Days like these

Thursday the 10th was a nice day - spat with rain a little, but that didn't bother me much because I got myself dressed and off out to the hospital, where I saw a specialist in fitting surgical appliances. Now, before any juveniles begin sniggering about trusses and such, I was having a couple of knee braces measured for days of cold and inordinate discomfort, nothing more. So, got measured and fitted for one - the right knee. They had  run out of medium sizes - they will send it on to me.

As I got back into the van for the return journey, a friend of mine got out.

"Is it you, Frank?" said he.

"Ha!" said I. "Had I known it was you, I'd have hidden."

Back to the Shovel'n' Pick and a bit of wandering and feeding the friendly rams by hand.

That was Thursday.

On Friday I was up and out very early because I had an appointment with a sharp instrument at 8.30 am at the hospital again. This was my umbilical hernia thing being sorted out. I've had it for ten years or more. It doesn't bother me much at all at the worst of times. However, I didn't go directly to the ward, I went up a couple of floors to the ward where my pal of the previous day - remember him? - had been enthroned, because they had kept him in. Of course, me being the cheerful sort, I thought the worst.

"Hello," said I to the nurse on the ward, "I've come to see... " and gave her my pal's name. (I won't use his proper name - such things are frowned upon. I shall call him Albert.)

"Ah," said the nurse, a pretty girl with a nice smile. "Are you from the Camp?" It must have been the suit that did it.

"I am," I agreed. "I'm the one who gave him the heart-attack in the first place!"

"Oh!" said she. "He didn't have a heart-attack, he's got a DVT."

"Don't worry," said myself, "he'll have a heart-attack by the time I leave."

Nursie sniggered and said, "Bed three, bay six."

In I went and there he is, sitting in the corner like Little Jack Horner and gazing at the scenery out of the window - probably wondering why he couldn't see any fences.

"Hoy!" said I from the doorway. "Don't think you are getting away  with anything, Pal."

Three other sick men sitting by beds looked surprised - I think they thought I was from the Russian Mafia.

"Frank!" cried the folorn lunatic, obviously glad to see a face he actually recognised. "Is it you?"

Well, the long and the short of it is that he has a DVT and will be kept in while they shove needles into his stomach every thirty seconds until he is cured. I know, I had one myself about ten or twelve years back.

We wandered up to my ward - well, down really: it was on the second floor - and I was admitted with the nitwit in attendance. I saw the anaesthetic-administerer and, what with me still having a violent cough - the residue of last week's cold - the fellow was quite reluctant to proceed with the butchery and so it's been put off yet again until a future date. Can't say I'm too upset at the decision - I had somewhere else to go the next day and I didn't want to be walking like a geriatric crab, nursing stitches.

So, after yet another bout of idiocy with Albert, I got the bus back to durance vile.

That was Friday.

On Saturday, yesterday, I was at the gate, all suited and booted at a quarter to nine for my release at nine bells. There were dozens waiting to get out - must have been thirty or forty in the queue - and by the time I got out it was twenty past nine.

Pat and Sara had been sitting in the landrover since ahout a quarter to nine and, as I put my bag in the boot, Pat said, "We were starting to think you weren't coming!"

Off we set and shortly after we started Pat's phone rang. "Hello!" said she - she has the manners that even Lizzie Windsor would be pleased with - "He's here now... Wait..." and she gave me the phone. "It's Herman the Big Mug," said she but actually used his proper name. See! Too polite to be rude. I'm not.

"What do you want?" I asked. Anyway, he said he was leaving Hartlepool right then and would be with us by one or two in the afternoon. I told him, the police should perform a proper job and shoot him.

So, there we were, out in the countryside, and I got Jade to help me to cook a spaghetti Bolognese - a kind of assistant chef, which is pretty good seeing that neither of us knew what we were doing. Well, once we had done the sauce we cleaned up and left the kitchen with Jade agreeing to stir it now and then - we would cook the pasta later, about four.

Sat out in the sun, Dennis and me hammering away on a couple of his guitars and sniggering a good deal.

Then we noticed that Pat and Sara had disappeared and that we hadn't seen them for a while, and they turned up with Herman fo1lowing them in his vehicle. They had been to meet him and show him the way. It's easy to get lost in those winding little lanes.

"Have you got stitches?" asked Herman the retired giant.

"No," said I, "The op was cancelled."

"Great," said the big mug, "Come here." And he proceeded to give me a bear hug that nearly broke my ribs. I would have ended up in the next bed to Albert.

"Get off you bastard!" I told him.

Some people seemed to find that comical.

Well, we sat about in the sunlight and then I decided that me and Jade would go horse-riding, so I had to go and get Buddy out of the field. Surprising enough, he was quite cooperative for a change - it could have been the carrots I fed him.

So, after managing not to fall off and break anything vital, Jade and I made the pasta - loads of it, after all we were feeding eight hungry mouths.

Not long after that, washing up done, they delivered me back to the hoosegow and that was my day done.

I think I'm going fishing next weekend with Dennis - that could be interesting.

My mother told me there would be days like these...

The Voice In The Wilderness

Lincoln Green

"If Robin Hood was from Nottingham, why did he wear Lincoln Green? Why didn't he wear Nottingham Green?" I asked Geoff.

He replied that Robin Hood didn't exist.

"That's a terrible thing to say," said I, scandalised. "Are you trying to tell me that all of those stories about Friar Tuck and Little John are bollocks?"

"All rubbish," said the great sage.

"Hollywood made films about it!" said I. "In colour!"

All he did was snigger - I think there is something wrong with him.

Anyway, on Monday gone (30th April), I went to Lincoln on the choo-choo train - the first choo-choo trip in a long time. I had thought I may struggle a little bit with the mechanics of it all, but I didn't - it was easy. Everything is on timetables and even an idiot in a hurry would struggle to make a mess of it.

I arrived in Lincoln to a sunny day and tourists all over the place, students wasting their grants and an inordinate number of buskers for some reason. It's a nice place, Lincoln - big pedestrianised shopping areas and pleasant. I wouldn't want to live there - no sign of Robin Hood nowhere.

