What's in a name?

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

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

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

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

I had discovered a squatter!

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

So he's got a name as well now.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's a funny ould world

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What security gate?"

"The one at the prison," says he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Too old

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Everyone needs a break

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

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

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

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

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

It was after that that the torture began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day on my own

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Red-legged League

Thoroughly disreputable shoes!

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

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

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

Pigeons!

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Spitting feathers

They were all in this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "Nothing."

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

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

Her: "I know."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wandering

So, there I was, wandering through the market square, minding my own business and hoping that it didn't get much warmer - because the sun was begining to make me wish that I had dressed in a pair of shorts. The trouble with wearing shorts is that I really haven't got the legs for it these days. Have you seen them? These fellows who have what I call "Lucky Legs" - because they are lucky they don't snap. They invariably wear socks pulled right up to their knees too! "Lucky legs" - ha ha.

So, there I was, doing my nomadic impressions, gazing blankly at shop windows because they were all closed at half-past nine on a Sunday morning.

I hear a voice calling "Oy!" and take a quick look around behind me, but all I see are two young people coming out of an alley across the market place, a young couple.

"Huh," I think to myself. "They had better not be OYing at me! That's just bad manners," and I went on my pointless way.

"OY!" came a little bit louder, but I ignored it and went around a corner.

Two seconds later - "OY!" - and this was much nearer, so I turned to have a look and possibly even straighten someone up.

Pat was standing on the corner I had just traversed.

"Are you deaf?" asked she.

"Ooo," said I as I hugged her, "I thought it was someone else."

Back to the car, which was Tracey's, so that's why I hadn't seen it. I was expecting to see one of Rover's off-roaders, not a Japanese two door rabbit hutch.

"Hello Trace," said I as I squeezed into the back.

Well, off we went to a car boot sale, and when we got there the rest of the family were there, apart from Dennis - he was still working to provide the country with salad ingredients.

It's amazing how much stuff is sold at these affairs, and for so little dosh too. Just as well really, because all I had in my pocket was just over six quid. Still, you can get a lot of stuff at a boot sale for six quid - and Jade did! She wasn't the only one either. As far as I could see, we all did well as we purchased lots of stuff which we were not aware that we couldn't live without.

The picnic was nice, I cannot say otherwise, but it was hot.

So, (I've got to stop saying that - it's the Irish in me you know) So, we all sat about munching away and stoking the furnace for a busy afternoon - we were off to an open day.

To start with there was Welly Whanging, which I intended to go in for but needless to say that didn't happen. I managed to steal an apple from a tree but after one bite I wished I hadn't. It was nice and red, firm - and as dry as a funeral drum. Clearly THAT tree needs a couple more months before the fruit is ready.

There was terrier racing, but two of them caught the hare, one ran off to look for its owner and another decided to go the wrong way. At that point the organisers decided to get little kids to race along the track instead and great fun was had by all, especially in one race where the three bigger children were off like rockets and a tiny little boy ran after them yelling at them.

Turkeys smell a good bit, that's a fact.

By about three in the afternoon the heat had defeated me and I was kind of wandering aimlessly so we all packed up and the other car went off home - can't blame anyone for that, it was too hot.

Tracy brought me back and that was the end of a fairly hectic sort of day where I seemed to hardly stop and yet I didn't do very much of anything at all. Summer weather does that to people, it tires them out - much like dealing with the prison service, it's tiring and generally aimless.

I'm not out for another three weeks now. Should give me time to work out how to use the pocket watch I bought to adorn my weskit. Actually, I didn't buy it, Pat did, which was nice of her.

The odd part about it all is that later, as I lay on top of my bed waiting to be enfolded into the arms of Orpheus, I realised that I had actually enjoyed the day. So thank you to those who made it all possible, especially the little kid who came last and was yelling at those going faster than him - I know how you feel my boy.

The Voice In The Wilderness

I never actually met Cedric

I never actually met Cedric.

On Sunday just gone, I had to travel down to town under my own steam because the inestimable Patricia quite simply wasn't able to collect me as per. She has a trapped nerve in her neck which, amongst other things, is making sleep very difficult for her at the minute. Anyway, she couldn't pick me up at the gate as usual so I went down to town on the prison van with half a dozen other fellows heading for a day of wanderings around that huge metropolis which serves as the nerve centre for absolutely nowhere.

Got there and debussed (a great word, debussed - it should be given National Treasure status). So - I debussed at the railway station and wandered off into the haze to find the town centre.

It's a sleepy little place at the best of times and on Sundays it is practically comatose.

I finally found the market square - me, three pigeons and a couple of drunks sitting on the benches near the church there. That was it! That was my day more or less complete. There isn't a great lot to occupy an active mind in this town.

Then I saw that a charity shop had opened its doors for business so I went in there and perused the books - not to buy any, dosh is at a premium these days. I can only take a certain amount out with me - I think they must be Puritans who run the prison.

What is a Puritan? Someone who is frightened that somewhere, someone might be having a good time.

Anyway, once I had done that, I sat on the bench in the market place to blow smoke at the pigeons and to listen to a very entertaining slanging match between several drunks and junkies sitting inside the railings surrounding the church grounds. From what I could gather, one had taken more than his fair share of something or other and it had brought about a rude, crude and very acrimonious exchange which, while it entertained me, clearly caused those of a more genteel aspect to feel uncomfortable.

After a while, I even got tired of that, so I wandered about for a while and wondered about going back to the jail early when the phone in my pocket rang.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Wandering about like a little lost lamb," said I.

