A mini holiday

On Friday last I caught a train to go back up to the North East for the first time in over twenty-seven years. (That's not quite true because I've been up there several times, if we count the number of times I was transfered to Frankland jail only to be thrown out again. Mind, to be fair, I earned the evictions usually and I've been thrown out of better places than that several times.) I'll say this for the trains these days - they are easy to travel on. It's all spelled out on the arrivals and departures boards on the stations AND they give out information ON the trains.

Caught the train from Lincoln and changed once for Newcastle. Bit strange crossing the bridge over the Tyne. I thought I would feel a certain amount of fascination or nostalgia seeing it all again, but I can't say I was over excited about it. It was interesting, that's all. When we arrived at Newcastle Central I went down into the Metro, lugging my bags behind me, and caught the said Metro into Sunderland but got off just prior to the town centre at a place called The Stadium of Light. It's a new station built where the old Newcastle Road Baths used to be, more or less. My brother Robert was waiting for me with Little Abby, his daughter. She is six and had refused to go to school - she wanted to meet me coming off the train instead.

Shortly after we arrived at Robert's home, a reporter called Ruth arrived with her photographer, Ian. We had a chat, had a few pictures taken, then we all went to Roker Park where we had a few more pictures taken - and one was a cracker of me walking along with Little Abby. That was that - press dealt with, nobody upset, everyone happy.

That evening, it being my brother's birthday, we all retired to a watering hole for a quiet birthday meal for Robert - but of course it didn't stay that way because several family members turned up. I had a couple of jars of Guinness - I should get paid for advertising Guinness, I always seem to be doing it these days - and of course one of my sisters had a dozen too many (the least said the better really, but it was funny).

Saturday was spent getting round a few of the family and a bit of shopping in the town. Now THAT'S changed. None of the roads are where I remember them being. I think the council has deliberately gone out of its way just to confuse me - rat bags! They have completely flattened the centre and rebuilt it. Put it this way - the Germans needn't have bothered bombing the place during the war, the council has done the job for them.

At tea time I made a nice curry. That's right, me, I did it. Nearly all by myself too, apart from I can't do rice, that was done by the boss. No more drink for me of course, I don't care for it much and I only had what I had the night before because it was Robert's birthday. Made a fantastic discovery on Saturday evening - Little Abby's dog, Ruby, is a magnet for females. Say no more squire!

Sunday I did as much as I could, getting round as many people as I could before I got the train back. But, as much as the train was comfortable and easy, I won't be using it again. It seems that from now on all I have to do when I want to go anywhere is ring home and a vehicle will be despatched immediately, driven by the boy racer himself.

Well, I got back to Lincoln and Bleak House in good time and of course it was raining when I did. Typical! All weekend with nice, sunny weather - come back to Lincoln to get pissed on. Lying in bed on Sunday night, reflecting on my mini holiday, I realised that I want to do it again soon. I quite enjoyed it - seeing the family. Well, there are a lot of them - and like any other family, we have our problems. We are as dysfunctional as the best of them, but they are my family and it's great to see them. Remember that old saying, "You can pick your friends but you get family thrust on you." Well, I don't mind my family - because they are mine.

A weekend away

Here is the news. I was informed this morning, Thursday 25th April, that it has been cleared for me to go up to Sunderland for the weekend. Travel up tomorrow morning and back on Sunday afternoon. It means that I will either have to do without my Sunday lunch or have it early. It would have made more sense, of course, to let me have another night and travel back on Monday - it's not as though I have anything to hurry back for, me being bone idle and retired to boot.

So, it's me for the train in the morning. I shall take a book to see me through the three-and-a-half-hour journey, but coming back I shall be in possession of my new laptop so I will be able to play on t'internet.

I was looking at my emails this morning, not that there were any, and left the machine on while I made a cup of tea. Imagine my surprise when I came back to find the screen full of messages from dating sites for the more mature punters. Of course, it's nothing more than a scam to get us to cough up our shekels on the off-chance we are silly enough to, but some were almost interesting. I don't beleive any of it, really, and the pictures will be phony.

Anyway, the clan is gathering tomorrow and we will be in a function room or somewhere like that - eating, drinking and being merry, I shouldn't wonder. My brother Jimmy tells me he has bottles of Scotch tucked away. Ha! He likes a jar, so I don't actually see there being much left by the time I get my grubby little mitts on the bottles. Not that I care - I'm going up to see the clan, not to get legless, although there is a danger that getting legless could be a side-effect. I'm not a drinker really - a couple of jars of Guinness and I've had enough - but I DO like my feed. So, while they are keeping the distilleries in work, I'll just be filling my face I expect.

Jimmy and Robert say they are meeting me from the train so that will save me having to carry my own bag. Told you - I'm bone idle really.

A letter from Bleak House

Once again I astonish myself with my ignorance. Does that need explaining? Not to those who know me. In fact, according to my little sister, I am as thick as a “bull's lug” - which also needs explaining (being Sunderland folk, or Mackems, we have our own language and accent):

Lug: An appendage found on the side of the head, normally called an ear.

So, to get back to what I was saying. My ignorance is boundless - ask anyone. I've got this desktop computer along with the bits that go with it, including a printer and a web-cam. All clear so far? Excellent.

My guru was here on Saturday and got the printer to work with alchemy, leaving me completely ignorant as to how it all works. We've got a dongle....now here's something I have to comment on, dongle. What's a sodding dongle? Why couldn't they use a word with a bit more gravitas? Dongle! It sounds almost suggestive.

“Pssst, pssst...want to see my dongle?”

I know exactly what the creator of dongles was thinking...”Let's use a word that nobody will want to go into W.H.Smith's and say above a whisper.”

Anyway, I've got this dongle which connects me to the internet, albeit not very quickly. Well, we got it all working and I was left to my own devices with the words, “You can mess about with Skype and work it out.”

Skype! Another dodgy word. Apparently it is a system which allows people to use a web-cam and speak face to face (on screen) with whoever it is they are talking to on the telefunken. Of course everyone knows or knew this apart from me, the fountain of all ignorance. Anyhoo, I did just that and yesterday I managed to get my sister and brother-in-law on the screen. Unfortunately they couldn't see me - and some unkind folk might say that's a blessing in disguise but let's not go into that. It seems that there must be something lacking about my web-cam but I am assured that when I get (and use) my new laptop later this week, that matter will be corrected because the laptop has a built-in cam - problem solved so I am informed. Time will tell of course. I can only live in hope.

This morning I had what "they" call a 3-way meeting between probation people and yours truly. I brought up the subject of lifting my curfew because I have to be indoors by seven in the evening. I have no idea why. It makes no sense to me, considering those they allow to run about until eleven at night. It means I can't go for a bit of supper or anything else. So they are looking into it and will get back to me, so they say.

I then brought up the matter of allowing me to go up to Sunderland on the weekend because it is my brother's fiftieth and a lot of the family will be coming from far and wide. I am the head of the family and there are a lot I haven't seen for about thirty years. There are youngsters in our family and those who even have their own little families who weren't born when I went to jail in 1986. I want to meet all of them if I can. Once again the response was, we will look into it and get back to you.

In prison that is something which causes despair - “I'll get back to you.” It is part of governor-grade training apparently. Their final training session includes practicing the following sentence;

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

When they can say that with complete sincerity then they are qualified to be promoted to governor-grade. All I can say is that I hope it hasn't spread to the outside probation service here in the secret city where Bleak House is located.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A dog's life

Where shall we begin?

One evening there were two fleas leaving the cinema and the first flea said to the other, “Should we walk home or should we catch a dog?”

The other day I was walking along the waterfront here in this nameless cathedral city (which has a loose-ish connection to Robin Hood in that he apparently wore clothing of a certain green hue, if legend is to be believed - hope I haven't given anything away there), perambulating along in a northerly direction and, just as I passed the Royal William - a hostelry where I have been known to quench my thirst and fortify the inner man with good pub grub - I had cause to walk under the bridge there. Sitting on the ground and surrounded by what I presume were his goods and chattels (including a little dog) sat a fellow who was clearly one of society's forgotten heroes. He was a paraffin - a tramp, homeless. I'm not knocking him - let's face it, I am only one step up from becoming a "Gentleman of the Road" myself.

He was clearly tall, grizzled and probably as old as me, if not older. Skin the colour of a stained teapot with long grey hair and straggly beard, both tied up in a ponytail. It's a bit strange to see a fellow with a beard in a ponytail, but there we have it. Maybe he had found a couple of elastic bands somewhere and felt it would be a shame not to use them, who knows? The point is, he had a beard in a pony tail.

He watched me pass and, as I did so, carrying three chicken slices which I had bought for a quid in the market, I dropped them into his lap but said nothing. Neither did he come to that. As I walked on, it occurred to me that the dog would get one of them. Oh well, even mutts need to live. The odd part is that despite the fact that I have a warm place to live and sleep, clean bedding, regular feed and washing facilities - all that manner of thing - it occurred to me that the nomad had something I don't have, several things in fact. He can come and go as he pleases, something I can't do, and he had a dog.

I like dogs, always have. A fellow isn't complete without a companion. Most fellows have a wife at my age but I don't want one of those. I tried marriage once - didn't like it and it won't happen again. Thankfully I am too old for that now anyway. I much prefer my own company these days, although a person to chat to from time to time always helps. I would prefer a dog.

Well, dogs are loyal and affectionate and demand nothing from us. We can talk to them, if the urge takes us, but the dog is just as happy sitting at our side silently for hours. Try getting a wife to keep quiet for hours - it's never going to happen. They don't listen either. In fact, the only time a woman listens is when it is her doing the talking.

My little sister Wendy tells me that a friend of hers has a dog which has just had pups, a German shepherd, and Wendy (in her insanity) has decided that she will get two of these pups for me as a present. The fact that, under current circumstances, I am not allowed so much as one of the fleas mentioned earlier as a pet, cuts no ice with Wendy. She has decided that I am having two dogs and that's that. See! They only listen when it's them doing the talking. Still, her heart's in the right place even if her thought processes are a little haywire.

Finally, for this one anyway, if you are reading this it is safe to presume that I have finally got the printer working - either that or I have acquired another one. So, now that I am on the internet or, as they call it in Lancashire, tinternet, I am now in a position to respond to any comments anyone wants to make or even to open up a dialogue with anyone who wants to do so. Try not to be rude, but at the same time say what you like - I'm a big lad and I find rudeness amusing most of the time. It comes with age you know. Things we once took personally in our callow youth now are merely funny. However, if anyone does feel the uncontrollable urge, at least have the courage to add your name - I do.

Well, it could be worse - I could be sitting under a bridge, surrounded by my goods and chattels and feeding chicken slices to little mutts.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wrestling with the twenty-first century

I got a desktop computer and printer. Anybody would be forgiven for thinking that I would be glad to be able to write things on the keyboard rather than using the old-fashioned method of a fountain pen. It's not quite as easy as that.

A pen - you fill it up and simply write until it's empty, then you fill it up again and get back to it. Computers are a little bit more complicated. Just plugging it in was a trial in stress management.

That wasn't the end of it, that was just the start because then I had to turn it on. Why do computer manufacturers hide the power-on button?

Well, I got the tower turned on, the screen and the little speakers.

"Magic!" said I to myself. "Now to try to get something out of it."

Easier said than done, let me tell you. There's too much stuff on the screen, all manner of little pictures and icons, and the only way to find what you want is to try them all. It only takes half of your life - no problem.

Finally got a screen that resembled that of a word processor and tried to organise the margins. Try that without an instruction booklet. In fact, try that with an instruction booklet. They could have made it difficult by printing it in Chinese Mandarin - in fact it might have been easier if they had.

Well, I finally got it all set up and proceeded to get on with a bit of letter-writing. Were my problems over? Were they hell! When I had the letter done, I turned on the printer, pressed the button on the mouse and sat back to watch the product of hours of labour coming out of the front of the machine. Nothing happened - it just buzzed then went back into a state of inertia.

More messing about, more resetting and all the inertia I could have asked for. I finally discovered that the problem was that the printer is different from the computer and I need special software to make them work together. By this time in the proceedings I am starting to think that euthenasia is a good idea - not for me, for the wanker who designed computers!

Well, I got in touch with my brother and he is sending the required software by urgent mail. If it's anything like the computer that will arrive quite quickly - about six weeks is my best guess. Still, look on the bright side - I got a desktop computer and printer.
  
A later date:

Well, I got the disks from my brother but they don't work. The installation wizard just tells me more or less to "sod off" for some reason or another. After a great deal of teeth-grinding and use of the vernacular, with a few words of Latin thrown in, I was on the verge of purchasing a new printer, but my guru told me not to until he has had the opportunity to grind his teeth, use the vernacular and a bit of Latin.

Fair enough!

So here I am, still sitting here patiently in my secret little location - or, as I like to call it, Bleak House or Dotheboys Hall - waiting for those who know about these things to put it right. However, if you are reading this then clearly it's all been done and is working, so don't read it, it's redundant - just like half of the country really.

What I really need is a weekend away, a bit of a break from everything, see the clan, stuff like that. We will see what happens and where things stand by this time next week.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A rich man indeed

So, here I am again, still living at the secret address in an undisclosed city that everyone knows about but nobody is allowed to mention. It's a secret. It's all for the protection of others, of course. I'm not sure whose protection, certainly not mine, I don't give a rat's fart who knows where I am, I have no enemies you see. Oh, like all the rest of the human race, I am perfectly certain that there are a few misguided punters around who don't care for me much, for several reasons, but that's a far cry from wanting to do me any harm, and wanting to and having the nerve to attempt it is a horse of a different colour.

But! All of that to one side, the point is that I'm still living where I am and making more than satisfactory progress almost daily. Well, I am according to my mentor, and maybe I should keep his name secret too. Why is authority obsessed with secrets that there is absolutely no call to keep? Now, if you want secrets, I've got secrets and they are mostly the secrets of others - I may have mentioned this before - but I shall take them to the grave with me. I have no choice. Of course this clearly evidences a criminal mind, ask any psychologist. I'll always have a criminal mind, no doubt about that. But having a criminal mind and actually acting on it is, yet again, a different kettle of fish.

So, yours truly is making satisfactory progress on several fronts. The biggest problem I found on release from the tender loving arms of Lizzie Windsor's jackbooted minions was establishing my identity. “Look at me!” I cried silently. “Who would say they are me when they are not! That's bordering on insanity!” However, I had to establish who I was and I started with the hardest task of all - getting a bank account.

Off I jolly-well-went to the Co-operative bank and let me state quite clearly here and now, they were a lot more helpful and accommodating than they needed to be - first class. I started with a marvellous young woman - a credit to her mother, she really is. I told her right at the very outset that I was a retired career criminal and I required a bank account to pay in a bit of dosh. She not only didn't flinch, not an eyebrow twitched or was raised and she went out of her way to push it through - the application that is.

“Leave it to me,” said she more or less. “I'll get on it right away.”

“How long will it take?” asked our retired career crook.

“Normally about three weeks, but we will see. First you will get a letter from Head Office asking for proof of identity but you have already given me that, just ignore it.” (Obviously one of those computer-generated things.) “Then,” said she. “a few days later you should get your card, pin number and all that kind of stuff.” (I'm paraphrasing here of course.)

“Oooo!” said I. “Will you accept money from me then?”

“We will.”

“Wonderful. I shall buy you a bunch of flowers.”

Today, little more than a week later, I was wandering past the bank with about seventeen quid in my pocket so I went in. One of the girls behind the bullet-proof glass recognised me and called me over. My account has been accepted and she gave me my paying-in number and account number. I am now a valued customer of the Co-operative Bank - marvellous. I saw this girl as I was leaving.

“Got my account,” said I. “I've not forgotten the flowers.”

“There is no need.” she protested.

I gave her my best grin. “I don't say things I don't mean,” said I as I left and went to get the flowers.

I took 'em back and she was behind the counter with two other young girls. I went toward the counter.

“She's just coming,” said one, big smiles everywhere.

“Oooo!” said she as I handed her the bunch of flowers. “They are lovely. Nobody ever gave me flowers before.”

“Thank you for all of your help,” said I - and that was basically it really.

I now have a bank account and so the process of becoming a real person again, a citizen rather than just a number, is under way. I thought it would have been harder, but it's not. It just takes a little time, patience and a bunch of flowers.

Finally my brother Robert supplied me with a desktop computer - it will save me a fortune in ink if I ever get the printer to work. I'm a total, complete and utter novice at this high-tec stuff, but I am hoping that I have enough friends to give me advice.

Speaking of friends, now that I am out of jail I am asking people to contact me, those who have read about me for a long time on this website. A man in my position needs all the friends he can get and there is an old adage on the subject which goes like this:

If a man has just one true friend, then he is a rich man indeed.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Out in the world again

Well here I am, out in the world again
Back in the cold, cold weather.
How much work must a poor man do
To rub two coins together.

It's true - they finally signed the bit of paper, handed it to me at the gate at 8 a.m. on Tuesday 2nd April and said, "You are free. You can go."

So I went.

I've been asked the question - "What's it like to be free at last?"

Well, I'm not exactly free, but never mind. What I said was that it was interesting.

Wouldn't you think that after 27 years I would have something deeply meaningful and erudite to say about the whole experience? For some strange reason I don't - not yet anyway. No doubt but I will have soon, when I've settled a bit, but not yet. However, I've said loads of that kind of thing in my book, "An Abuse of Justice", currently being edited. My editor has been to see me a couple of days this week - a very interesting fellow indeed; as wise as an owl studying lexicography. Ha! I wonder how many are reaching for a dictionary now - I am.

I've also had Herman to spend a day with me along with my new agent, who doesn't want to be mentioned at all so I'll just have to call her Blondie - that's a clue. Actually, she is as good as gold and turning into a great mate. She thinks that I am weird - mind, I think I'm weird.

I had to go to the bank to get an account sorted out and I want to give a plug to a lady at the Co-operative Bank. What a nice and extremely helpful girl - or woman. Mind, she looked young to me - but having said that, Lady Godiva would look young to me. It made a change for me to be trying to force the bank to take money from me rather than taking money from them. I suppose I've come full circle.

What strikes me about this city is the fact that it seems to be a friendly place - people seem to be more cheerful and inclined to help. Even the police seem to stand looking benignly upon buskers, and there are a fair few of them - buskers, I mean. I saw one today, a one-man-band with the cymbals on the knees and the drum and the banjo. He was rubbish, but that's not the point really - at least he is trying to earn an honest living. Don't knock it - I might have to come out of retirement myself. Has anyone got a banjo they don't want? Is it hard to play the banjo?

Finally, some people may remember the swan which last year knocked my camera into the marina here. Well, I was there again yesterday and I swear that I saw this swan just swimming casually nearby, but watching me out of one eye. It looked smug - I bet that's the one which did it!

The Voice In The Wilderness

I shall not pass this way again

I didn't do this blog yesterday, as would be normal for a Sunday morning - no, I left it for today, Easter Bank Holiday Monday.

Why?

You may well ask.

Well, the thing is that today is my last full day in this particular jail. Tomorrow I go to reside in a secret place in an undisclosed city. It's just another jail really with a few more restrictions (in some respects) than this one, and a few less (in some respects) than Alcatraz - but let's not be churlish, eh?

I've done all I need to do here - got everything signed, sealed and to be finally delivered at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Then I shall simply fade away - not with a bang but with a whimper.

It's been a long ould journey - and it's not finished yet, not by a long chalk. Oh no, not a bit of it. In fact I probably have one of the most difficult periods that I have ever had before me. The thing is that I am ostensibly released - the Parole Board said so!

But I'm not.

However, I shall manage. I always have and always will.

Out of the night tbat covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever Gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud:
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

(W E Henley - "Echoes" 1888)

I admit it, I'm tired - fatigued, knackered - but even the weariest river winds somewhere safe to sea.

So, this is my swan-song as far as this place is concerned. Next week I will be writing from the secret location mentioned earlier. I will be expecting (and hoping) that I can finally begin some form of correspondence with people, make new friends (it's too late  to make new enemies) and do my best to enjoy a little peace in what years I may have left. I have a lot of stuff I want to write, even more stuff I want to read - neither activity very strenuous, and I can do them on my own (an idea I like the sound of). Well, life is the same for everyone when you are alone at night in an empty room.

I have little desire or intention of joining the Rat-Race. Well, the trouble with the Rat-Race is that even if you win, you are still a rat, and I've never been that. Been a lot of other things - some were even legal.

So, from now on I intend to do my best to adhere to both the spirit and the letter of Stephen Grellet's philosophical thought:

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Ticking away the moments

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
You fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way.
(Pink Floyd 1973)

That's it!

That sums up my past week perfectly - frittering and wasting with the best of them, and simply passing time like the rest of them. Needless to say there is no news, no progress, not a word said by anyone at all on any subject whatsoever. I'm not saying that I have become invisible again, but I might just as well be so. During the course of the last week I have been expecting daily to be given the decision of the Parole Board - after all, they did say that they would make their decision on the 5th of the month. And one thing is for absolutely certain - if it was a refusal, someone would have broken their necks to tell me; I would have known long since.

That hasn't happened.

I think that they will be working out my licence conditions, and that will include restrictions on my movements. No need for them, of course, but I suppose they have to be seen to be doing something to protect Joe Public from a sixty-six year old who wants nothing more than a quiet life away from all vexatious folk and nit-wits.

On top of that, there were also the concerns , misguided concerns,  about what they termed "Your website".

I haven't got a website. It's not mine, it simply bears my name here and there. Just because it bears my name doesn't make it mine. I bet there is a website devoted to Adolf Hitler but it isn't HIS!

The board were informed "This matter has been taken up with NOMS and the Home Office and he [me] isn't doing anything wrong."

They don't quite get the fact that I'm not actually doing anything at all. Whatever I write is duly vetted to ensure that it causes no distress to anyone and yet it still seems to cause concern to some. What can I say?

I've had a lot of mail this last week from various friends and a couple of family members, all asking the same thing - "Have you got parole or not?"

I can't answer the question (story of my life really), so I haven't replied to any of the letters. What is the point of answering a letter to say one thing and then a few days later having to rewrite them all because I have an answer?

That's one of the things about the Prison Service which particularly irritates me - their complete lack of concern for anyone's family, almost bordering on hubris really. It's all well enough to treat us cons like second class citizens - after all, most of us are not even that far up the ladder - but thought should be given to families and others who are just as eager for an answer.

I expect I shall hear in the next few days of course, but there again, I've been saying that for almost two weeks now. So, until I DO hear I shall continue ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, frittering and wasting my time like a man who has a lot to spare - which actually I haven't, but the Prison Service doesn't care in their hubris and ivory towers.

Someone asked me the other day, "What will you do if you get a refusal?"

I grinned, of course, and said, "After twenty-seven years of bad news and disappointments, that would simply be one more in a long catalogue of disappointments. All it would mean is that I would have to gird the loins, strengthen the weakened knees, take a deep breath and start working again for the next time."

Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town,
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way.
Tired of lying in the sunshine,
Staying home to watch the rain.

The Voice In The Wilderness

On my bike - or back to the drawing board?

Things could go disastrously wrong, of course.

I've been in front of the Parole Board, Tuesday gone it was, a day which could go down in the annals of history - or should that be the days of infamy and calumny?

So many things were said which were quite untrue, although given what was said, and what the Parole Board had to work with, I suppose that, in a twisted, perverse way, it wasn't a surprise. My fault, of course (like everything else, beginning with the Crucifixion) - for several reasons. To begin with, I had thought that the days of sitting there behind an enormous pile of paperwork and documents was over. I was wrong. I should have gone there with documentary proof of everything - including an inoculation certificate for rabies.

Then, of course, there was my own reluctance to impart information about any friends (or foes come to that). I cause myself no end of difficulties with my misguided (probably) protection of the guilty. It's a mindset thing - I just can't bring myself to discuss the  past of others. I'm not too adept at disclosing my own past, never mind the guilty cohorts from my dark and cloudy past.

They harped on about the past of course, going back a half century in some cases - and personally I see little to be gained from that. I can't change the past - nobody can, not even God. All we can do is work for the future to ensure that we don't repeat the mistakes of the past.

At one point I was even accused of still living off dirty money - money from the proceeds of long past crimes. I'm not, of course, but all I could do in the face of the onslaught was bite my lip like a good little soldier and curb my tongue. The temptation was there to argue but that would have served little purpose. I must just ensure that if I have to sit ANOTHER board that I have all of the required documents with me.

Having said all that, there were many positives too, and a good while was spent by the panel discussing the possible circumstances of my release into the community and sending me to reside in a hostel (which must remain nameless) in a city (which must be kept secret). I would have restrictions placed on my movements and must allow the police to examine any vehicle I acquire for transport. I may be using the bike which Andrew has given me - that could be a bit interesting.

"Where did you get the bike?"

"Fell off the back of a car."

Various members of the Probation Service were asked, "Do you feel that Mister Wilkinson could be safely managed in the hostel?"

Everyone replied, "Yes."

"There would have to be restrictions!"

"Yes."
I would only have to stay in the hostel for a couple of months and after that I can find my own place. They asked, "Where will it be?"

"Who knows?" - I didn't reply, but words to that effect.

I shall hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea
And men that were boys when I was a boy 
Shall sit and drink with me.

Of course, they won't - I don't drink - but it's the sentiment of that verse which I like. I'm not allowed to associate with my old associates - men of ill repute and, as I mentioned earlier, cloudy and secretive pasts. Their secrets I shall take to my grave with me - and at my age that's not a million miles away.

They spent a bit of time going on about my website - but it's not mine, it simply bears my name. Never mind that, nobody is doing anything wrong, as was explained to the board by the probation folk. (I've been transferred from Northumbria to Lincolnshire, for what good that may serve.)

They were asked if I had any substance abuse problems but were informed that there have never been any concerns on that score as I neither drink nor take drugs.

When it was all over (over four hours of it), and as I was about to depart for a fag and a well-earned cuppa, the chairman said a couple of things such as, "When you get your reply, it will be quick because we will make our decision today... You may have to wait a while for a hostel bed to be made available..." and "Good luck!"

Now, I may be seeing those remarks through the good old rose-tinted spectacularities, but I hope, of course, that I am to be given my release, even if I will be simply exchanging one sort of jail for another. Okay, a much freer jail in many respects, but a jail for a' that - a rose by any other name.


So, my best guess, and taking everything in the round, what do I think? Well, things could go disastrously wrong.

The person who would be most disappointed if parole was refused would be my current cell-mate - a strangely weird and wonderful fellow who is seventeen going on fifty and who is a twitcher, not to mention a naturalist. He knows more about creatures and fowls than he does about people. He wants me gone on the grounds that he doesn't smoke but I do.
 
So, I live in hope. I should hear any day now and personally I feel it could be good news - next week's "Voice In The Wilderness" should be interesting. But, as I have also said, things could go quite disastrously wrong - and if they do, then it's back to the drawing board to get ready for the next one.

The Voice In The Wilderness

You can't wind up a broken clock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

In the bewilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Bewilderness

Here we are then

So, here we are then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah!

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

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

The Voice in the Wilderness

Soul-searching

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

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

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

What was I talking about?

Oh yes - soul-searching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even his own friends laughed at him - the clown.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Coming up ambergris

Isn't it funny the way things turn out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The creeks and inlets are filling

Arthur Hugh Clough wrote:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonderful! Not before time too.

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

So, watch this space. I expect developments soon.

I've seen a fox!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aaaah - say not the struggle naught availeth.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The last tango...

And so the dance begins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Your goats ate my jacket!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Precipitation

Let me put it this way - it pissed down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

My Christmas presents

I got a Christmas present.

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

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

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

Is that the end of the news?

Not a bit of it.

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

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

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

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

Thanks for all the Fish.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Going out and staying in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Winter of discontent?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where does that leave me then?

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's getting interesting

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

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

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

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

Okay, so where CAN I locate?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Discuss.

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

Lovely.

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

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

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

When will the parole hearing actually be?

Pick a number.

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

It started off so well

I should have known, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's driving?" I replied.

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

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

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

"Skegness," said I.

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you tired, mate?" said I.

"Knackered," was his erudite response.

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

"I wouldn't mind," said he.

So we came back to the jail.

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The clock of life ticks on

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today?

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

The Voice In The Wilderness