I found the hostel, after a little trial and error, did a bit of shopping, went to see the cathedral and the castle, had a bite to eat and retired to my hostel room at about ten-thirty in the evening. A day well spent, I suppose.

I was returning to the prison the following morning, but first I had to have a chat with The Wallace on the telefunken, an instrument I have absolutely no regard for whatsoever - don't like em. Spoke to The Wallace and she seemed to be satisfied by whatever the hostel had said about me, mainly that I was well turned out and polite I think. I may have to do a couple more overnight stays there to satisfy the requirements of the Parole Board. I don't see the need personally, after all, there are fellows here who have been waiting for nine months or more to get a place at the hostel for their overnighters and can't get one. I can get them and don't need them at all - I've got much better places to go to, where I am more than welcome, and those places are far more in line with where I will be going eventually on release. Making me go to and fill up a scarce hostel place unnecessarily makes little sense to me, but I suppose rules are rules and I will have to collect all of my ticks in the right boxes - common sense has nothing to do with the matter at all.

Anyway, after a little chat to The Wallace, I wandered down to the railway station to discover that the trains were on strike, but the railway company had laid on replacement buses, all I had to do was show my ticket. There was a reporter from Look North, or something, and he had a young woman with a camera with him.

"Excuse me sir," said he, "I'm from Look North. What do you think about the train strike?"

I looked at him, hoisted my heavy bag on my shoulder and sort of grinned. "I don't care," said I and got the bus.

So, that was my day out, or at least my one night stand.

I was supposed to have a hernia repaired on Friday but it was cancelled because I have got a cough, having just got over a bit of a cold. It's been put off until this coming Friday. That means a trip to hospital on Thursday, then an operation on Friday and a day out with Buddy the geegee on Saturday. I can see certain difficulties ahead, but we will see I suppose.

Finally, I want to make one or two comments about a clothing firm called Premier Man.

Comment One
Have nothing whatsoever to do with them. I made an order for trousers, shirt and jumper and paid about four quid for overnight delivery. A month later I was still sitting here, like a statue of Robin Hood, waiting. I asked them on the phone where my stuff was and their reply was the classic lie told by all such companies who have no intention whatsoever of giving their customers the service they paid for. They said, "We tried  to deliver but there was nobody in." This is a PRISON! There is always somebody in, any time, day or night - there is ALWAYS someone on the gate. "We tried to deliver but there was nobody in."!

In fact, that's all I am going to tell anyone, because anyone who deals with them after hearing (or reading) that has to be crazy and deserves all of the poor treatment they are going to get. Maybe I should get Friar Tuck to pay them a visit. Hey, it's a good job I didn't do a Spoonerism on that name...

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's raining

Well, here we are again - Sunday morning, 29th April and it is  just coming up to nine o'clock in the morning. I am supposed to  be out of the prison by now, sitting somewhere in Boston waiting to catch the train. But I'm not. Before anyone starts to think that there is something wrong, let me just say - there isn't. I was informed yesterday that the hostel couldn't accept me today and it was delayed for twenty-four hours. I'm going in the morning. The good news is that I only have to stay there for the one night - I'll go tomorrow, which is Monday, and return on Tuesday. A sort of overnight bed and breakfast thing, nothing more. At least I will get the chance to go shopping for a new dressing gown for my visit to the hospital on Friday. I'm having my umbilical hernia repaired - a bit  of sellotape and a couple of staples should do it. I'd do it myself, but sellotape costs money these days.

Where was I? Oh yes, not going anywhere.

So, here I sit and, looking out of the window, it is probably just as well because it is pissing down and blowing a gale. (Hang on. I'm probably not allowed to say "pissing down". I probably have to say "heavy precipitation". Yes, that's better.) There is a heavy precipitation today. In fact, there's been a heavy bleedin' precipitation most of the last week or so - pissing down in fact.

Now, tell me this and then tell me no more. If it's done nothing but rain all week and the telly is full of pictures of rivers with burst banks and floods, why is there still a hosepipe ban in certain areas?  Er, er, er... It's the wrong sort of rain in the wrong places, or some such cobblers. The simple facts are that the water companies are tearing the arse out of the general public, not maintaining infrastructures, allowing massive leaks to go unstopped and then charging the poor mugs who constitute the public a fortune to not be allowed to use the water. At least in the days when I robbed people I had the good manners and decency to use a shotgun!

So, I'm not going on my overnighter until tomorrow. I bet that's a big relief to all citizens. Well, they haven't recovered from Robin Hood yet. Let's have it right - it's all only a tick-in-the-box job anyway, or it is as far as I can see. What is the point of taking up a space - a PREMIUM SPACE I might add - in a hostel which could be utilised better for someone who needs it? There are plenty of people sitting languishing in this place, waiting months for a space in a hostel when I've got somewhere to go, far better for me on many levels, not the least of which being therapeutic and peaceful. Still, mine is not to reason why, I suppose. After all, where would we be without the right ticks in the right boxes?

Yes, it's me for the knife next Friday. There's a thought. I shall arrive at the crack of dawn, shoved into a bed still warm from the last occupant, shaved, told to dress in my new dressing gown, taken to the scene of the crime, knocked out with laughing gas (or whatever they use - probably a mallet) and, when I wake up half an hour or so later, there will be yet another scar on my body to tell lies about at some future date.

I've got a large scar on my leg which I earned in the early seventies. When it first happened, I used to be asked how I arrived at such a scar, for a few years anyway. I grew bored with the account and began to make stories up about sharks and septicemia from shaving my legs when I was a Tranny. In the end I had told that many porkies that I couldn't even remember the truth anymore.

So, if you see me with a scar on my leg - don't ask. Come to think about it, if you see me with a scar on my midriff, don't ask about that either - some things are better left alone, and my midriff is one of them.

The Voice in The Wilderness

Colts, coats and cats

"Colts" and "Coats" - two words which, when heard on the phone, can cause a certain amount of unrequired confusion. Well, they do for me - I'm a pensioner you know!

I'd better explain that statement, I suppose - but first, a story that the mention of coats has brought to mind.