"I will be there in an hour," said she. "Just let me put my gladrags on and wake Sara from her drunken sleep."

All right, okay, maybe those things weren't actually said, but the result was the same - they were coming to spend the day with me, so I went back to sit on the  bench to listen  to part two of the row, which now included three youngsters who had appeared on bikes.

Then my phone rang and, as I was sitting with my head down talking to Herman the Big Mug, a pair of feet passed - black, built-up shoes covered in pretty white pearl buttons. I obviously looked up to see who the feet belonged to - and it was a  bloke!

Then, across the road, dismounting from a bicycle, was a tall person, dressed in white with long red hair who turned as I watched - and revealed a ginger beard too!
By this time I was starting to feel that I had been transported to a scene from the Village People. Was it just me or could others see these weird and wonderful sights?

Thankfully, not long after that the rescue party arrived and they were three females - real ones too! You can never be sure these days, apparently.

Later, after a meal at our riverside bistro and sitting in the car in the market place, we all saw (so it wasn't just me) a person pass wearing a skirt and blouse, court shoes with hair in a pony tail but the face of an anorexic man.

Later I found out that this is Cedric, a famous figure around the area who minces about wearing ladies' stuff. He doesn't bother anyone apparently, just goes about doing his own thing.

"Jesus!" somebody said.

"Nah," said I. "He didn't have court shoes."

So, then we drove off to have some tea.

I never actually met Cedric, but I saw him in passing - just like ships that pass in the night.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Pigeon parole

Somebody needs to phone the Vatican because there has been a bit of a miracle. No, a farmer in Ohio didn't repay his loan, nor did a Brazilian plant a tree - this miracle is much more satisfying than that. The pigeon/fantail/dove which was savaged by a cat and which looked like it had been caught in a threshing machine has actually survived. Not only has it survived, but its feathers are starting to grow again and it has turned aggressive! Put it this way, the next cat that chances its arm will get a nasty shock - we taught the pigeon how to look after itself, and that despite the fact that it's got a had limp (in fact we were calling it "The Gimp", but it will never catch on). The point is, it left to go back home on Friday, no doubt glad to be free of durance vile. It has been paroled!

Well, that's my good deed for the century done. I can now go back to being the horrible, despicable, grumpy, anti-social prat that the prison service created - free and  gratis I might add!

I've still got a few birds in the pigeon loft, that I built at no expense whatsoever, and I've got three baby birds, squeakers as they are called, or squabs as the dictionary would have it. Two more coming too. I'll have more young birds than old ones at this rate. Notice that I am restraining myself from making cracks about old birds - well, at my age I don't want to start making any new enemies, do I?

Okay, that's the bird news out of the way, now to the more - er - mundane and less interesting stuff.

There is no news again this week, not a word - nothing, nada, zero, zilch, absolutely nowt, as they say in Yorkshire. Actually they  say "bugger all" but that's verging on the rude at nine on a Sunday morning, so I'm not saying that.

No news about the parole hearing, nothing about my National Insurance number or driving licence - nowt. I'm going for a day out next week, but I have no idea where to or what we will be doing. What I'd like to do is go to another car boot sale. The last one I went to was very small but fascinating just the same. It's quite amazing how much stuff people flog for next to nothing and how many things you find that you simply can't live without  - until you get them back to the car park and somebody says, "What did you buy THAT for? It's junk!" Well, they DO say that one man's junk is another man's treasure.

The other day, one of the governors said that there had been a security report that I had been seen getting into a black Range Rover with blacked-out windows. Somebody has been watching far too many DVDs, that's all I can say. Which is much what the governor said too, actually. A black Range Rover with blacked-out windows! Well, I'm still here, still trying to get some sense out of the system about my parole hearing and still doing my Doctor Dolittle impressions - or, as my pal would have it, "Doctor Do-fuck-all!" And  I think THAT's quite rude for a Sunday morning in August.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Invalids 'R' Us

On Monday evening, at about eight, when the jail is more or less winding down for the day and people are starting to think about getting their showers prior to retiring for the night, I was called to the wing office on the tannoy. One of the governors - I can't name him, because that causes palpitations of the security nerve that prisons have running through their veins. Anyway, the governor in question had brought a bird with him, a white fantail which had been severely savaged by a cat - blood all over the place and flesh ripped from its bones but still alive, just.

"Can you save it?" says he, to paraphrase.

"I'll have a go," said I.

"It's my favourite dove," said he.

"I'll do my best," said I.

He had brought a cage and all manner of medical stuff - antiseptic spray, cotton-wool and the like.

Off he went, and left myself and Naked to administer to the bird. We cleaned it up and settled it down for the night knowing full well that it didn't look good. However, if it could survive the night then it had a chance.

The bird was still alive the next morning and started drinking like a fish - always a good sign. By Wednesday morning it was starting to eat a bit and attempting to preen itself - another good sign. By Thursday morning it was all dried up, its wounds that is, and eating perfectly well, drinking well, preening and starting to grunt and try to pick fights with Naked every time he went into the cage to feed or water her.

On Friday morning, I had to go to the hospital to finally have my umbilical hernia done. I went down to theatre wearing very fetching paper knickers and anti-embolism socks and woke up a few hours later, all done. I came back to the shovel and pick at about six that evening and was still as high as a kite from the drugs that the hospital had filled me with.

They had asked, "Do you want pain-killers to take with you?"

"Nah," said the idiot. "I can't feel a thing, I'll be fine."

Back to my cell and Naked told me to go to bed, so I did - and that was me comatose until the following morning, when I woke up with several medieval torturers working steadily on my stomach and Naked fighting for his life in the corner with the dove, now renamed Lucky - although that didn't impress the governor.

