which make my life as comfortable as possible under the circs. I have a stereo with speakers hanging on the wall, a Play Station where I can play games which help me to forget where I am briefly, many many books, a typewriter, tapes, CDs, games, an electric shaver, an electronic spellchecker (which just gathers dust) and so on. My friend, however, had nothing whatsoever in his cell that didn't belong to the prison service. Nothing. I am sure that he has been in prison a good fifteen years, and when I knew him in the mid-nineties in Frankland he had all of the things I have. So what went wrong?

When he came to see me later during the week I asked him. (At this point I need to make a name up for him so I think I will call him Neville. I don't know any Neville, so that should be safe enough.) Neville sat on my bed and I asked him, "Neville, when we were in Frankland you had everything, now you have nothing. What went wrong?" He simply said, "I don't know."

Of course I did not pursue this - I have no right to do so - but it did get me to thinking about how, if a fellow is not careful and vigilant, he can begin to allow small things to slip. Maybe not clean the teeth every night before bed, have a shower every other day rather than every day, not shave as regularly as he should. Then it's a small step to not answering letters as we get them, and then we begin to sleep at lunchtime during the lockup period. Little things begin to slip and slide until one day we find that we have managed to let everything go and we are sitting on rock bottom with no apparent way to begin the climb up again.

That's what happened to Neville. He allowed standards to slip. Any man (or woman for that matter) who gets himself (or herself) locked away must get into some sort of disciplined regime, for their own good and peace of mind. Once that regime or routine is established we must never, under any circumstances, allow even one small thing to slip. Never. To do so is to invite that little devil into our lives, that little devil called Complacency. There is no room for it in a prisoner's life.

It is said that familiarity breeds contempt, and that could well be part of the problem. Add to that the feeling which some get that there is no point to anything, and people can give up and simply let everything slide, like Neville. Well there is always a point. We must never concede defeat in life. Inside or outside of prison, it applies to us all.

I am certain that there are times when we feel tired of it all - I do, from time to time - but that's no reason to abrogate all responsibility for ourselves. Of course we feel tired and sometimes feel we need a rest, but we are a long time dead and we can get all the rest we need when the Grim Reaper comes calling. Until then, gird the loins (I love that phrase), and stand firm against whatever Lady Luck (that fickle ould whore) sends our way.

I am going to let Neville read this now. I bet he looks at me strangely - most people do.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Sitting on my back

This week I have to say that I have still not managed to get my documents back from the security governor. Obviously he is yet another nitwit who feels that the law does not apply to him. The prisons are full of fellows who thought that. I sent several complaints in but couldn't get an answer for love nor money. Finally I put this one in:

I would like my legal paperwork back (approx 250 pages) from Governor Dickens forthwith. I will be sending a Pre-Action Protocol letter to the Treasury Solicitor on Monday.

(I've since written that letter and sent it off, with a copy to Mr Dickens.) This application finally brought a response and I can do no better than copy it out in full - it is funnier than anything I could write.

Mr Wilkinson,
Thank you for your Form Comp 1. I am not aware of the Comp 1 and 1A which you claim have been ignored. However I am content to discuss these with you when we meet.

In terms of your paperwork (which is not subject to R39) I will return this to you ASAP (it has remained in my safe - not sent to Cleland House as I believe you have been led to believe). I will make arrangements to meet with you either today (2/10/09) or Tuesday 6th October 2009 where we will be able to discuss in full the concerns that you and I both have with regards to this issue.

Signed by Dickens, Head of Security.

Well, I can argue with everything he says, but little purpose would be served - I've said it all before.

The facts are simple and Rule 39 has nothing to do with it. A legal document is a legal document whether it has been sent by Rule 39 or any other rule. He can search them but cannot read them. He is forbidden to seize them. If I send anything out of the prison which is stopped by the censor for any reason then I am informed and the letter returned to me. The prison certainly cannot seize documents and have them in their possession for a month before they even admit to the seizure!

The bit I like best is the rubbish about sorting the matter out! Give the documents back! Problem solved! They will have to give them back sooner or later. I think what bothers them is the truth - they don't like it.

The whole thing puts me in mind of something Leo Tolstoy wrote:

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Possession of truth

When oft I sit in pensive mood, (a small classical reference there) and ponder upon my lot in general, and on current difficulties in particular, something always comes to mind, and it's the same thought every time - whatever may be bothering me today will have been completely forgotten by this time next year and I will have a whole new series of things to worry about. 