Many years ago, during the days when the Irish were resident in  the prisons, before the implementation of the Good Friday Agreement, I was in Frankland prison with several of those I.R.A. men, men I had already known for several years in various places of containment. One of those fellows was Pat Hayes, a decent enough fellow who, since his release, has become a teacher of IT in Dublin. Pat bombed Harrods. In fact, he once said to me that, if he had known what a decent fellow Al Fayed was, then he (Pat) would never have bombed Harrods, he'd have bombed somewhere else.

Anyway, I digress - a common fault of mine. I had a map of Ireland sent in at one point and it was a chart of all of the clans and families in Ireland and their Coats of Arms. I found Wilkinson up there in Sligo but couldn't find Hayes. So, I went to Pat and said, "Hoy! Ye bollix! I've found Wilkinson, there's no Hayes!" He replied, "Well, there's a reason for that. We had no coats but we had plenty of arms."

Yesterday, I was collected at the gate by Pat and her daughter Sara for a day out at Pat's place. There was me, dressed up like a Pox Doctor's clerk and, when we got going, I suggested that we stop at Tesco's so that I could get myself a couple of shirts and a few pairs of socks. Sara said that she liked my pink tie so I told her that I was in touch with my feminine side - and she must be given credit for only sniggering a little bit.

I got my clothing and off we went to Pat's place where, clearly, it intended to rain at regular intervals so I got changed into my normal attire, which makes me look to be one step up from a gentleman of the road - a denizen of the long acre.

Sitting in the kitchen later with Pat, Sara and Jade, Sara told me (or was it Pat? One of them told me...) that there had been a phone call during the previous week about coats! She'd phoned back and got nowhere apparently, so we phoned a friend of mine in Melton Mowbray - because it was HE who had been wittering about coats. He hadn't mentioned coats - he was talking about two COLTS that he had for me. So, we chatted back and forth, with me totally unable to understand much of what was being said because, to be quite frank about it, I'm a nitwit when it comes to telephones of any sort - I don't like them and never use them unless I've got no option. I had no option.

Bob has two colts, last year's horses, and I wanted to give them to Sara because Jade is too big for her current pony and the colts are Welsh cobs and will grow to anything between 14 and 15 hands. One is black and the other black and white and they are off to collect them within the next few days.

"Coats" and "Colts".

I asked Jade what her favourite colour was for a horse and she said, "Black!" So that's her choice made then. Young Harvey isn't so keen on horses because he got on one last year and the horse simply took off with him - last seen heading up the M1 with a posse chasing them.

Where was I? Oh yes. In the afternoon I went out on the marsh with Dennis to look at the old hulks that the R.A.F. use for target practice, and managed to fall over in the mud but saved myself from getting too dirty by getting my hands up first. All I left were imprints of my fingers, like those of a demented piano-player in the mud.

Back at the ranch, and before we settled down to an excellent meal of home-made rabbit pie (delicious), there was a pantomime. Apparently there is some rail company with a name to do with red spots and handkerchiefs - "Red spotted hankies"? (What do I know?)  The thing is, they have a competition on line. Not on the rail line -  there'd be more than red bleedin' spots in that case - no, on t'internet. Pat had registered and they had sent her a red hankie with spots on it. The plan (apparently) is for people, folk, to send in an original and interesting picture which must include the red handkie. There is a prize - free travel or naked pictures of Simon Cowell or all the stale buns you can eat or something.

Pat didn't want to just tie the hankie around one of the animals' necks - because everybody on-line would be doing that - no, she wanted something more interesting.  Dennis suggested shoving a cat into a wellie and putting the hankie on a stick like a tramp's bundle and calling it "Puss in Boots" - quite clever I thought.

So Pat dragged me and Tracy into it somehow. Have you ever tried to stuff a cat in a wellie arse-first? Cats are notoriously uncooperative, let me tell you. So there we are, two of us trying to stuff cats in wellies and Tracy trying to get pictures which don't look like evidence in a case brought by the RSPCA.

We finally gave up on the cats. "Let's try a rabbit!" some nitwit suggested - it may have been me. Did you know that even placid and friendly rabbits can cut up a bit rough when you try to stuff them in a wellie? It's true - take my word for it. How we didn't end up in the nearest A&E department is a mystery that can only be put down to luck.

"Now what?" said someone after the rabbit had been returned to its hutch with a definite sneer on its face. "Duck," said I. So we went to look at the ducks, but one look told us that those ducks were too fat to go anywhere near a wellie. "Chicken!" I suggested but just got pitying looks from the rest. I gave up round about then, but Pat and Tracy got one of the dogs, a very active and possibly insane terrier, to jump up and down at the red, spotted bundle on the end of a stick while they tried to get a useable picture out of the mayhem.

Good luck with that then.

I went to give Buddy a carrot - remember Buddy? I had to turn the electric fence off and climbed in clad in the righteous armour of Tesco's finest carrots - three of them. Buddy saw me and sort of casually ambled over, but you could see it on his face - "Here comes the nitwit who lets me do as I please - and he's got carrots! Excellent!"

I gave him one, but I don't think it touched the sides, so I gave him a second and turned to give the third to a pony standing politely waiting. Buddy stood on my foot so I had to give him the third too. That horse needs counselling in my opinion.

Did I mention that it rained a bit? And, at one point there was even a quick spurt of hailstones - I could have done with one of the coats mentioned earlier.

The Voice In The Wilderness

When the music used to make me smile

A long, long time ago, I can still remember when the music used to make me smile...

So goes the start of a Don McLean song from the 1970s - "American Pie", in fact. However, that's got nothing to do with it. What I was really saying was that things which we were interested in back in those halcycon days - our salad days in fact - have sort of slowly sunk into semi-oblivion and only come back to mind on rare occasions, such as when we actually hear a song or smell a smell or something like that.

I heard the Don McLean song this morning. It reminded me of a few things. Come to think on it, there was a lot of music in the 1970's which bring back memories to a lot of folk. I bet there's not much music these days which will bring back memories in forty years' time. In fact there is no music around today that will even be remembered at all next year, never mind in forty years' time.