Well, it's Sunday evening now and the bird goes from strength to strength while the only pain-killer I can get out of the medical people here is paracetamol - a lot of good THAT is. So, there's Lucky in one corner being tended to by Naked and there's me in another corner being tended to by Naked - and let me tell you, Nurse Of The Year he ain't. Rude, that's what he is. Any ladies who want a huge fellow for a boyfriend, let me know in a hrown envelope and I'll sort it out - no fees, just enough to cover my expenses, ho ho.Actually, he's not doing a bad job - we'll both survive the ordeal. Okay, Lucky won't be so pretty as she was - and I never was. Luoky has got a limp - and I'm not too steady myself - but we'll survive, thanks to Naked. Patients 'R' us, I suppose - and Naked makes a lovely nurse, if you like your nurses about eighteen stones with fifty-four inch chests and a grin like a congenital idiot. Lucky and I will be fine by this time next week. Naked will never be fine. I'm not a medical doctor, but he's too far gone in my opinion.

Finally, how did he get the name Naked? It's a long story - I think it's better left to him to tell whoever may be dim enough to get him for a boyfriend. He wears girlie­-girlie socks sometimes - but I can't say much after spending two days wearing anti-embolism stockings. Very nice too, they were - blue. I joined the blue-stocking brigade for a while there.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Tour de Frank

I had thought that I might find myself a nice fountain pen - I can't work modern things. Ha! I can't work my mobile phone. In fact, I struggle to work a bleedin' biro!  Anyway, as I have said, I thought I might find a decent fountain  pen, so I asked Pat to find a car boot sale for us to go to on my day out. Seeing as we were going to a boot sale, and he likes a good bargain (who doesn't?), Dennis was doing the driving. We had a nice day for it at least.

Not being able to use a mobile very successfully, I gave it to Pat when Andrew phoned up and they decided where to meet - the local football club or, as it is known by visiting supporters, "Where?". There is a large car park and an even larger field where a couple of dozen stalls had been set out, and of course I had to go and buy a couple of little hedgehogs! (Before anyone asks - the answer is, I don't know.)

Andrew found us, and we wandered and meandered - and, needless to say, I'm still looking for a fountain pen.

After that we all went into Boston where we wandered around the shops and I annoyed (or embarrassed) everyone by trying to do a deal by bargaining with a nice old girl in a charity shop. I've no idea what I wanted from her, but it seemed to be worth the negotiation.

Outside again, and everyone looking at me oddly - a fairly normal state of affairs for me really. We decided to wander to the riverside bistro mentioned last week - or was it the week before? - where I have now become a regular. So is everyone else there, I suppose.  Nice food on the terrace overlooking the river, very tasty, and  I had breakfast - not a bad trick at two in the afternoon. It's a sleepy little place on a hot Sunday afternoon, no two ways about it.

"Right!" said Andrew, when Pat and Dennis decided to drive off for greener pastures, "Let's go and get the car," - which he had left parked at the side of the road at the footy club - "and we will see how you get on with the bike!"

Now, at this point, I'd better point out that I was wearing a black go-to-church-on-Sunday suit!

"Just take off the coat, not to mention the shirt and tie, and tuck your socks around yer trews!"

Did that, no problem, and jumped on the mountain bike Andrew had brought down specifically for the purpose of finding out if I could break my neck in several places.

Bit of a shaky start - almost hit a barrier and almost took several layers of paint off Andrew's car - but, once I got the wind in my  hair, we were off! Up the track, through the park, ringing bells wildly at innoffensive perambulating Sunday strollers and along the river bank until we came to a lock thing. Negotiated that okay and drank a pint of ice-cold orange juice to replace lost liquid. Then it was back on the bike and disaster struck - and so did the lock gate. Took the skin off my arm, but I didn't cry and didn't ask to go to A&E. (Actually, I'm going to hospital next week for my umbilical hernia operatlon. This is either the third or fourth attempt, so I'm not expecting too much. I'll go, I'll either get done or I won't - we will see.)

A funny thing about riding a bike - you never forget how to do it really, and in no time I was zooming along at a rate of knots, thoroughly enjoying myself, bobbing and weaving, and didn't hit a single pedestrian, not once.

Finally, let me just say that I am impressed by Bradley Wiggins. Well done! But you ought to do something ahout those sideburns. In my younger days only teddy-boys wore such facial hair. You look like the Victorian Dad out of Viz!

However, be that as it may, Andrew has got me into bike riding now, so here is a message for young Bradley: keep looking over your shoulder because, sooner or later, you will hear the sound of tyres on tarmac - and that'll be me.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Sunday morning, nine a.m.

I'm certain that many poets, philosophers and erudite writers have said everything that needs to be said ahout Sunday mornings at nine a.m., so I'm not going to add my bit. But there is something about Sunday mornings which encourages lassitude and idleness - a sort of acceptable inertia of the mind, body and, in many cases, the soul.  Sunday morning, the time of the week when we open our eyes at our leisure and know that there is nothing to get up for - nothing urgent anyway. We can wake at our own speed and, after a good, heartfelt sigh, we say to ourselves, "Oh well, I suppose I'd better get up and have a cuppa and get the day started."

Here at the Home for Gay Sailors, that describes matters in a most satisfactory and succinct way, although we DO have to get up early to sign on the roll so that the Powers-That-Be can see if anyone has decided to go home during the night.