That's all life is you see! Well, it is for the vast majority of us anyway. We spend it all lurching from problem to crisis, day after day. Alfred E. Newman used to say:

What! ME! WORRY!

That's the frame of mind we need to aim at I think.

My missing (well not missing exactly, because we know exactly where they are) documents, which form part of 'An Abuse of Justice', have still not been returned to me, although I DID get an answer to a complaint which said that if I demanded they be returned to me that would delay their posting out! I have never heard so much gammon in my life! Some of those documents have been illegally held by the Security here in Long Lartin for almost two months! How long does it take to put something in the post? I could have trained a pigeon to drag the package to Sheffield in two months. I have demanded the return of the documents.

I think the part that is bothering them is the fact that I am not creating havoc, making waves or issuing threats, throwing dummies out of prams, ranting and raving or anything else that could be seen as anti-social. I see no reason why I should. The thing is that they can deal with that sort of behaviour, they have the mentality to do so, and the equipment. What they can't deal with is someone who is honest about everything and calmly reasonable. The prison system doesn't do 'honest' you see, they don't understand it. They actually struggle with the whole idea and concept of 'honest' because they do not employ it.

Let me put it this way:

Does a snake understand how an eagle flies?

The snake has no conception of the thing, but it DOES know that the flying creature above is a danger to it. Well, that's how it is with the prison system and an honest prisoner. They have no idea what to do about him but do understand the fact that he is dangerous. The danger comes not from the honesty but from the attitude of those running things in the prison system. And I do not mean the ordinary kangaroo who has to deal with prisoners on a daily basis. Oh no, most of them do their best. It is the upper echelons who sneak about in dark corners, whispering behind their hands and misleading, lying and backstabbing. How high up the food chain they climb actually depends on their ability to lie and mislead.

Let me give a perfect example of this. Every prison security department knows the identity of every junkie and dealer within its environs, but do they give them weekly drug tests? Do they hell. They give weekly tests to the prisoners they KNOW do NOT take drugs because that gives them a good figure for their quarterly report on drug management policies. 1t is a fraud, smoke and mirrors to fool the general public. "Look!" they cry. "Our test figures show that we are sucessfully tackling the drug problem!"

All lies of course. They make no attempt whatsoever to tackle the drug problem, not so much as lift a finger. In fact it is quite the opposite because they actively encourage drug taking as a control measure.

They deal in a murky world as second nature! This is why they have no idea what to do when they come up against an honest man. They have no reference points to work from.

Now, having said all I have said, it will be seen as subversive and troublemaking. It's not their fault, it never is, it has to be the fault of the prisoner.

Wasn't it John Locke who wrote:

"It is one thing to show a man that he is in error, and another to put him in possession of truth."

The Voice In The Wilderness

... and again!

Well, when the fickle ould whore gives me one of her periodic size tens in the gusset, I've got to give her credit for never doing things by halves. Oh no, no slipshod work where that wicked strumpet is concerned. She sits at night with her gang - you know them: Chaos, Panic, Plague, Pestilence and my personal officer - plotting and planning to seek out even further ways to make my life just that little bit more difficult. And the gang have done it again!

Some time ago, when I was downgraded from Cat A to Cat B, I put in a request for transfer to a Cat B retirement prison. There is only one that I know of - Kingston in Portsmouth. Well, at sixty-two I can't have much longer on this wonderful little rock and I thought I'd like to spend a short time in the sun before handing in my dinner pail.

So, I made the application on the correct form and handed it to my personal officer for her to complete her section and to pass it on through "channels". Then I sat back and patiently waited for the answer from the powers that be. I asked my solicitor, Mike Pemberton, to take the matter up too - it never hurts to fire extra arrows. Mike wrote several letters to the prison asking about the transfer request but all were ignored, until this week. Clearly fed up with him badgering them, they sent him a letter telling him that there had been no request or application from me for such a transfer, and that I should submit one.

What can I say?

I have now made a further request for transfer and this time I handed it personally to a Senior Officer who assured me that she would see to it personally. We will see.

So once again, Lady Luck has booted me, assisted by my personal officer - and I'd been so nice to her too! Maybe she isn't used to anyone being nice to her; perhaps she has no reference point for it. Well it won't happen again. I won't be nasty. I don't do nasty, I just do ignorance. I've learned how from the Prison Service.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Lady Luck does it again

She's done it again!

Once again, that fickle ould tart Lady Luck has donned her well-polished Doctor Martin eighteen-holers, grinned wickedly at the other Fates, Muses and Lesser Gods, taken careful aim and ... KABOOM... right in the family jewels.

As I lie writhing in agony on the floor, it occurs to me that it is about time she turned her attention elsewhere to be honest. It is a well-established and historical fact, that every time I feel that things are finally beginning to go right for me, along she comes, sashaying along the boulevards in her five-oh-ones and her D.M.s, swinging her handbag at any nearby pigeons.

Some time ago, when I was downgraded from Cat A to Cat B, I wrote about the fact in this blog. In that vignette I mentioned my personal officer and, as far as I recall, I was quite nice about her. Well, apparently this sort of thing is frowned upon within the prison estate because it seems that she complained and became 'concerned' about it. Before anyone asks the obvious question - I don't know why! Okay?

For a long time now, I have been writing a document about my case to assist in the struggle for justice, the title of which is "An Abuse of Justice". I have been sending out regular weekly instalments to Andrew, who manages my website. Every fact, every figure is taken from my diaries and, where I can, I include legal documents to verify what I say. The output so far is about 1,450 pages, and I have reached the year 2003.

On August 10th, I sent the latest instalment, plus supporting documentation, to Andrew - but it never got there! I had sent it, as I always do, by recorded delivery so was obviously confused by its non-arrival. So when I sent out the next instalment on Monday August 31st, this time I sent it by special delivery. That didn't get there either.

Then, on Sunday September 6th, I was called into an office where I met the Security Governor, Mr Ian Dickens, and a Senior Officer. My documents were all on the desk, unposted. Mr Dickens (he's got the name but not the imagination), had apparently been on to my website in response to my personal officer's concerns and had there discovered that the logo encompasses the words "An Abuse of Justice"! He informed me that I had done nothing wrong - everything had been done openly and honestly - and that the matter would be resolved by the middle of the week (i.e. September 9th).

Although the Prison Service is not allowed even to read legal documents, never mind confiscate them or keep them from me, the documents have not been given back to me.

So here I am again - writhing about the floor after Lady Luck's delivery of another one of her specials to the bollocks. The part I particularly like is the fact that I have done nothing wrong, not a thing. I spend my days constructively, never break any rules and generally comport myself with decency and fairness to all, yet I keep getting these steel toecaps in the testicularities. Maybe if I were a thieving, lying, treacherous backstabber of a junkie I would be better thought of. I'm not, so I suppose I will just have to carry on as I am - but I may take a few extra precautions against the lady in the Doc Martens. Does anyone have an old cricket cup they don't need?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Some news - lots of thoughts

This week we have news! And the news is on a par with the arrival of Halley's Comet, an eclipse of the sun and Ian Paisley speaking civilly to a Republican. In fact, it would be safe to say that this sort of news is as rare as rocking-horse dung.

The news is about the appeal! I had a letter yesterday (Friday 24th July) from Mr Campbell Malone in which he tells me that the C.C.R.C. have written to both himself and myself to inform us that we have now been allocated a Case Review Manager and, according to Mister Malone, the manager in question is a worthy, capable and thorough fellow - which I am delighted to hear. As yet I have not received my letter from the C.C.R.C., so perhaps it has been sent to my previous establishment of H.M.P. Whitemoor. Whether they send it on to me is another matter.

Mr Malone asks me if I have asked the C.C.R.C. to consider any matters other than those listed in the original application. I don't know - I haven't had the letter to check yet. I wonder if I have asked the C.C.R.C. to consider anything which I haven't yet told Mr Malone about. I don't know. I think I asked the C.C.R.C. to examine my website, because there is an awful lot of stuff on there they may find interesting in connection with the appeal. However, never having seen the website myself, I can't actually direct them to anything in particular, just to the site in general. Will this Case Review Manager be diligent and examine it all? I don't know. I hope so.

All of that notwithstanding, the news is that we have progress on the appeal front and that simply HAS to be good news.

Secondly, I had a letter from Mike Pemberton who deals with all of the internal prison stuff - Category Reviews, Sentence Planning, Parole Board hearings and so on. He is setting about the task of having me transferred to a Category B prison - at least he will ask the Powers-That-Be, which is not the same as having any success. It took me twenty-three years to get off the Category A, so to get a sensible move may take just as long - the Ministry of Justice may not be too kindly disposed towards an upstart who has had the temerity to challenge them in the High Court. I may have to pay for that with more years of stonewalling - but we shall see.