I liked the 1970's so much that some people accuse me of still living in those days, grey hair and all. Well, if I do, who can blame me? And if my suits are a bit out of style, they will come back in sooner or later. Flares and flowered shirts - I must have been a sight for sore eyes, but I wasn't on my own. See! Even remembering those days can bring a smile. These days, well, there are other things attracting our attention, things like ensuring we get our five a day, turning off the lights and heating so that we can go blind in the dark and freeze to bleedin' death because we can't afford to stay warm - etcetera.

I went horse-riding again last weekend, and I'm going again next. The week after that I am going for my first overnighter, my first nights spent out of prison in over a quarter of a century. Hell's bells! It sounds a long time when put like that. I shall be getting on a train for the first time in a long time too. I suppose I should be looking forward to it, but I can't say that I am. What's the point? Apart from getting a tick in a box for the purposes of meeting the criteria set by the Parole Board.

I shall arrive at the hostel and be introduced to strange people who will tell me the rules and regulations of the place and be shown to yet another cell for me to live in, albeit for just a few nights - two in fact. So, what will I do for the weekend?  Not a lot - wander about like a lost lamb, I expect.

It would make more sense to let me go and stay at Buddy's stable for the weekend - we could get to know each other better and I would be able to do a bit more work on the saddle. Perhaps I can persuade The Wallace to let me go there the next time I get an overnighter.

So, a weekend away is on the cards and that means that I will end up wandering around a second-hand bookstore or some such emporium dealing only in ancient merchandise - much like myself really. Let's face it, me being scum and only one step up from a tramp anyway, second-hand books is all I can afford. Besides, like the music I listen to, they are probably better than what passes for literature in our modern times.

Oh yes, I can certainly remember when the music used to make me smile. I was younger then.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A walk with Buddy

Over the years, it has been my good fortune to meet some of the most desirable creatures that this planet has to offer - and there have even been a couple of people included in that list. However, in recent times I have been introduced to the laziest horse in the world. His only hobby seems to be to eat, preferably grass that he finds by the wayside. This horse could put a fully-grown goat to shame. He doesn't eat until he is full - he eats until he is tired.

This animal is, of course, Buddy - I've mentioned him previously. Yesterday I was collected by Pat and Dennis in  the car and young Jade was with them - the world's most entertaining chatterbox but a very quick-minded girl of thirteen. Off we jolly-well went, stopping to let me pick up a couple of things from one of the few shops that are open on Easter Sunday. Did that and then went to feed the ducks. (If anyone sniggers at this point I will be forced against my will to send large fellows to teach a few people manners.) Normally, me having a reputation to consider, I would deny all involvement with duck-feeding, but Jade took a photograph with a caption underneath stating, "Frank feeding the ducks" - a very difficult thing to deny under the circumstances. I tried bribery and blackmail, but to no effect - the picture stayed on her phone and will probably end up on You Tube or somewhere.

From duck-feeding we went off to the home of Buddy the Idle. I had to clean and oil a saddle, but that was pleasant enough, and Jade even joined in by cleaning her own, an apparently unheard-of activity. Maybe I'm a good influence.

Once the saddle had been cleaned and oiled and tucked away where chickens wouldn't sit on it, requiring a further clean, Sarah put a saddle on Buddy and I got aboard (pictures available - send bank notes in plain brown envelopes please).

"Do you want to just ride around the paddock?" asked Pat.

"No," said I. "I'll ride around the track and come back that way" - or words to that effect. This is AFTER I had bribed Buddy with apples and come to an agreement with him that he would do as he was told and I wouldn't tell him to do anything. So, I shook the reins, gave him a nudge and said, "Please."

Off we went, with an audience - and I'm certain someone sniggered. When I say "Off we went", what I mean is that Buddy kind of took his time putting one enormous hoof in front of the other. As soon as we were out of earshot I began to talk to the horse, telling him jokes, and we got along famously. Halfway to our destination Sarah arrived to see if we were okay, because we weren't exactly breaking any speed records, but I assured her that we were fine, so we went our way and Sarah watched us go.

Finally, man and horse arrived at a sort of natural turning point where several fields meet, so I pulled him up and sat on the saddle while I had a fag and Buddy put his head down to graze. That was where I made my mistake - letting him eat. Once he gets the taste of that good Lincolnshire grass, sweet after the rain, he's not stopping until he's full (or tired, as mentioned earlier).

I finished my fag and put it out carefully - crops take a long time to grow, as we all know. Then I took up the reins again and said to the munching equine fellow, "Let's go, Buddy," gave him a little kick and shook the reins. I swear that he sniggered. Did he move? Did he hell. All he did was rip out another clump of grass and masticate like an overworked cement mixer.

Ten minutes later, after countless swearwords and several boots into his ribs, the only progress we had made was about fifteen feet in reverse. He was pointing in the right direction, just going backwards - to where the grass was thicker.

Now, I can be called a lot of things, but I'm not a slow learner and by that time I had reached the conclusion that Buddy was going nowhere until he'd had his fill of England's green and pleasant land. He even tried to kneel down a couple or three times to remove the irritation on his back. Well, he tried that one last week so I was ready for him. However, I was slowly coming to the way of thinking which included me walking and just dragging him along behind me. Could have been worse - he could have wanted me to carry him for a change.

Half way back to our destination, yanking him away from the grass every couple of paces, we were met by Pat, who apparently has a bit of control over him (pause for laughter) - and he promptly took no notice of her either.

Still, we got back in the end and handed him over to Sarah to be unsaddled, and then I had a bit of a sit-down to recuperate. Dinner was good - a full roast din-dins - excellent with the chat afterwards and, of course, someone taking pictures.

Oh well, everything taken into consideration, it was a very successful sort of day, most enjoyable - and I even suppose my riding efforts were a success too. I enjoyed it. I can't speak for Buddy, and he can't speak for himself - his mouth is full.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day out

At least (and at last) I've got something to write about for a change. It all started the other week when we had that couple or three days of summer weather in March - the sort of days that we are generally lucky to get in August. Normally in March (and even April) we can expect a bit of filthy weather, as often as not including a couple of inches of snow. Come to think of it, there is still time.