I crawled out of my pit at just after six, made myself a nice cuppa, and sat there, with the above-mentioned cuppa and a fag, puffing away and contemplating the day ahead of me - a day full to the brim of not very much. I took my time waking up, of course, and at seven-fifteen, and after another cuppa and another fag, I got myself sorted out and dressed, then went out into the weak, morning sunshine.

I wandered (or should that be meandered?) up to where I had left my pigeon trap the previous evening, packed it all away and then wandered down to my pigeon loft. I changed the water for my thirty-eight birds, put feed out for them, and sat on my disreputable armchair with a burning fag, and just watched the birds feeding. I get a couple of ring-necked doves which come in the door too, but I ignore them - I've got enough to feed without them freeloading.

It's awfully pleasant to sit there, sheep bleating in the distance and the odd grunt from the nearby pigs. The birds feed and then go back to their perches and start fighting for territory, cooing and canoodling in many cases. I've got three pairs sitting on eggs now and they defend their nestboxes vigorously. It is just about on the verge of hypnotic - it is certainly soporific.

After a few minutes of pigeons pecking around my feet, I always begin to feel sleepy and am ready to nod off for my second shot at Sunday Morning Idleness. My advice to anyone who lives a stressful life during the week is to get themselves a pigeon loft.

So, rather than fall asleep there, I pulled myself together, ordered the pigeons to stop fighting - an order which they instantly chose to ignore - and then I wandered back to my little kennel, which I share with Naked. (All enquiries to be sent in a plain brown envelope containing treasury notes, thank you.)

"Oh," said I as I came in. "I see the ould O.C.D. has kicked in  then!" - because he had swept the floor.

He said, "I thought I'd empty the floor while you were out."

"No need for that," replied myself. "There was plenty of room to fill up yet!"

Then I sat down and started to feel sleepy again - it's the Sunday Morning Syndrome, that's what it is. Naked has got O.C.D., I've got S.M.S.

I shoved a tape on the stereo of seventies music, but it did no good - I still felt like going back to Bo-Peep, so I forced myself to get up, get my stuff sorted out and start hitting the keys. This is the result.

So, anyone who feels hard done by, all you need to do is get a  pigeon loft, get Naked to sweep the place out, and pretty soon you'll be like me - feeling idle, full of S.M.S. and contemplating Sunday morninlg, nine a.m.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Fred Astaire? Meet Alexander Graham Bell...

There has been yet another crisis - or should that be hiatus? Either way, there has been one. The details are fairly academic now, of course, but the main thing was that I got nicked for it. (Nicked: placed on a governor's disciplinary report; under a cloud; before the beak explaining myself; pinched.)

I was accused of disobeying a lawful order. The fact that I wasn't actually given an order, lawful or otherwise, is neither here nor there - and besides, how can a person be ordered to do something that is voluntary? I refused to go on "home leave" to the hostel.

I explained matters to the Number One and he just cautioned me not to do it again, gave me back all of my days out and finished by saying, "For fuck's sake, go on home leave!"

I suppose I'll have to go next time - well, it's a tick in a box if it's nothing else.

So, I got all of my days out back and on Sunday I went out and about with Lucretia Borgia and Madame Tussaud - names witheld to prevent me getting a slap around the ear.  Had a good day too, thoroughly enjoyed myself. I even managed to walk around and worked my phone!

It was quite funny really. There we were, wandering around the shops (those that were actually open on a Sunday) and a phone kept ringing.

"Is that your phone?" mother asked daughter. "Because it's not mine."

I wandered on, oblivious. It rang again.

"I can hear a phone," said she, "but it's not mine."

"Not mine either," replied Lucretia.

More wanderings and the phone rang again. This time she was actually standing next to me.

"It's yours!" she accused.

"Is it?" asked myself innocently, and took it out of my pocket. It stopped. "It's stopped," said I and put it away again. The phone rang again.

"Answer the bloody thing then!"

I took it out. "Hello," said I.

"Turn the bloody thing on," I was ordered.

Poxy phones! Alexander Graham Bell should be dug up and whipped.

You know what I don't care much for? It is females who pretend that they are sparrows when they eat - or rabbits nibbling lettuce. Not so Mata Hari and Lily of the Lamplight - they got tucked into their plate of feed like storm troopers.

So, there we were, sitting on the riverside terrace, dining al fresco, and putting it away like a gang of navvies. After that we sat quaffing tea and chatting away -  very pleasant too, I might add. The bistro serving wench came out from time to time to see if we needed anything and I quite enjoyed it. I may  do it again one day soon.

The best part of the whole day was when I bought an umbrella. Needless to say, it didn't rain any more all day - but I gave a good impression of Fred Astaire in "Singing In The Rain".

I'm quite looking forward to going again in two weeks' time - unless something else untoward takes place. That's my first nicking since somewhere around the year 2000 - and that's a long time ago. I'm practically a saint these days.

So. I've got the Russian Hat, I've got the umbrella - where do I buy a bucket of sarin?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Living in the pigeon community

There has been a kind of hiatus.

Owing to the fact that I can't use real names - and that the prison  service is utterly paranoid at the best of times - I can't give all details, in detail, but what it boiled down to was that I  was banned from going to see my pal Buddy. I haven't done anything wrong and neither have the people who own Buddy done anything remotely objectionable - unless you find honesty unsavoury. No, we have done everything above board - the problem seemed to be that we have been too honest. What it all meant, as I say, was that I could no longer go for my rides on Buddy - no doubt he was pleased that a lump like me wasn't climbing on his back any more doing John Wayne impressions.

The fact is, my days out were suspended BUT... I could go on home leave to a hostel full of junkies and chancers - THAT was fully acceptable! It seems that it is so that I can prove that I can be placed back into the community. WHAT community? I have no intention of getting into the community of ratbags, junkies, chancers and grafters - I've been living in such a community for over twenty­-six years, and that's enough. The community I want to go and live in is that of the decent, honest, hard-working family sort - such as that where Buddy lives.

So, I told them, if I have to go back to living in the community of the nether world of criminals, then I want to do it in the area where I am known and where I know everyone - or their fathers.

"No no no!" was the cry. "We don't want you to do that!"

"Neither do I," said I. "So, let me go where a good, honest, decent lot of people are fully ready to support me."

The outcome is that I have had all of my days out re-instated. I can go back to riding Buddy but part of the deal is that I have to go to the hostel for three days, starting tomorrow.

Now don't misunderstand me, I'm sure that the hostel and those responsible for it are perfectly well-intentioned, but what their clientele say to them and what they say to me are two different things. The last time I was there I had one comedian offering to supply me with new shirts at a quid each and a couple of others asking me if I wanted to buy myself a "fix". Oh yes, all manner of chancers lying to everyone in sight so that they can avoid a three month jail sentence.

Well, it's all sorted out now. I have got things back on track, which means that next weekend I will be re-acquainting myself with Buddy. I've got to go to the hostel for three days in between now and then, of course, but that's easily managed - I'll simply go and spend the days parked up somewhere quiet, in the cathedral or somewhere, and read a book, just spending my sleepless nights at the hostel.

On a more interesting note, I have now got thirty-six pigeons and one baby woodpigeon in my loft in the old stables - and I've got to say I prefer the pigeons to the people. At least when a pigeon shits on you it only makes a little mess - easily cleaned up too. The little woodie is getting a bit cheeky - it will insist on sitting and sleeping on my chair! Has it any idea how much trouble I went to to GET that comfy chair?

I have taken to sitting comfortably in my chair, the woodie on my knee having his head scratched while we listen to the rest of the pigeons cooing, fighting and getting amorous with each other. There are several pairs creating their own little nest now. The sounds are so peaceful that they have become soporific.

I sit there and can hear the birds cooing and the sheep bleating, along with pigs grunting nearby and distant farm noises, sunlight creeping in through the door of my loft. Is it any wonder that I doze off a little? It's better than listening to "Today in Parliament" as a sleeping draught.

So, I'm going to spend the rest of today, sitting in the afore­mentioned sun, out of the wind, slowly becoming comatose as I listen to the noises of the creatures around me. Much better than listening to some of the creatures I'll have to listen to when I get to the hostel, that's for sure.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Weight watcher

When I first came to this prison from closed conditions, on December 29th of last year (2011), I weighed in at about 16 stones. I'm not exactly certain what that is in metric, but I think it is somewhere around 100 kilos.

Why have we got to use the metric system anyway? What was wrong with pounds and ounces? Come to that, what was wrong with pounds, shillings and pence? From what I can see, the only benefit from the changes has been a devalued currency that we don't even belong to! However, this is not about Europe or the financial institutions robbing everyone blind - this is about healthy stuff.

So, in December of 2011 I was about sixteen stones. It was a rough ould winter in many ways, especially here at the Home for Gay Sailors. At one point we had over a foot of snow and temperatures of about minus sixteen! That's definitely a bit on the King Billy side - even penguins were eating hot dogs. (Incidentally, why do polar bears never eat penguins? They can't get the wrappers off! Ha ha - oldies but goodies, just like me.)

Did I let the cold and inclement weather stop me? Certainly not. I came from closed conditions where I got out of my kennel for  an hour a day if I was lucky - no wonder I put so much weight on. On top of the lack of exercise, they fed us on stodge - bread and puddings and other wall-building materials. Here at the H for G S's, we get next to no bread and I can get outside from the crack of dawn each day whatever the weather - and I did.

The result is that last Thursday I went to the healthcare and parked myself on the scales to discover that I am now fractionally under twelve stones! Brilliant! I should get a medal at the Olympics - it might he more entertaining than the opening ceremony.

I'm dreading the opening ceremony - it will be very poor and show us up to the rest of the world as completely void of ideas and imagination. We won't be a patch on the magnificent spectacle the Chinese put on in 2008.

So, twelve stones eh? My clothing fits and the pressure has gone from my knees because they are not lugging around all of that excess weight. I can walk and stay on my feet all day with little effect - just the odd ache at the end of a long day catching all manner of birds.

I only want the pigeons - I let the rest go. There are two ring-necked doves which insist on getting themselves captured in my trap. I tell them, "Bugger off, again!" But they keep coming back and being captured. There are several woodies too - and I've lost count of the number of dim but enormously entertaining starlings I've captured and released. Sometimes I think they just let me catch them for a laugh.

The other day, as I sat waiting to spring the trap, a hare hopped up to me - no more than twelve feet from me in fact - and just sat there staring at me! I thought it was looking for a fight. In the end, after maybe as long as two minutes, it just casually hopped on its way. And the next evening, a little leveret came into my pigeon loft, had a drink at the pigeons' water trough, hopped UNDER my feet, and went about its business. I've lost count of the various finches and other birds that think I am running a soup kitchen for all waifs and strays.

Another bonus of the weight loss is that no matter how far I walk, I don't get out of breath - and I'm getting a nice tan too, though not with the recent monsoon weather.

So, what is the moral to the story?

A good question, and I'm glad you asked. There is no moral apart from - keep away from closed prisons. In fact, keep away from all prisons and avoid dim-witted ring-necked doves - they just sit there sniggering, even after you have opened the trap to let them free.

Why should we bugger off? The food is free!

There are a few prisoners in here like that - why should they put themselves out and actually do anything constructive? There are some who don't even like washing themselves...

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Pigeon Man of North Sea Camp

Well, as per usual, there is no news as yet whether I'll be able or allowed to go to Buddy's ranch for my overnight stays - my so-called home leaves - which may have to be spent at a hostel instead. How can a stay at a hostel be called a home leave? Let's forget about the people I would be expected to live with in an unfriend1y and impersonal setting, and the town (or is it a city) which I had hoped never to see again - let's just forget all  that.

Well, nobody ever said it would be easy.

Ha! I'm now the owner of the unofficia1 title of "Pigeon Man". I've built a pigeon loft, I've made cages and - Da-daaa! - I've even captured my first fourteen pigeons. Well, there WAS fourteen - one got away on Saturday. As soon as I get it back, I'll make it my first Cat A pigeon.

It's all being done in the old stable block, and I have done it all in my retirement by recycling all manner of wood, broken lockers and various bits of mesh found abandoned all around the farm and environs. The powers that be are quite delighted at my industry and scavenging AND they are discussing creating a place for raptors and another for exotic birds. I suppose that means things like parrots, cockatiels and maybe budgies.

However, I'll be "The Pigeon Man".

The project, as I put it to the governor, is that I will arrest every pigeon around the place, a suggestion which delights the farmer and gardener - and everyone else who is being robbed blind by the creatures. I won't bother the ring-necked doves or the woodpigeons - or any other birds - just the pigeons. I shall breed the older birds and when I get young birds out of them, in the August sitting, I shall give the older birds to the raptor man to feed the raptors and train the younger birds to the loft. Then the governor will get me several pairs of white doves to breed. The plan is to rent out these doves - when I've got enough of them - to wedding planners to be released at weddings in the area. Of course the white doves will be trained by then simply to fly back to their loft - my loft - ready for the next wedding.  Oh yes, the governor can clearly see that it is a nice little earner.

So, I am "The Pigeon Man".

Yesterday I went to Buddy's for the day, and enjoyed myself immensely. Went and did a bit of shopping, bought myself a pair of shoes and went into a shop which sells everything for a quid! (Not the shoes - they were a bit more expensive.)

I got four items and when I got to the check-out till I only had £3.50p in change and a twenty pound note. Dennis was with me, so I said to a rather nice young girl on the till, "I've only got either three and a half quid or a twenty. If you settle for the three and a half quid I'll give you a kiss - you won't get a better deal than that anywhere."

The young girl was blushing but clearly enjoyed the joke.

Anyway, she took the three and a half quid but didn't want the kiss. It just goes to show - youngsters of today don't know a good thing when they see one. Where else could you get a kiss for 50p?

In the afternoon I went for a ride on Buddy and got on and off without the aid of my usual geriatric crate - I felt quite pleased about that.

So, will I get home leaves to Buddy's ranch?

A good question - and we are waiting for word from The Wallace on the subject. We can only hope for the best.

In the meantime, I'll continue catching the pigeons in my own, hand-made, self-designed pigeon trap.  I'm "The Pigeon Man" now you know!

The Voice In The Wilderness

Come rain, come shine

Last Sunday, the monsoon took the day off and, when I opened my eyes, the sun had decided to cooperate and make the day as pleasant as possible for me (and anyone else desiring a respite from damp and mildewed teeth). I was collected at the gate as usual by one of Rover's better products being driven by Lucretia Borgia, that well-known smile on legs, accompanied by her mummy, Buddy's owner. We stopped at Asda or Tesco - I don't know the difference, but apparently the discount comes in handy.

On arrival at the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang's hideout I ran into Harvey and Dennis, who had stopped stripping the local flora for a quick cuppa. It didn't take long before Miss Holbeach 1998 turned up, grinning her grin - always a pleasure to see.

"Hello," says she.

"Hello," said I, never one to let a good idea slip by.

So it was me, Jade and Harvey cooking the dinner for the evening repast, cottage pie - we couldn't find any shepherds. It's all bollocks really - there are no cottages in cottage pie, there are no shepherds in shepherd's pie and the ratatouille is not worth mentioning.

Where was I? Yes, after we had the food gently simmering away and being tasted every eighteen seconds by Jade, we went out to sit in the sun. I'm tricky, I admit it. The facts are simple. I didn't do the cooking at all, all I did was a bit of chopping and presenting of advice where requested. Everything was done by Jade and Harvey - chef, chef's assistant and me, chopper and pot-washer.

Then we gave Buddy a brush down, fed him on carrots and polo mints, shoved the saddle on his back and off we went. He was well behaved this week - even got a trot out of him coming back.

The feed was excellent - even fussy Mark had some, and he never eats anything that isn't spelled like pizza. After that, we were sitting chatting as usual, when it suddenly became clear that it was time to change for my trip back to durance vile. The day had been so pleasant I hadn't even noticed it was passing. I even made friends with Portia, and she usually just wants to remove my legs in one bite.

That was Sunday. Next day was another tale. To start with, it was pissing down when I opened the curtains. Okay, all right, seeing as I am attempting to become a decent memher of society I suppose I need to rephrase that sentence. It was raining heavily when I opened the curtains. (Hasn't quite got the same meaning, has it?) So, I got myself dressed like a pox doctor's clerk and off I went in the van to the hospital to be attended to by a mad slasher, better known as the surgeon.

I presented myself at the surgical ward, was shown to my bed and a few minutes later a nurse arrived and said, "Somebody has made a mistake!"

"Probably me," saId I. "I've done it before."

"You've been given the times for afternoon surgery but you are down for morning surgery. It's all wrong!"

"Welcome to my world," said I.

"We will have to reschedule as soon as possible," said she.

"Oh well," said I, "that's another clean shirt ruined."

I was back in the van at fifteen minutes past eleven and back in the prison just after half-past - another mission aborted. So, all that will have to be done again - let's hope it's better weather next time.

I am hoping for another sunny day next weekend, when I fully intend to make Buddy obey me - with the help of two carrots and a full packet of polo mints. If only the powers that be could be so easily satisfied - they want an arm, a leg, thirty pints of blood, forty pieces of silver and a golden tick in an invisible box.

Still, could be worse - I could be deserted in a pub by David Cameron for half an hour.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A good week

Everyone likes to sit back at the end of the week now and then, smile contentedly and say to himself (or herself), "You know what? I've had a good week this week."

It happens too! We do get to say it, now and then.

However, mostly we seem to spend each week lurching from chaos, blind panic and disaster to utter disaster - and that's on a good week!

Okay, we can get a little stressed out from time to time - but we can live with that. After all, wasn't it Anton Chekhov who said:

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

Well, we get these little knocks and setbacks from time to time and, the good Lord knows, I've had my share. Do I let it worry me? Not a bit of it. I simply dust myself off, take a firmer grip on the greasy pole of life and start climbing again. Put it this way - you can knock me down, but you'll never get me to stay there.

From all of the above, a blind man would be forgiven for thinking that some snippet of bad news was coming - it's not. The thing is that I have been trying to get the PTB (Powers That Be) to allow me to go to Buddy's country residence for my home leaves. After all, I go there for my days out, no problems! But, as matters stand at the minute, it isn't allowed. No home leaves for me unless I go to a hostel and surround myself with junkies - provided they can find a spare bed for me amongst such delectable fellows. I can still go for days out of course!  But does that bit of poor intelligence mean that I have had a bad week?

Not really.

My mail may have all but dried up entirely - I have no idea why - but the sun has been out for most of the time (it's pissing down as I write) and I've got a nice tan. The PTB here at the Home for Gay Sailors have more or less agreed to allow me (and a couple of others, I expect) to keep piqeons, ornamental doves, parrots and other exotics and raptors - it's being organised. I've got my weight down to twelve and a half stones and the operation on my umbilical hernia has heen rescheduled for later this month, so things ain't so bad, I suppose.

So, can I say that I've had a good week this week? Well, I haven't had a bad one - and I've certainly had a lot worse. But have I had a good one? Maybe I'll be able to say it with more conviction next week, eh?

The Voice In The Wilderness

The leafy bower

There is a tree.

It's of little use asking me what sort of tree - I'm no expert. But if it's any help, I can definitely state that it's not a weeping willow, it's not an oak and it's not a pine tree. Beyond that, you can take a wild guess. It could well be a spreading chestnut for all I know - and not a sign of the village blacksmith anywhere. Beneath this tree, the grass is dappled in the sunlight that manages to struggle through the foliage above and it forms a dappled, cool, leafy area which is quite pretty to look at. The view is improved enormously by half a dozen fat sheep just lying there in the shade, their thick, creamy, lanolin-rich fleeces dappled too as they lazily munch their way through whatever grass they can reach without going so far as to actually get up onto their legs. I'm thinking about starting a rumour that they are actually legless, just balls of kinky wool with heads.

Above these lassitudinous sheep, in amongst the leaves and branches can be heard various birds, tweeting and cooing away - or it may be just one bird, a particularly clever parrot, though I've got my doubts. NEXT to the leafy, shaded bit of sheep-infested grass there runs a public pathway and there is a stile which manages to form an exceedingly comfortable seat for a fellow who needs to sit in peace and manage stress levels in a pleasant fashion.

I sit there, watch the sheep doing next to nothing, have the odd fag and contemplate matters of enormous weiqht and import - such as the meaning of life, the universe and everything, as Douglas Adams once wrote - and so far I can't see how the answer comes out at forty-two, but I'm prepared to be convinced.

I was supposed to go to the hostel tomorrow for an overnight stay. By the middle of last week I was beginning to kind of wonder where the licence form - the ROTL - had got to so, being a fellow who knows what to ask, I asked.

"Oh!" was the answer. "It's been cancelled!"

No reason, of course, reason and the prison service do not make happy bedfellows - they got divorced years ago. Still, to be fair, it doesn't seem to be the fault of the prison for a change. It seems that the hostel has had an influx from somewhere or other and there is no room at the inn, so to speak. If Mary and Joseph had turned up there with an ass, they'd have been stone out of luck - they haven't even got a stable!

So, no hostel for yours truly. But then my lateral thinking sort of clocked on for duty and I asked myself, "Why, if I can't go to the hostel and get a tick in a box, why then can't I go to Pat's for five days 1eave?" Seems reasonable to me.

Off I went to the OMU department.

"Oh," said they. "We'll have to email your offender manager."

Great, I thought, The Wallace will see things reasonably and she had the details of the place a month ago to check it out. So I rubbed my hands with anticipation and went back to my seat on the stile for a while.

The answer came back, "Your offender manager is seeing to.matters."

"I need to know," said I. "I need time to apply to take some  dosh with me."

"Just put in for the money," I was told.

So I did.

On Thursday they told me that my offender manager hadn't "Risk-Assessed" the place yet.

"I'm the lowest risk level possible!" I complained.

They sort of shrugged. "What can we say?"