So I sit here and ponder, something which I have grown quite accustomed to doing over the years. It is supposed to be good for the mind and soul apparently - they even have courses to teach prisoners how to ponder. As William Henry Davies put it:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

The point is that we have got some movement with the C.C.R.C. and that has to be welcome news.

Finally, I am sitting here before this decrepit old typewriter and searching in the midden of my mind for a pithy quote to end with, and nothing is coming - the mind produceth zilch! So I thought I would just throw in one from Herbert Spencer apropos nothing at all:

How often misused words generate misleading thoughts.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Numbnuts the Dragon Chaser

There is no further news this week - about anything at all really! In fact the only thing I have had from anyone or anywhere this week is the official notification of my downgrading - and THAT came via my solicitor and not from any official source. To be fair - and we all know that I am fair if nothing else - to be fair, they have promised that full reasons for my downgrading will be issued later in the month.

I shall look forward to that.

So, absolutely zilch to report - nada, zero, nuffink, nowt, as they say in Yorkshire.

However, I have an interesting tale to tell which is connected. Earlier in the past week I was sitting here, in my little bedsit (government designed of course) and banging away at my typewriter, as I do every day. Well, it keeps me off the streets.

Someone tapped on my cell door, shoved their head inside and said, "Frank, can I have a word with you?"

I turned to see who dared enter the bailliwick of this brand new category B prisoner. I saw a fellow - and at this stage I have to say that I cannot use his name. It is verboten, forbidden, not allowed, proscribed. Well, we have to consider the privacy laws - much as the police do when they kick someone's front door in with their size twelves at the crack of dawn. But let's not be vindictive here.

No, I cannot use this fellow's name so I have to think of a nickname which suits him. I shall call him either The Great Pretender or Numbnuts the Dragon Chaser. I think we will use the latter, it fits him nicely.

So, I regard his ravaged countenance and say, "'What can I do for you, Numbnuts the Dragon Chaser?"

He comes in and parks himself on my bed. "Frank," says he, just to help me out a bit in case I have forgotten my name, after all, I'm getting on a bit now. "Frank," says he, "you know this case you have just won, can it help me at all?"

"Who knows?" said I.

He doesn't listen - the dragon-hunting fraternity never do. He says, "I've been in jail nearly as long as you and I'm still Cat. A. My case is just the same as yours."

"Ah!" said I, " Not quite."

"It is," he argues. "I'm denying everything so they can't ask me to do any courses and... "

"Numbnuts," said I, stopping his flow, "there's a big difference between avoiding courses and actually being innocent. Besides, I've done courses. I've done full Offending Behaviour Group courses, and that's not counting the education I've done and all the rest of it."

"Yeah," said he, not listening still, "but I've been a Cat. A for..."

I stopped him. Had enouqh of him to be honest. "Look," said I and wagged a finger, "I'm going to tell you the facts of life here, Numbnuts, and it's up to you whether you listen or not. I don't give a shit personally. You are bang at it on the smack, everybody knows - you have been for years. I've lost count of the times you have been moved from prison to prison, under very controversial circumstances to say the least. You need to face reality, mate. Until you stop taking that shit, you are going nowhere. And I'm not talking about stopping for five minutes, you'll need between five and ten years clear, no trouble. But you won't see that, will you? I don't give a toss what you do, none of my affair, but if you want to go home, you need to take notice of what I am saying."

"I've got a parole hearing soon," said he. "I think I'll get it."

Ah! The logic of a dragon-chaser. They can convince themselves of anything - apart from reality and the facts. Oh well, he is over twenty-one, he can make his own mind up and go to buggery in any way he sees fit I suppose, but I'm not about to waste time or effort to help him.

I said, "I haven't got the wording of any judgements. All I've got is the court order, and as far as I know that's only on my website, I don't have a copy here."

"Have you got a website?" he asked. "I never knew that. I'm going to get one."

Oh dear, no matter what anyone says to a Fellow of the Dragon Quest, he will instantly adopt it.

Well he went off about his business - maybe he heard a lonely dragon crying somewhere in the distance - and I sat and thought about it. Nobody is doing a thing about this problem - the men with the monkey on their back. Oh they pay lip service but they are actually doing sweet bugger-all. If it took me all of these years to get a bit of progress, what chance have fellows like Numbnuts the Dragon Chaser got?

The Voice In The Wilderness