So, to get back to the facts of the matter according to the world of Frank... It all started at the end of March when I had to go to the local hospital to see the Surgical Department about my umbilical hernia - nice, just what we needed to know. I'm having an operation on it next month and I've got to be there at 7.30 in the morning - "Please bring a three-quarter length dressing gown and slippers". I can't see that going down very well with the prison authority here - this place doesn't begin to function until about eight o'clock! They will probably have to lay on a special taxi or something.

Anyhoo, I came back just in time for a drop of soup for my lunch and then got changed into my normal rags and booked out again to go for a wander along the dyke that protects all of us incarceratees from the ravages of The Wash. As a matter of fact, a few of them around here could do with a wash. Off I set like a marching marionette along the dyke, arms swinging and singing at the top of my voice... "We're all going on a summer holiday" and being frowned at by sheep who clearly thought that I should be arrested for disturbing the peace.

It's a long walk along that dyke - you stand on me, Kiddo. I walked a mile or so in the blazing sun until I reached a sort of little hide where twitchers can lurk and peep on the poor birdlife. Then I turned and walked the other way having decided to go as far as Freiston. That was a mistake, it really was. By the time I got there I had emptied my water bottle and was utterly cream-crackered. That sun sapped me dry, not to mention the burning of the skin and head. I looked like a parboiled chicken with a bad case of nappy rash of the head.

By the time I got back to the jail I must have walked well over five miles and no self-respecting sanatorium would have taken me.

Was that the end of it? Not at all.

The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn and at nine was collected at the gate by Pat and her daughter, who answers to the name of Sarah.

I sat in the rear of the car and it was ever so pleasant to listen to two women have a conversation. Well, I'm sick of the sight and sound of men to be honest.

There followed a journey which seemed to consist of long winding roads that apparently went nowhere much, and Sarah didn't seem to be at all sure which side of the road to drive on.

I mentioned it!

She said, "The road is there, it seems a shame not to use it" - or words to that effect. Then she almost squished a kestrel that was leisurely dining on a bit of road-kill.

We finally reached Pat's home - an isolated sort of place, crawling with various animals like horses, dogs, cats, rabbits, ducks, chickens and even a cockatiel. I loved it. Sarah lives next door with her own menagerie of horses, cats and dogs. I met Pat's other daughter, who is called Tracey, and, of course, Buddy! Buddy is big, hairy and idle with a mind of his own but gentle and quite placid as far as currying and being saddled is concerned. Did I mention that Buddy is a 16.2 hand cross between a shire (probably) and a food disposal unit?

Well, it didn't take long before he had been brushed down, fitted with an English gents riding saddle and I was using a crate to climb up into the saddle with my sunburn (photos included).

In the afternoon we changed saddles for a western saddle - much more comfortable for me because I have used them before, far more than any other. I'd expected sore back, sore knees, sore thighs and a sore bum - but not a bit. Everything went well - not an ache in sight afterwards. Mind, Buddy tried to have me off a couple of times, once actually kneeling down to get at the grass! However, I soon showed him who the boss was - I let him do as he pleased. Well, let's face it, he's bigger than me.

I could say a great deal about my day horseriding, but I won't - this spot isn't long enough. Howsomever, I WILL say a couple of things about the best day I've had in twenty-six years. It was magic to walk into a proper house again. It was magic to speak to and hear female voices in their habitat (in charge) and to play with dogs, cats and horses. A lovely family - what else can I say?

I'm going again next week but this time I will put decent clothing on and change into my riding rags when I get there. I'm going to take a couple of quid too because we are going for a meal, and maybe an ice cream or two. (I'll never get Buddy into the car - I may have to ride him behind.) I shall wear a suit so as not to disgrace the day - I'll do the disgracing after I get there and get dressed as Clint Eastwood in one of his spaghetti westerns. I've got the hat and saddle for it - and there is no need for the cracks about the good, the bad and the ugly. Heard them all before.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Social duties

"Prison" is a strange animal - or perhaps it would be better referred to as an "Entity". Whichever way, it's strange. Well, I suppose I'd better explain that rather odd statement. What I mean is, it's like a micro-organism, a huge micro-organism - and if that's not a contradiction in terms then I don't know what is.

It is a small, entirely enclosed world and yet it teems with the life of any huge metropolis. We wander through it generally indifferent and ignorant of most of what is going on - and yet we are fully aware of everything. Llke any conglomeration, we have those at the top and those propping everyone and everything else up. We have the weird, the wonderful and all stages in between. We have those who really ought to be kept as far from female society as possible and those who think that any unattended  pound coin is there to be stolen. Muggers, sluggers and buggers - we've got them all.

People like me, hereinafter referred to as "Ordinary Decent Criminals" or ODCs, have generally reached the position in our personal mindsets where we can ignore the - shall we call them "The Fiddling Fraternity"? - and we generally only offer our time and friendship (fleeting as it may be) to others much like ourselves. It's true, water does find its own level, and birds of a feather do flock together. The "Shify Sonority" avoid the ODCs and so on. Sometimes it's hard to know the difference and I suppose it's best not to enquire too closely. The old axiom would seem to apply - if you don't want to know the answer, don't ask the bloody question.

Personally I don't give a fiddler's and don't ask questions. I have a small - well, not so small - circle of fellows I see and chat to and everyone else kind of becomes a face in a dinner queue, and that way my personal mental comfort is assured.

I think what I really mean is that I don't make judgements on others without a good reason. Who am I to judge anyway?

Okay, with that out of the way let me move on to saying that over the years (and there've been a few) I must have met thousands of fellows much like myself who are generally seen as "goodfellows" - one of yer own, so to speak. They come into our lives, stay a while - sometimes many years - but sooner or later pass on much like ships  in the night. Every now and again paths cross again and we run into old faces. Such a thing happens here at the Home for Gay Sailors just as it does everywhere else, and when I arrived here I ran into a few faces from the past and a few have arrived since I got here.

There used to be a kind of tradition in prison which consisted of a new fellow arriving in a prison - a goodfellow - and he would be taken around and introduced to others of a like ilk. This served several purposes: it got the fellow into a circle which he knew he belonged to, fellows of a like character; and if a goodfellow introduced the new boy to another goodfellow it was a kind of endorsement saying, "This is X, he's okay.' It doesn't happen much these days of course - the modern class of ODC quite simply doesn't have the manners of the "Old School". On the converse side of course there was the un-uttered but heavily-implied fact that if a fellow WASN'T introduced then the fellow was no good, but there was no need to say so.