On Friday they said that The Wallace had written both to me AND to Pat - but I wouldn't be going there tomorrow.

I sighed, casually killed a passing fly and wrote letters to The Wallace, Pat, my solicitor - and went to get a sun-tan as I wandered around the place contemplating matters.

The bit that particularly concerns me is that the prison service wants me to produce a realistic and robust plan for my release to present to the Parole Board, but they won't let me actually produce one. This doesn't apply just to me, they seem to be doing it to all prisoners who have indeterminate sentences.

So, here I am, no further forward in the grand scheme of things, although I seem to have prospects. I have a nice home to go to with a nice family, a career in writing without too much trouble and a place to live away from the madding crowd. That seems fairly robust and realistic to me - far better than sending me to some hostel full of junkies who would steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes.

However, until such times as I can take my next step forward, whatever that step may turn out to be, I shall continue sitting on my stile, regarding sheep in the shade.

Well, I like sitting there! You see - there is this tree...

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Galloping Gourmet

It was a cold start to the day yesterday - and got progressively worse as the day went on. But I can't complain because I enjoyed the day immensely.

To begin with, I got out of the gate quite quickly compared to the fiasco last weekend - and there they were, begod, sitting in the motor vehicle, waiting for me. Let me tell you, when you see a Land Rover parked up quietly with three females in it, smiling in a sinister fashion, a wise man is cautious because you just KNOW that sooner or later, someone is going to start taking the piss. All, that is, without mentioning Harvey - and, as the world is fully aware, eleven-year-old boys can cut up a bit rough  at the best of times.

So, there they were, three of them, smiling - and when a woman smiles, a wise man heads for the hills. Let's have it right - there's Patricia, a farmer's wife for years, used to all manner of heavy work that a Sumo wrestler would refuse to take on; Sara her daughter, ANOTHER farmer's wife, who has clearly served her apprenticeship in places on a par with the Siberian saltmines; and Da-Da, Laura or, as she is better known on the wrestling circuit, Lulubelle. Just to make matters worse, all three are extremely well-versed horsewomen who wouldn't have been out of place amongst Ghengis Khan's hordes. A man would have to be insane to tackle any one of them - to tackle all three of them, he would have to be suicidal! And I'm a well-known coward at the best of times.

We went to Tesco's, me being bullied all of the way. I had a list of ingredients with me for our meal that I was cooking with my own lily-white mitts later that day. Ah! But I'm not silly. I gave the list to the ladies as I stood there looking helpless and assured them that they were the best ones for the job of collecting said potion together, men being notoriously dim when it comes to shopping. Of course they fully agreed and while they stood there congratulating themselves I grabbed Harvey and we abandoned ship. We legged it into parts of Tesco's where ladies never go - the men's bit.

Well, we wandered around, Harvey and me, and even went so far as to buy a packet of hankies, carefully peering around corners to make sure we weren't ambushed by the aforementioned females. Back at the vehicle, I suddenly remembered that me and Harvey had to go somewhere, so we escaped again to the garage. But they found us. I think Harvey must be chipped - his mother traces him too, too eaily.

Well, we finally arrived at the Hole in the Wall gang's hideout and it was great to see that Andrew had already arrived! Much greetings and helloings and I took Andrew to meet Buddy. (See! Cooking ingredients, meeting Buddy - the Galloping Gourmet! Try to keep up, this is all clever stuff you know! I don't just open my mouth and let the wind flap it ahout - I think about things before I write them down. And if you believe that then you deserve to be part of the dynamic trio mentioned earlier.)

So, there we were, in the kitchen and Jade arrived. So we got on with it, me doing what I could to remove my fingers and Jade doing the actucal cooking while she chattered away, no doubt looking forward to the day when she is able to join her mother's gang. It all worked quite well really. We soon had it bubbling away nicely like any good witch's cauldron should and once Jade and I had done that, we were finished. The rice was being cooked later in the afternoon by someone else - we had done our bit.

Jade went off to play with her Play Station, Harvey having wisely disappeared much earlier, and Sara got the western saddle out for me. So I checked the leather (it's getting softer - wonderful) and Sara threw it on Buddy's back. Buddy was being quite good for a change - maybe he's getting religion. Hoisted myself up there (it's a long way back down and Andrew had point blank refused to even contemplate getting up, but I'm made of sterner stuff - I can be talked into anything) and off we went, Buddy and me, ambling along, like Clint Eastwood in  a spaghetti thingy - all we needed was the music in the background. Buddy cut up rough once or twice, but his heart wasn't really in it. I think he only did it as a sort of token thing, just to let me know that next time, if he can be bothered, he'll get me. Unsaddled, and him back to eat the grass in his paddock (why do people buy lawnmowers - buy a horse!), we were all soon settled in the dining room shovelling down the Wilky version of rogan josh, tearinq lumps off the naan breads.

After that, Jade decided that we should all play her version of "Who wants to be a millionaire?" usinq questions she had copied from the PS2 game - the winners got nothing, the losers did the washing up. Notice how clever she is - she was the quizmaster and therefore no danger of HER doing the washing up. As it turned out, the real losers, Lulubelle and her sidekick, simply refused to do it - so that was a quiz well spent.

Shortly after that it was time to get changed back into my pox­doctor's clerk clothing and Andrew delivered me back to durance vile with fifteen minutes to spare.  What an excellent day - better than putting your tongue out at passing policemen.

As the sun set slowly on the landscape at the end of yet another Lincolnshire, rural day, I thought to myself, "That curry was nice - it may be time to suggest mince and taties."

The Voice In The Wilderness

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