All the world's a fool

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

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

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

Back to my ramblings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

And the dance goes on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He will answer, "I did!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A deal is a deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A good question and I can't answer it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Get off my back

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

On June 24th I wrote in the application:

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Page 4)

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

(Page 5)

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

(Page 6)

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

(Page 7 - Panel's assessment etc.)

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

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

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

It brings to mind the words of Leo Tolstoy:

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Patience is a pain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," was the response.

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

"No idea," was his answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wi1derness

Godot on his way?

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

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

"HURRAH!" we cry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Limbo at the Lazy L

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

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

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

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

As I said earlier - hurry up and wait.

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

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

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

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

So... where does that leave us?

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Photo call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who else?

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

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

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

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

A picture of Billy M - good on yer Billy.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day in Purgatory

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Nostradamus never picked the lottery numbers, did he?

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

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

That didn't happen then.

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

Nostradamus said:

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

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

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

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

"Fine," said I.

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

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

He nodded. "You are right."

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

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

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

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

As my auld grandfather would have said:

Whatever you say, say nothing.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Ramblings of a sick mind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know three fellows who never go near the shower.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A letter from the Invisible Man

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

An address from the Invisible Man

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

Where was I?

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

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

Wrong. Lying to solicitors serves several purposes: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Questions of morality

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

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

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

What about the morality of it all?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's getting married?"

"What's her name?"

"Is that the King?"

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

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

One last thought on morality - Herbert Spencer said:

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

Macaulay said:

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

Oh yes, and British politicians:

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

An old dog, tired out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Prisoners are a funny lot

Prisoners are a funny lot, no doubt me included. When I say "funny" I am talking/writing about ha ha hilarious funny, and "keep your eye on THAT one" funny - and all shades in between. I wonder where I would fit in that scale, the scale of the wonderful and weird? Henceforth, that will become the WW scale and hopefully will take over from the Beaufort scale. 

Anyway, that's not the point. I'm not talking about where I (or anyone else for that matter) would fit in the WW scale, the point is that prisoners are a funny lot.

Yesterday there was a conversation between several of my fellow incarcerees (a fine word, if it exists). During the conversation, one fellow, a most devout junkie, said words to this effect:

"Frank, you've been in jail now for a long time, you must have tried heroin!"

I said, "I would rather remove my own bollocks with a set of rusty garden shears. That road leads to disaster, and the first thing anyone loses is their pride and self-respect. I've got too much pride, probably false but pride all the same, and too much self-respect. Fuck heroin, it's a complete mug's game."

He couldn't let go, probably suffering from Asperger's syndrome. "You must have tried something!" he insisted.

"Oh don't get me wrong," said I. " Many years ago, over twenty years ago in fact, I used to smoke a bit of ganja now and then - it was the only way I could get to sleep at night. I had to stop smoking that when I started the studying and I've never wanted to smoke it since."

"Yeah," said someone else, "I like a smoke of Marley's Medicine myself, but I wouldn't touch hard stuff - no powders."

The advocate of the product of the poppy said, "Yeah, but..."

I cut him off. "Listen," said I, "you have to accept the fact that not everyone has porridge for brains like you. You have to understand that not everyone is as weak-willed as you are. Just because your own values allow you to justify stupidity, you mustn't put your values onto others."

Another fellow said, "Yeah! A lot of people do that, apply their own values to other people."

"That, my friend," said I, "is why people get so many things wrong about others."

"That's right," said yet another participant in the chat, "I've noticed that. These fucking psychologists for a start..."

And the conversation moved on to other topics, as conversations do.

People DO have a tendency to apply their own values to others and can't understand why others don't have the same values. Personally, I think it is a character thing, involving both nature, nurture and, of course, what we are educated to in life. Some folk never swear or curse, while others never stop - and I point no fingers (ho ho). Others, myself included, would never raise our voices to a woman, never mind our hands, yet some think it is okay to hit a woman from time to time. (Let's face it, if a woman is annoying a man so much that he is tempted to become violent, it's time to fold up the tent and leave, because clearly someone is unhappy in that relationship.)

Anyway, prisoners talk about all sorts of things like this, and sometimes it is almost interesting, though not very often. We are a rude, crude bunch - it comes with the territory unfortunately. As I say, prisoners are a funny lot.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A rose by any other name...

Yesterday, 20th April, during the course of a long and boring afternoon, I found myself wandering into the laundry room. (I do that from time to time - it gives me somewhere to go, and real grass can be seen from the window.) When I entered, the laundry fellow was folding some stuff he had recently taken from the drier. He then picked up the bundle and said that he was going to "deliver it to Tommy's bedroom"!

I said to him, "It's a cell."

He said something else, which I can't remember, and I said to his departing rear, "Call it what you like, it's still a cell. A rose by any other name is still a rose."

There is a lot of that creeping into the jargon of prison these days - calling cells "rooms" and the like - almost as though the change in name removes some of the reality of the fact that jail is jail. It's not a room, bedroom or otherwise - it's a cell. In fact, considering that there is a toilet bowl and sink in there, it could more accurately be called a karsi, a loo, a bog, a netty, a shithouse.

One thing it ain't - it ain't a nice place, no matter what euphemisms may be used to sweeten a very bitter pill. It's a cell, a place of incarceration, a place of unhappiness, a chamber of isolation, somewhere we are locked in at night - it's a bleedin' cell. Could be worse, of course - I could be sitting in a cell somewhere really exotic, like Afghanistan. I bet nobody calls them "rooms" over there.

Of course there is a section of the general community which thinks that prisons are nice places to be, thanks to "The Sun" and other dealers in terminological inexactitudes, and a great many of the readers of such piffle think that prisoners should be chained to the wall, fed on bread and water and hosed down once a year with water direct from the North Sea. And that is the ENHANCED cons - the well-behaved ones. "The Sun" has told the country that prisoners are eating steaks and lobsters, boozing, having wild parties with imported females and all the rest of it. All cobblers, of course, but it sells papers and allows the hang-em-and-flog-em brigade to give vent to their spleen at regular intervals.

However, the truth is a little bit different.

Somewhere, as I write this, in some cell in some segregation unit there is a naked man lying on a cold stone floor, blood dripping from his nose or lip, and he is surrounded by several uniforms who are snarling that he ain't so tough now. That's happening right at this minute, somewhere - and not in Afghanistan.

I bet that unfortunate person doesn't call that place of misery his "room". Where is he going to get a steak or a lobster from? (Hey! I think I'll get on to Boudica about that very subject - steak and lobster. Actually, I would settle for a decent sandwich, never mind steak and lobster.)

So, as I sit here, tapping away like a demented woodpecker, I have to say  that I am doing it in my cell, not in my room, my cell. As stated earlier - a rose by any other name is still a rose.

The Voice In The Wilderness

You ain't heard nothin' yet!

At last the fog seems to be clearing a little bit in respect of this Oral Parole Hearing next month that I have been harping on about since (it seems to me) Adam was a boy.

We've had a communication from the judge who will be presiding over the matter, giving directions and instructions. Everyone who was desired to attend will be there (unforeseen circumstances to one side, of course) and that includes - the prison psychologist - our independent psychologist - Andrew has heen granted permission to attend (something I am very pleased about) - The Wallace, of course (but only if she isn't busy invading Scotland) - and I will be represented officially by a barrister appointed by my solicitor.

What I find interesting (and not a little bit encouraging) is the fact that the prison service will not have the assistance of a representative of the Secretary of State and, as fully expected, the Smiling Assassin will not be there. She is away on her annual leave! There's a surprise! Regular readers will be fully aware that I predicted such a thing would happen. I'm considering a career change as a tipster for Lotto numbers.

So, all of the protagonists in this saga will finally meet each other and become real people rather than just names on emails and voices on der telefunken. The only one who knows everyone else is me, which effectively makes me responsible for introductions - "Er, this is the excellent Blodwyn - say hello to The Wallace!" sort of thing. I shall look forward to that. (It annoys the hell out of The Wallace when I call her that - that's why I do it. But the interesting thing about that is, she doesn't allow that annoyance to cloud or influence her position, and that is admirable.)

So, the die is cast, so to speak, but it's not over yet. In fact, to use the words of Al Jolson, "You ain't heard nothin' yet."

I've told Boudica all about it, of course. She has to be kept in the picture because she DOES allow her annoyances to cloud her judgement, and having my nose reorganised is not the wisest move I will ever make. So I told Boudica.

Of course, she is just as likely to say, "If everybody else is coming, why can't I come?"

Well, it's not my decision to make and you didn't ask - it's too late now. However, I am sure that there will be a full report on it after it's all over - settle for that.

Her mutt, the inimitable Cassie, has got a new game. She has recently taken to lurking behind the curtains of an open window and leaping out of the window after Boudica's pigeons. She never catches any, of course - the dog is an idiot. Boudica says it is driving her mad having to go and let the mutt back in through the door. She can't stop it - she likes the window wide open.

I've given her the advice that Solomon would have been proud to give. I told her to move to the top floor of a block of high-rise flats, open the window and say, "Go on, now jump." The mutt will only do it once - problem solved.

It occurs to me that the animal lovers will now be up in arms at my less than nice solution - maybe they should try to learn the difference between a joke and a serious suggestion.

I wonder what it must be like to go through life without a sense of humour - it can't be easy. Speaking personally, I like a good laff - it's good for the soul, apparently. 

Boudica has no sense of humour at all - she thinks sexist jokes about blondes are funny: 

How can you tell there is a blonde at a cock-fight? 
She's the one who brings the duck.
How can you tell when I am at the cock-fight? 
The duck wins.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The plot thickens

I have more news this week - if this keeps up this drivel could well start being almost interesting. The news is that the Parole Board has issued its list of witnesses to be called to the oral hearing next month, those on the side of the penal system. Perhaps the word "side" is a poor choice - they are merely there to put the official point of view, there are no sides as such. However, be that as it may, the "prosecution" (so to speak) have issued a list of those they are calling to give oral evidence and to be questioned as regards that oral evidence. This is why they call it an oral hearing - it's all clever stuff.

I've had these lists before from the Parole Board - after all, this is my fourth oral hearing. (Or is it my third? No, I think it is the fourth. But I don't want to get into any fights over it. So don't quote me - I may be wrong.) As I say, I've had these lists before and they simply tell me and my "side" who will be called. We can then add to the list anyone we wish to call to speak for the "defence" (so to speak!).

Examining the list, I was suddenly struck by the fact that there is no one listed to represent the Secretary of State. There is ALWAYS a representative of the Secretary of State - he or she is, after all, the main witness for the prosecution, as it were. There is nobody listed to speak for the Secretary of State!

I presumed it was some sort of oversight. I made enquiries of as discreet a nature as I could. I said, "Hoy! Why is there nobody telling lies for the Secretary of State?"

"000h," was the reply, "not a clue! Never seen that before!!!"

Another one said, "It looks like they are not putting up any opposition to your application, you must be getting a walk-over!"

The plot thickens.

I checked my papers. What objections could and should the representative of the Secretary of State be putting up? I found that there aren't any. I have no targets - nothing. All they are saying is that they want me to carry on exactly the way I am now - a good boy just two steps from sainthood. Not much for them to hang their hat on there then. Am I to be unopposed at the hearing?

The Wallace will be there, but she is recommending downgrade and transfer to less secure conditions. So is the prison psychologist. And they are the two most influential witnesses, the ones who count. Mind, they are really witnesses for the prosecution! They belong to "their" side.

The Smiling Assassin will be there - or at least she is listed. I think she will find herself on "leave" on the date - that's how they get out of difficult situations. A con will scream, "But Governor Such-and-Such said so!" Answer: "Well, the Governor's on leave at the minute." So that's where the Smiling Assassin will be, I expect.

On top of all that, we will (or should) have the independent psychologist, who will be there to support my application as an independent member of the psychological community. And Andrew will be there as an observer just to see that fair play is the order of the day.

The plot thickens even further. The paperwork to have me downgraded and transferred to a less secure lunatic asylum has (according to the prison) been sitting on the Deputy Governor's desk for months, waiting to be signed. Andrew has written about it, as have my solicitors, but got no reply so far.

Then, on Tuesday just gone, I was sitting in my cell, writing, when the door opened to admit the Wing S.O., the Wing Governor and the Number One, Hoss the Boss. Did they want anything? Apparently not, because all they said was that I can have a new pin-up board if I want one. Yeah! Right! The big cheese spends his time asking me if I want a new pin-up board - of course he does. Did they come to have a look at me? If they did, why?

Finally, Boudica tells me a tale from the internet about someone by the name of Lotta Fees. I'm not having it. It's not a real person - and if it is, then she ought to change her name. I wish I could change my name - and not to any of the rude and offensive ones that Boudica and her mates are suggesting. I'd like a good name - like Rudyard Finklestein. All suggestions will be greatly appreciated. Some of the rude suggestions from Boudica and her happy gang of escapees from a secure mental institution were actually very funny, but I can't tell her that - she'll get big-headed, and that will never do. One big head in the family is enough.

Lotta Fees my sorry arse!

Oh yes, and a quick one before I go. Here I am, stuck in jail surrounded by hairy-arsed gangsters and terrorists, and on the canteen shopping list some of the most popular items are tiny vials of perfume, all manner of smellies and washing powder with aloe vera and orange blossom! Come on! Whatever happened to tough guys with missing teeth and smelling like a Liverpool docker's armpit?

The worst part of it is that I'm one of them. I buy the soap powder so my clothing smells nice - I'm ashamed of myself, hee hee. Mind, I know why it is that when we bath our dogs tbey run outside and roll about in cowdung - or worse. They are getting rid of the smell of civilisation. The Afghanis have been doing that for years.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Quiet desperation

Last week I wrote a semi-tongue-in-cheek thing about "No-fly zones". (Come to think about it, I seem to write most things with my tongue planted firmly in the cheek - but leave that to one side for the minute.) So, I wrote this thing about the NFZ's and at the end of it, as is my wont from time to time, I shoved in a fairly puerile and possibly offensive witticism about Gotham City and Superman with a supporting cast of other superheroes. (Boudica said that my jokes get no better, and she is probably right - she usually is about most things.)

However, as soon as Boudica started mocking me about it, I realised that Superman doesn't fly around Gotham City, he flies around Metropolis, and one thing is absolutely certain - there will be some pedant who wants to correct me. Don't bother.

Okay, so I might not be actually very well versed in the details of Marvel, or any other comic, and I apologise for my lack of knowledge. You see, I spent a lot of time wasting my life away reading rubbish by such folk as Chaucer and Marlowe - somehow Marvel commics were missed. Having said that, I have to admit that Asterix the Gaul featured on my reading list - it appealed to my well-established sense of the ridiculous.

I was asked the other day, "Why do you swear?" Well, what can I tell you? I'm a vulgarian, and there are times when a well-placed vulgarity serves the purpose admirably. Boudica grits her teeth sometimes when I swear, her being just one step down from sainthood. (Apart from when somebody gets HER goat of course - then you should hear her!)

So, as anyone will be able to tell, those who know how I operate from reading my weekly drivel, there is no news this week again. Here at the Lazy L very little happens at the best of times. We can't all have exciting lives - my heart wouldn't stand up to the strain of it all.

I seem to spend most of my day lurching from crisis to crisis, and not one of them is worth worrying about really. Oddly enough, I have somehow gained the reputation that I don't care - "Frank! When something happens, you just stand there, look, sniff and then ignore it. I wish I could do that."

Well, that's nothing to do with not caring - that's pure experience. I have learned that running around like a chicken with its head surgically removed serves no purpose other than annoy people. No, when something occurs I sit back, take in all the facts, go away and think about things. Then I ignore it.

Life's far too short to be wasting time on things that don't matter. Let me put it this way: whatever may he bothering us today, however unsurmountable the problem may be at the time, this time next month it will have resolved itself, gone away, and we will have a brand new problem to worry us. So why bother? Everything sorts itself out in the end - time does it.

Henry David Thoreau said:

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

You can't argue with that.

So, I laugh at just about everything - it hurts too much to cry.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Another one bites the dust

I have an old friend - had an old friend - called Frederick Mills or, as he was better known amongst those with more than a passing acquaintance with the denizens of the law, Fred the Head. I had a letter from his brother Kenny yesterday (Monday 28th March) to tell me that Freddie died in his sleep and was found on Wednesday 23rd March - they suspect a heart attack.

Kenny's letter said that he had found my letter to Freddie sitting on the carpet just inside the front door where the postman had clearly left it. So Freddie didn't even get to read my last letter to him - which is probably just as well, because it was only a catalogue of the abuse which I pass off as humour.

So, Fred the Head has shuffled off. Freddie had his faults - who doesn't? However, whatever anyone may say about the Head, they have to admit that he was one of life's characters. When Freddie arrived in a room, everyone knew it. There was never a dull moment when Freddie was about - you never knew what he would do next. He had a heart of gold, the same feller.

There's another one who will not sit and drink with me as I pass into my dotage. One by one they are dropping like flies, and soon there'll be nobody left - none of the old crowd anyway.

This all got me to thinking (again) - as this kind of news often does - and, as per usual, I got to considering my own mortality. At this point Boudica will be stamping her size tens and yelling, "The rotten sod! He only does it to annoy me!" And, I've got to be honest - she's right.

You see, Boudica is as aware of my mortality as I am myself, but she doesn't like to talk about it. I don't mind, it's not as if I can avoid it, is it? We might be able to prolong our lives (briefly), but it's not as though we can escape our inevitable death, is it? So why not talk about it? Then, when the time comes that the Grim Reaper actually DOES knock on the door, it doesn't come as any great shock. Oh there is no doubt that a few people will put on their po faces, but we all know that the po face is for the living - the dead couldn't give a fiddler's fart.

I told Boudica all about my plan to have Sinatra singing "My Way" and for me to be laughing my head off in the background. She just said, "What makes you think I'm giving you a funeral?"

So it looks as though my funeral will be held on the nearest council-run rubbish tip. You'll recognise me - I'll be in the third bin-liner from the left, surrounded by well-dressed old men and women, all pissing themselves laughing. And Boudica will be kicking the bin-liner, yelling, "SEE! I TOLD YOU NOT TO MESS IT UP, BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!"

So, Frederick "Fred the Head" Mills has shuffled off this mortal coil. He has gone to fish in the Slough of Despond, probably, and I bet he's laughing too - he always was. Well, all I can say is that it is incumbent upon you, Freddie, to keep me a seat at the poker table - because he is bound to start a game, he's that sort of fellow.

Finally, the only thing left to say is, you made a lot of people nervous, you made a lot of people laugh. I only hope tbat God loves you for the laughter.

The Voice In The Wilderness