Well, an old friend of mine arrived this week and I've been doing my duty in introducing him to those he needs to know - he knows a couple himself already of course - and that's my duty done.

I wonder why modern day criminals no longer have any manners in general! The world has turned very selfish and "Me Me Me" in the last ten to fifteen years or more. Mind, is it any surprise, when every time we turn the telly on we get our political masters standing there accused of all manner of devious behaviour, spouting out figures in the billions and smugly telling the lesser mortals such as myself that we have to bite the bullet while they bite their lobsters.

Oh yes, it's true what they say about the politicos - a politician is someone who will willingly lay down your life for his country.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wanderings

As any reader of this drivel will be fully aware by now, I spend quite a lot of time each day simply wandering around the place in liberty and unfettered abandon, making up for the years of restricted movement elsewhere. (Ha! Several elsewheres really - forty-eight of them in fact.)

So, I wander about the place. I get up at my leisure each day (although I am always fully operational by seven in the morning) and begin my daily stint of perambulations normally around eight-thirty in the ack emma, as they say in military circles. These nomadic wanderings take me to many varied and exotic locations, such as going to see how Rambo the gigantic pig is doing, hand-feeding a ram which, for reasons of its own, runs to see me as soon as I appear on the scene. Actually, it's a strange creature. I arrive at its little field/enclosure, which it shares with half a dozen of the farm's healthy but disgustingly filthy rams, and as soon as I shout, "Come on!" it runs across to the fence, tries to climb over and I pull up tufts of grass and feed it. Others come too, of course, but they are kind of reluctant to take the fodder from my hand. The ram slobbers all over me so I've probably got all manner of diseases by now, such as scrapie, whatever that is. Anyway, when I get fed up of pulling up grass, I usually scratch his head for him for a short while and wander off about my daily  rounds.

I go to several places where I know folk and have a few words, I go to the library, places like that. I also run into quite a lot of people who say, "Hello" in passing and from time to time I stop and have little conversations with someone I've run into. It is one such conversation that has attracted my attention this week and, seeing as I am not allowed to name anyone, I won't. However, as will become blatantly obvious from the narrative, this person was a fellow of importance in the grand scheme of things here at the Home for Gay Sailors.

There I was the other day, just having departed from feeding the friendly ram and shaking the slobber off my hand, when I ran into this important fellow who, for obvious reasons, will be henceforth referred to as "The Important Fellow". (See - I don't use people's names!)

"Ah!" said this fellow. "Good morning."

"And a good morning to you," says I, not one to be outdone for manners. "How 'r' ye?"

"I'm fine," said he. "Can I ask, why is it that every time I see you you seem to be very smartly dressed and wandering around doing nothing?"

"Ah," said I. "I can help you there. I'm just lucky."

This reply seemed to disconcert him a little because he went on to ask, "What do you do all day?"

Me: "As little as possible."

That reply didn't go down too well either. "What is your job?"

"I haven't got one," said I. "I'm a member of the idle poor."

"You haven't got a job?" said he. "How long have you been here?"

"Since December the twenty-ninth," I replied pleasantly.

"And you haven't got a job!" said he. "Why not?"

"I can help you there too," said I. "I'm retired."

"Retired?" said he. "How old are you?"

"Sixty-five," replied myself.

"Sixty-five? Are you sure?"

I sniffed deeply. "I think so."

Clearly "The Important Fellow" had psyched himself up to give me gainful employment at the very first opportunity AND give a right royal bollocking to whoever was allowing me to do nothing. Having been informed that I am retired killed that plan.

"Oh," said he. "Are you enjoying the leisure?"

"Well," said I, "it's better than what I was used to."

"Fine, fine," said he. "Well, carry on."

"I'm managing stress," said I.

"Managing stress?" said he. "You don't look stressed to me."

"Must be working then, eh?" said I and smiled my usual grin.

He just grunted and went on his way.

As I continued my wanderings it occurred to me that he hadn't asked me my name - he KNEW!  Well, well, well. It's true - a fellow never knows what is or isn't being said behind the scenes - do we?

The Voice In The Wilderness

There is a leafy bower

There is a leafy bower... Okay, perhaps that statement may be me being a little economical with the truth - using what our political masters call "terminological inexactitudes" - with it only being March, the leaves are few and far between. However, I reserve my right to the use of peotic licence!  If it was summer, it WOULD be a bleedin' leafy bower!

RIGHT!

There is a leafy bower, created between the library and the building being used as a chapel - a quiet spot indeed. A large tree sits in the middle of a pebbled circle and spreads its (currently naked) branches above a circular bench built very neatly around the trunk of the said tree. (Don't ask me what sort of tree it is - do I look like Percy soddin' Thrower? Ha! For all I know it might even be a spreading chestnut tree - and not a blacksmith in sight.)

So, we've got the tree and the bench in the circle of pebbles, all tastefully surrounded by a neat brick border. To one side is a fish pond with sides raised a couple of feet with water gently trickling in at one side and dozens of multicoloured goldfish swimming about and doing very little to earn their daily bread as far as I can see. There are bushes and other trees surrounding the circle mentioned previously and not a leaf between any of them. Come to think about it, there's not even a bud showing, not yet - I've looked! With the weather improving now it won't be long before it IS a leafy bower. (Give me a break!)

The point of all this drivel is that it's nice to sit there for a half hour or so in my daily solitude of retirement - a pause in my daily wanderings. There I sit, quietly and quite comfortably, musing on cabbages and kings and managing stress in my own inimitable way.

Somebody asked me the other day, "Frank," said he, "don't you ever do anything?"
"I try not to," said I. "It keeps me out of trouble."

I know where I'll spend a fair amount of time when the summer finally gets here and the leafy bower comes into its own. Ah! The peaceful existence of voluntary idleness.

I went to Boston the other day, to Pilgrim Hospital, to see the physiotherapist there about my knees. I took a couple of quid with me this time because it was getting on for lunchtime and I thought I might quite fancy a cuppa and a sandwich. The physio was a fellow who seemed extraordinarily polite, but that probably comes with the job. He pulled and tugged and ripped and wrenched. And his final diagnosis was that my daily wanderings were actually the best thing I could be doing, my losing weight during those wanderings-about was ideal - and all he had to offer me was to continue the way I was going because I am doing everything right. I've got to say that makes a nice change for me - to do ANYTHING right, let alone everything.

So, that's twice I've been out into the world of normal folk unfettered, unchained and unescorted, and they both count toward the three that The Wallace wants me to do. Only one to go and one overnighter somewhere. I have no idea when that will be of course - perhaps The Wallace is organising it. However, until such times as I do get further days out, I shall continue sitting in the leafless leafy bower and watching first the buds appear, turn into leaves, birds will nest in the tree and no doubt deposit further compost to encourage growth. Let's hope it misses me sitting underneath, and all that cobblers about it being lucky, well, tell that to the workers in London's sewer system.

Finally, I've lost five inches around my waist since Christmas so the trousers I bought then are all too tight. Anyone want a couple of bell tents for the kids to play in?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Better late than never

Before anyone starts complaining to the Great Essayist in the sky, I am fully aware of the fact that there have been no entries for a couple of weeks. There has been a reason. Circumstances way beyond my control made it expedient for a slight hiatus in output. That's a great way to put it, but the fact is that the prison here were a bit concerned that I might be using a social networking site such as Facebook or Twitter, or that I might use the names of staff members, or inform the world that I was going somewhere on some specific day, thus allowing Al Qaeda their chance to "get" me. So, after a bit of a chat with the governor, it has been decided that I am in fact not actually doing any of those thinqs so we can return to normal, hence - here we are again folks! (At this point I would normally draw a smiley face but this is an old typewriter - give me a break.)
This place is strange, to say the least. We've got blackbirds who think that wandering around the feet of us lesser mortals is normal, wall-to-wall doves and woodpigeons - and people who lean on fences talking to sheep. Mind (and I've said this before), it may be the only way round here to get a sensible conversation. Be all that as it may, it's quite funny to see some hairy-arsed convict pulling up tufts of succulent grass and hand-feeding rams who not only take the stuff but then stand still to have their topknots scratched.

There is a pig called Rambo - and I'm not surprised. He is huge, black with a wide white band around his middle and seems to spend his days trying to batter down fences to get at the pig in the next pen, or else simply bites the gates. Put it this way, in  a fistfight between me and him, I'd be easily recoqnised because I'd be the little cloud of dust rapidly leaving the vicinity.

The good news is that I have now been signed up (or whatever it is they do) to allow me to have days out and overnight stays. The first overnighter will be in a hostel somewhere, but the when is another matter altogether. The Wallace will be pleased because she wants it done as soon as possible, whenever that may be of course.  I've been out once already, of course, under my own steam, but that was just a visit to the local hospital - and I'm going again. This time I am taking a couple of quid with me so that the least I can do is have a sandwich and a cuppa while I am waiting for tne van to collect me to bring me back. I'm seeing the physiotherapist and have to take shorts with me - I only want to see him, not run the marathon!

Another thing about this place is the aroma that sometimes pervades the place when the wind is in the right direction - or the wrong direction, depending on your point of view and love of the delicate aroma of sheep shit. Somebody said that they are going to get a thousand chickens soon. Wonderful! The smell of a thousand chickens should improve the authentic smell of the countryside no end. Get that in little bottles and you'd make a fortune in the Yorkshire Dales flogging it to tourists - "The Authentic Smell of Olde England"!

Oh yes, I can see the adverts now - maybe Saatchi and Saatchi can take it on. We'd need a good name for it, of course - no good just calling it scent, we'd need better than that. All suggestions in plain brown envelopes, please (along with an entry fee in used banknotes), to "The Home for Gay Sailors Aromatic Asylum" (and let's see them make a bloody acronym out of THAT!).

Anyway, this has simply been me letting everyone know that I am sorry that there have been no "Voices" for a couple of weeks, but things are back to normal now. By the way, the winner of the "Name the scent" competition will win a bucket of product, tightly packed - no scrimping here, mate. You never know, it may NOT kill your roses!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Pilgrim's progress

Actually I've had a good week - well, I've had an interesting week, and that's good enough for me. It all started on Wednesday when I had a visit from John and Sharon. I wasn't all that sure what to expect, but I am delighted to say that I have met two more really nice people - two more to add to a growing band of nice people I have met in recent years.

In my early years in prison I met practically no nice folk - but that's hardly a surprise. However, as time went on, and as my personal attitudes changed and I altered my interests, I began to meet nicer folk - until now I seem to meet them at fairly regular intervals. This has probably got more to do with them than it does with me. Let's face it, who wants to be in contact with a raging bull who is only one step up from lunacy? From the days when I began to be interested in more academic matters, and spent my time on writing and similar pursuits, I seem to have gradually met a growing number of really nice folk.

John struck me as being a man clearly interested in what is right and seeing that things are put right. Sharon is a diminutive, elfin figure with a huge smile from the minute I saw her and DEFINITELY a person who knows her own mind. She made a big impresslon on me and I got the feeling that conversations with her would never he boring. Hopefully I can stay in touch with both.

Anyway, that was on Wednesday, and I have not spent a pleasanter afternoon for a long time. On Thursday I had to appear before a board to be granted temporary release on licence to allow me to go on an unescorted visit into Boston to the Pilgrim Hospital, there to have X-rays taken of both of my knees. I had expected a board with a lot of people sitting facing me across a large table. No such thing. There was a governor and a person assisting him, that's all. He informed me that they don't like sending people out under escort so I had to be sure I didn't make a mess of it, and I assured him that I wouldn't. That was it! He signed my temporary release document and off I jolly well went.

On Friday morning, after a heavy night of snow, I thought that all travel into town might be stopped because of the roads, but it wasn't. All I had to do was collect my temporary licence release book from the wing office, walk across to the gate, identify myself and tell them where I was going and get into the van. That was it - I was out of prison for the first time in twenty-six years, more or less. However, and this may sound strange, there was no sense of freedom at all, no feeling of any liberation. I still felt a chain firmly fastened around my neck. I expect I'll feel that chain for a long time to come.

The driver dropped me off at the Pilgrim Hospital and told me he would be back at just after noon and every hour after that until I was ready to go back. I expected, or had expected, a feeling of nervousness or trepidation of some sort once I was completely on my own, but there was none. I just took a deep breath, looked around me and saw that everyone in sight simply went about their business without a glance at me, and I put that down to the fact that, well, they had their lives and weren't interested in anyone else's really. As far as they were concerned, I suppose, I was just a well-dressed elderly fellow attending the hospital - and the fact is, I was, nowt else.

So, in I went to the reception desk and handed my appointment paper over. The receptionist simply registered me on the computer and told me where the X-ray department was. Off I went along corridors until I found it, several people smiling at me or saying "Morning!" as I passed. I was simply another person to them, and most folk are quite friendly, given the opportunity.

In the X-ray department it took about ten minutes and I was putting my trousers back on and on my way back to the front of the hospital again to wait for my lift back to jail. The time wasn't even eleven o'clock!

I had made the mistake of not taking any money with me so I couldn't even have a cup of tea or anything while I waited in the cold but fresh air. So, I stood and watched the world pass me by, and an interesting world it was too. Cars and pedestrians back and forth and not a single feeling on my part of being unable to cope with it all - it all seemed natural to me, easy. Then it got interesting.

A young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, came up to me.

"You have light yes?" said she in some mid-European accent. Polish? Croatian? Welsh? Who knows?
 
"No," said I. "I'm sorry, I don't have a light."
 
Says she, "Where you from?" clearly wondering why my accent is different to everyone else's.
 
"I'm from the prison," said I.

"Prison?" asked she.
 
"Prison," I agreed.
 
She asked, "You guard?" obviously taking in the fact that everything I wore was dark blue.
 
I grinned at her. "No. I am a prisoner."
 
"You prisoner?" said she, and went off hurriedly.

So, my charm is still working then. She came back with another little blonde girl about the same age and BOTH were speaking the same language.

"This friend," said the first and told me a name that didn't even hegin to register.

So, there I stood, chatting (or listening) to two foreign girls who probably knew ten words of English between them, for about half an hour until a bus came and whisked them away. I expect they were foreign workers because it would seem that there are lots of Polish workers around the area who work on the farms. It was really nice to have a long chat to those two selfless girls, even though there was little, if any, real communication there.

Was I right to tell them that I was a prisoner? I think so. I see no reason to conceal it.

The van collected me at about twelve-fifteen and brought me back to the front gate, along with a couple of others they had collected. On arrival, all I had to do was inform the gate who I was and then walk over to the wing and hand in my licence book until such time as I will need it again.

An interesting experience and nothing like as hard or traumatic as I or anyone else had expected. It was simple. I took it in my stride really.

The point is that I have been released - unfettered, unescorted  and unwatched - and got back without drama. Now, when I go before the full board on Wednesday 15th of this month to see if I am fit to be allowed out on regular town visits they will say (hopefully), "You have demonstrated that you can be relied on."

I should think that things in the town itself may well be a bit more hectic - faster - but I see no reason to be concerned about it. It will all be taken in the stride of my current learning curve.

So, this past week has been kind of interesting, to say the least.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power

I managed to fall down the steps the other day - yet another bit  of proof that I am not safe to be let out without a nurse, or at least a carer. It was dark, of course, and I was having my usual wander with one of the boys and we were traversing a set of steps that come from the direction of the health care toward the wing. I thought I was standing on the bottom step, so I stopped and started to blow my nose - then stepped off. I wasn't on the bottom step. I was two steps up and when I stepped off, I stepped off into fresh air. Nary a thing to rest a weary foot on.

Needless to say I went down like a sack of taters. I managed to get my hands out to protect my face and they hit the ground first. They were closely followed by my knees - wonderful. There was a terrific 'clump', of course, and I felt sure that I had broken something. I got up, but apart from a bit of skin off the palms of my hands, I was fine. Of course the nitwit I was with thought the whole thing was hilarious - such a kind, empathetic type. He was enormously entertained, as we carried on our walk, and he told everyone we met. It's nice to bring a bit of jocularity into someone's life, just a little bit painful.

Went to see the nurse the next day, and the outcome is that next Friday I am off into Boston to the Pilgrim Hospital to have my knees x-rayed. It will be a couple of hours out of the prison for me and I will be able to go under my own steam.

It hasn't stopped me from being outside in all weathers, of course, sore knees or no sore knees. I often stand there and watch the birds. There are lots of them around this place - linnets, blackbirds, sparrows, robins and so on. I also find that they are not as scared of people as they generally are, they practically hop around your feet. I think some folk may find me a little strange when they see me staring at ostensibly nothing, but, in the words of William Henry Davies:

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

I quite like my days now that I am retired and have the freedom to practically do as I please (within reason) because it brings the words of another writer - Dryden - to mind:

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow, do thy worst, for I have lived today.

That certainly strikes a chord in me. Okay, I would have much preferred that things had taken a different course, one that didn't include years in jail, but, as Dryden also said:

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Well, once I have had my day out at the Pilgrim Hospital, I can then begin to have fairly regular days out. I know that The Wallace is supporting me in that so that is okay. I have spoken to a number of people here and there and they expect me to be gone by Christmas - back to the land of the living.

There is little prospect of me actually going very far today, though, on account of the snow that has fallen overnight - the last thing I need is another nosedive into oblivion!  

The Voice In The Wilderness

Any idiot can face a crisis

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

Can't deny any of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Coming out for a walk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank! Are you coming out for a walk?

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

I must go down to the sea again...

John Masefield had it right when he wrote:

I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and sky...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must go down to the sea again,

To the lonely sea and sky.

I left my shoes and socks there,

I hope that they are dry.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Beside the seaside

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I decided to save my breath.

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Move over, Aldous - Frankie is coming!

The Voice In The Wilderness

A Christmas story

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

What's in a word?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, what's in a word, eh?

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Two conversations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness