The dance of uncertainty

I don't think anyone will be surprised (or shocked) when I say that another week has passed without any sort of definite news, or even an acceptable promise of any news. The Lazy L is working well, apparently, right on course for absolutely bugger-all. I've got this scenario in my head (in amongst the dross and drivel that normally resides there) that one day they will approach me in a manner of a reasonable nature and say, "Get your gear sorted out, Frank, you are on your travels."  Personally, I think there is more chance of Nelson getting his eye back - but that's just me being defeatist and best ignored. However, nobody must get the idea that I am alone in this waiting game because I am not - the place is full of fellows waiting for a bus-pass to greener pastures.

I understand that over the main gate they have erected a new sign which says, "YOU AIN'T GOING NOWHERE FROM HERE!"

Boudica is annoyed about it all of course, and who can blame her? Almost six months ago she found out that I had been recommended for open prison and was delighted because that meant I would soon be adorning her doorstep with my hat in hand, begging for a bed for the night. Well, that hasn't happened, and she has become disillusioned I think, as I have myself. I was full of plans as to what I was going to do to prepare my future. Now? I'm beginning to doubt that future completely.

It's not as though there is any reason for me to be contained  in this place any more - there isn't. Nobody asks me to do anything, nobody asks me any questions - nothing. I am left entirely to my own devices, completely ignored by the prison and those who allegedly run it. They want nothing from me and I ask for nothing from them other than "feed me".

Somewhere, stuck in some rat hole of a local, Victorian-built prison, there is someone waiting for me to vacate the premises so that they can have my cell and then proceed to work on their own problems toward their own release. Unfortunately they have to sit where they are too, fighting cockroaches for their beds and saying, "Why can't I be transferred to a long-term jail?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

I ask, "Why can't I be transferred?"

The answer?

"We are waiting for a place for you."

And so the macabre dance goes on spreading uncertainty, unrest, restlessness, frustration and everything else that goes with all of those things. In the meanwhile the prison service goes on blithely pretending that there is no problem and God help any misguided prisoner who shows signs of suffering from the stress of it all. Apparently, suffering from stress is the sole prerogative of staff - those people who only work three days a week and who go home every night. It is illegal for prisoners to suffer from stress - it is in the rules. Prisoners must smile at all times, it's the law.

However, let's not be churlish about this. After all, what have I got to complain about? I've only been in jail for over a quarter century for nothing, I get one hot meal a day, I have been allowed to buy myself a decent bed and I get a shower every morning without having to worry about anyone wanting or trying to introduce me to unnatural practices! (Mind, anyone silly enough to want to try that sort of thing deserves to be in jail for gross stupidity - either that or they are suicidal.)

What am I complaining about?

It could be worse - I could be a Lib Dem and feeling the pain of the knife in the back from the True Blues, because it's coming.

Oh, just ignore me - I'm not getting my sleep, I'm a miserable old bastard and, according to Boudica, I'm a sick man.  All that may well be true - and probably is - but that doesn't detract from the fact that the prison service isn't doing its job - but then again, when did it ever? 

The Voice In The Wilderness

A first time for everything

Well, would you believe it!  This morning (16th October) I received a response to my request for information regarding my application for home leave. It starts off by saying that the original application went to the wrong department, but no apology for that from them, it's not expected - hubris makes no apology for itself.  It's not their fault that there has been no decision because (and this will come as no surprise) someone else hasn't done their job. I'm quite astonished really - someone not doing their job? It's unheard of in the prison system.  Ah! But it's not the Lazy L that is responsible, oh no, they are laying the blame firmly at the feet of The Wallace!  I quote:

I am currently dealing with your application [three months so far] but have not received a response from your Offender Manager [The Wallace] regarding the appropriateness of the address you gave. [Boudica will argue with that - her and The Wallace have chatted on the phone as far as I know.] However, I am sorry to say that it is unlikely that home leave will be approved from a high security prison.

That's the response.  Why is it unlikely that home leave will be allowed from a high security prison? What difference does that make? A person leaves the gate, has a week or so at home and comes back to prison, no matter what prison that may be. Where is the problem? What has high security got to do with it? I am not high security, I am the lowest security level possible. The fact that they have  not transferred me to an appropriate prison is a reflection on them, not on me.

My interventions have to begin soon, I have to formulate a viable and acceptable release plan so the sooner we have the opportunity  to get on with it, the better. Where does it say anywhere that I cannot formulate a release plan from the Lazy L?  "It hasn't been done before!"  Wonderful. Who cares? There is a first time for everything and in reality there is absolutely no reason whatsoever why I should not begin my release plans here if they can't transfer me. It's the fear of the paranoid, that's what it is. I am the one who will be facing the hardest part, not them. What are they  afraid of?

So, there we have it. What I need to do now is inform The Wallace and see what she says on the subject. She may well agree that it is unheard of for a person to get home leave from such a place  as this, but it's not fair to blame her for it.  Oh yes indeed - I've said it before and no doubt I'11 say it again, several times - but it's not easy being me.

Boudica's stress levels are rising steadily, bless her, and who can blame her! After the Parole Board decision, she expected to hear that I  would soon be gracing her front door step again, yet here we are, five months later and the only thing I am gracing is the showers every morning - not a pretty sight for those of a nervous disposition. When a fellow gets to my age he finds that things have started to slip a little bit. Put it this way, if Rodin ever needed a sitter for his second version of "The Thinker" he would be well advised to avoid me like the plague. "The Thinker"!  Well, I might do a bit of thinking, but that's about it really - I do nothing else. 

Many years ago there was a fellow who climbed up a mountain and, when he reached the summit, he sat down to survey his surroundings and got to wondering, when it got dark, where the sun had gone. Well, it finally dawned on him. 

The Voice In The Wilderness

Saint Jude is my patron saint

Here we go again - another week passed, another week of no news or sign of any advancement or progress. In fact, the only thing that seems to be gradually changing are my sleep patterns - I  am barely sleeping at night, and I understand that sleeplessness is a manifestation of stress! Wonderful! Just what I need - rising stress levels.

It will be remembered that a couple of months ago, maybe a little longer, I put in an application for Home Leave or, as they like to call it, Release on Temporary Licence - ROTL.

It will also be recalled that, some time ago now, I had an answer to an enquiry on the subject which said basically that, in the light of my pending transfer to open prison, the application to go home for a week or so was being duly processed - doing me a favour apparently.  The weeks passed, as weeks do, and last weekend I put in yet another application - a query really - asking what was going on with my request to go home for a wee while.

I got an answer back yesterday which said that the person dealing with my transfer was away on leave so they couldn't tell me anything about the transfer but would as soon as she came back!

I didn't ask about transfer!  I didn't mention transfer!  In fact I have given up on ever seeing a bleedin' transfer! All I asked was about home leave - sorry, ROTL.

This is typical of this place really. Are we to understand that when one person goes off on a jaunt then whatever department they are involved in comes to a grinding halt?  Is that why this place never gets anything done?

It's no use expecting governor grades to deal with anything so important - they are far too busy making sure that the bin lids are on properly and counting the table-tennis balls. In fact the only time a governor grade shows his or her face is to do someone down and, as often as not, they even leave THAT to a minion. Governors are not here to run the place, they are only here to ensure that stress levels stay at the appropriate levels. So my stress levels are apparently high.

Oh don't misunderstand me - I'm not ready to declare myself a basket case or anything like that. I'm not about to lose the plot and start ranting and raving - or worse. I'm in full control of myself and have been under much more stressful times, but I am clearly suffering with a bit of the ould Elliot Ness.

I'm not the only one either! Boudica is suffering a bit too, and I think it is hitting her a good bit harder than it is me - either that or I handle it better, who can tell? She told me  in a letter the other day that some of her hair came out - maybe just a few strands, I don't know, she didn't say - but whether  it was a few strands or a whole clump is hardly the point really, the point is that the strees is getting to her too, and who can be surprised at that? After all of this time she suddenly found that the Parole Board said more or less that she would soon have me back to annoy her. I was delighted myself, full of plans and little expectations. Five or six months later I'm still sitting here, picking my nose and nary a sign of a transfer anywhere on the horizon at all.

All I've got is a little hope, but that's wearing thin a bit. Mind, they do say that when a person waits for something for a long time then he will appreciate it all the more when it DOES finally come about.

That a fact is it?

I've put in another application, this one saying that I didn't ask about transfer, I asked ahout going home for a week or so. Will the question be answered?  I've got my doubts.

Ha! No wonder when people ask me who I would pick as my Patron Saint if I could choose I always say "Saint Jude".

"Why Saint Jude?" they ask. "What is he the Patron Saint of?"

"Lost causes," I reply.

The Voice In The Wilderness

If...

Well, I knew IF I waited long enough I would, sooner or later, have something to tell anyone not nimble enough to get out of the door quickly enough.

I've got news!

Yesterday they came to see me bearing an envelope, for which they wanted me to sign. On examination of the accompanying document, I saw that it wasn't me who had to sign that I had received it, not at all - it was for the kangaroo to sign to prove he had given it to me. A case of covering themselves I suppose.

Anyway, when they had gone off about their business, I opened the envelope and it was a letter from the Ministry of Justice to inform me officially that my solicitor's request to have  my parole review period reduced by four months had succeeded.  My parole hearing is to be in May of next year. It's October  now - so that is October, November, December, January, February, March, April, May! Eight months IF you count October. The  fact is that it's seven months - you either count the first month or the last month, not both.

So, seven months to the hearing. There is a twenty-six week period set for report-writing - six months in anyone's money - and that leaves a month for me to get to open prison before I begin the reports. IF I begin them in this prison then I am not allowed to leave this place until all reports are done and I've had the hearing!  IF that should happen, imagine the Prison Service going before the Parole Board and saying, "We haven't even complied with your  last instructions yet!"

So, the next few weeks could be interesting.

However, that's not all, I have even MORE news - IF it can be called news and is of any interest to anyone other than myself. I entered the Koestler Awards again this year and I have just been informed that I have won Platinum this year. That's my fourth literary win, my fourth award!  Now, I'm not being clever here, I'm not that egotistical (I hope), but four awards for writing isn't bad for a poor white  boy from the ghetto. I'm still a poor white boy but I no longer belong to any ghetto - no self-respecting ghetto would have me  for a start.

It got me to thinking about things in a reflective way. Over the years in jail I have studied hard and worked hard on my writings, often and usually in the face of great opposition and obstruction from the Prison Service. Despite all of that opposition, I have still managed three degrees, several certificates of excellence for computer studies, I've mentored several youngsters and helped to turn their lives around, I've turned my own life around and written lots of stuff, winning four literary awards along the way. Imagine how far I might have gone IF the Prison Service had encouraged and assisted just a little bit!

Rudyard Kipling wrote a poem entitled 'IF'. I think the last verse covers it all admirably:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son! 

The Voice In The Wilderness

Is there anybody out there?

I've got a little black book with my poems in,
I've got a bag with a toothbrush and comb in;
When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in.

I've got elastic bands keeping my shoes on,
I've got those 'swollen-hand' blues;
I've got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from.
 
I've got electric light,
And I've got second sight,
I've got amazing powers of observation.

And that is why I know, when I try to get through
On the telephone to you,
There'll be nobody home.

(Pink Floyd)

Well, as any regular reader will be fully aware by now, I've got no news and nothing to tell anyone because, as usual here at the Lazy L, bugger all has happened.

I'm on the waiting list!

Often I sit here in my committee-designed and government-owned kennel-cum-toilet, surrounded by my solitude, and wonder if there is anyone actually out there at all!

Am I alone?

All around me in their own kennels there are so many sad tales and you can be absolutely certain that they too feel alone and abandoned. It's not true of course - we all (well, most of us) have friends and family who care about us - but it's hard to believe at night. In the cells of the Lazy L, nobody hears you screaming because the screaming is just inside your own head. I've said this before, of course, but it's worth repeating - Nicolas Sarkozy once said:

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

I'm tired of being alone in empty rooms, but there's very little I can do about it apart from wait, like a good little patient, for the waiting list to reduce slowly. Sooner or later they will come to my cell door in the dead of night and tell me to pack up my goods and chattels and prepare for a road-trip the following day. It will happen - nothing lasts forever - but after all of the years with very little hope of any real progress, to finally have my lips within touching distance of drinking from the cup at last and yet my neck muscles can't quite manage that final millimetre, it's exasperating. Of course I stretch the tongue to try to cover that final distance but even a lizard would strutggle against the Prison Service, and I'm no lizard - I'm the wrong colour.

Boudica is finding it probably marginally more difficult than I am because, way back in May when we first found out that I had been recommended for open conditions by the Parole Board, she was delighted - full of plans and ideas and expectations. Now, over four months later and not an inch of progress, she is becoming a little disillusioned - and who can blame her? Well, all I can tell her is that they can break the clock but they can't stop the time. It will happen, it will come to pass, as they put it in the bible.

Until it does, all I can do of course is sit here like a good little convict and patient. Well, let's face it, these places are just like big loony-bins anyway - and if it wasn't for the uniforms, it would be difficult to decide who the inmates were. I have come to the conclusion that waiting for this place to get off its collective is much like being homosexual - a pain in the arse.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Confused again

It's official! Once again I have become thoroughly confused hy the mixed signals and messages which this place seems to thrive on - it's the only thing they DO do well, confusion.

Now (I've got to stop doing that), regular insomniacs, and others with little better to do other than read this drivel, will be fully cognisant of the fact that, for over four months now, I have been patiently waiting a move to open conditions.

Well (I've got to stop doing that too), it gives me absolutely no pleasure whatsoever to say that in those four months I have not (apparently) taken one step forward toward the goal of fresh air at the Home for Gay Sailor - not an inch.

One minute I'm going, then I'm not.

The latest message from those responsible makes about as much sense as sliding down a razor blade and using my bollocks for a brake - a good idea to some, I'm sure.

On the 24th of last month I made a simple application asking about my transfer. I got the answer back yesterday, three weeks late and just as many weeks out of date. In that time I have received a letter personally from North Sea Camp - clearly this place has either lost their copy or sold it on E-Bay.

The TACMAN here has finally said:

Mr Wilkinson,
I was informed on 03/08/2011 that decisions at North Sea Camp have been put on hold for the next fortnight until there (sic) Governor 1 has spoken to area about there (sic) situation regarding Lifers/IPPs. A decision is required and until it has been made everything is on hold.

This is pure gammon - nothing more. What does it mean? This is nothing more than another example of "Let's fill him full of crap and hope he goes away". If I could, I WOULD go away - I'll even pay for the bleedin' taxi if it helps!

So, the bottom line is, "We are doing nothing" - as usual.

My parole reports start soon and, once they do start, then I am not allowed to be moved to another prison. I will then have to appear before the Parole Board next year in THIS prison and, of course, the first question asked will be, "Why has our last recommendation not been implemented?" Of course this place will then look for someone to blame, because they take the blame for nothing. Who will get the blame?

Go on, take a wild guess. Oh! There's a surprise! It's all my fault... AGAIN!

To move on, it will also be remembered that a few weeks ago I made the life-changing decision, after great deliberation, to grow a mustache. Well, the plan was to see which came first, the tash or a transfer - a bit like the chicken and the egg only slightly more interesting.

Yesterday one of my contemporaries, a Turkish fellow, said to me that I now look like a PKK Separatist - a Kurd. It looks like the tash is winning.

Having said all that, it won't last much longer because it is irritating the very Divvil out of my top lip. How people can grow facial hair is a puzzle to me. It's annoying and, to be quite honest, looks scruffy.

I am reminded of something my grandma Nell was fond of saying and that was:

Nivver trust a feller who cultivates on his face what grows wild on his arse.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Call me a Mackem

Here we are again, the end of yet another week where there is very little to relate from this end in respect of my transfer to somewhere else, beyond the fact that we should be informed officially whether I am accepted by North Sea Camp and where I am on the waiting list. What that actually means in pounds, shillings and pence is that I have nothing in my immediate future other than more waiting. Well, I'm quite good at waiting - I've had enough practice.

The other thing this week is that today, Sunday the 11th September, is the tenth anniversary of what has now become known world-wide as "Nine Eleven". Don't panic, I'm not going to say anything about it - enough has been and is being said by people far more qualified than me.

I remember where I was at the time. I was in Full Sutton prison and was on basic, so I didn't have a telly - I had to go running to the telly room to watch it.

I suppose it takes a powerful hatred to contemplate such an act. This got me thinking about hatred, and we can't really condemn anyone for it because our nation is the leader in hatred - we don't even like each other. For instance, let's consider the hatred between seperate sets of people who live in each other's back gardens, so to speak. Liverpool hate Everton, Manchester United hate Manchester City and so on. Of course they don't go round blowing up each other's stadiums and killing each other, but that's only because
they wouldn't get away with it. If they thought they COULD get away with it, they would be wiping each other out with the best of them.

Let us consider the situation between the denizens of Newcastle and those of Sunderland. There is maybe fifteen miles between the two cities, but there is a continent between them socially.

Now (and pay attention here - I'll be asking questions later), there is a great deal of misconception in that everyone thinks that a Geordie has to come from Newcastle. That's not so. A Geordie is someone born between the river Tees and the river Tyne. People from north of the Tyne are actually Tynesiders, while people from Sunderland and Middlesboro are Wearsiders and Tees-siders respectively. However, bigots never allow a fact to come between their pet hates and reality, so the Tynesiders call themselves Geordies and call the Wearsiders Mackems. (South Shields folk are Sand-Dancers and Hartlepool folk are Monkey­Hangers - but that's a different story.)

Wearsiders are called Mackems because when the shipyards were in operation it was said that they "Mak the ships and tak them te sea". That became "Mackems and Tackems" which is now merely abridged to "Mackems".

There is a story that there was once a doctor from the south of England travelling to the Freeman Hospital in Newcastle where he was to perform a very delicate operation on a patient. He drove up the A1 and M1 and finally turned off into Newcastle itself. However, being a stranger to the area, he was forced to ask directions. So he stopped his car at the side of the road and approached a group of young men who were coming away from St James' Park after a game between Newcastle and Sunderland, which Sunderland had managed to draw after a disputed penalty kick.

"Excuse me," said the doctor politely, "But could you tell me the quickest way to get to the Freeman Hospital please?"

"Aye!" growled a disgruntled fan. "Call me a fucking Mackem."

The Voice In The Wilderness

So what's new?

There we have it - yet another week passes with nothing at all actually happening, locked in the passionate arms of inertia or, as the literary world refers to it, The Lazy L. However, I think I can be a bit more up-beat than that - after all, I'm supposed to have an education and an imagination (two things most severely frowned on here at the Lazy L, incidentally). So let me tell a little story here.

When (after a great deal of pointless argument by this place) it was finally agreed that Yes, I would be transferred to an open prison and that Yes, I was a Category D prisoner, I was sitting here cogitating (as is a regular practice with me) and it occurred to me that owing to the fact that I am a Cat D and on my way (via the scenic route obviously) to open conditions, why can't I make a start on my programmes here at the Lazy L?

So I applied to go home for a week or so while I am waiting for them to get their collective arses into gear and get on with it. To be quite frank (Ha! Ha! That's great that one), to be quite frank about it I had absolutely no expectations whatsoever - I only asked because I wanted to see what bollix reason they would give for refusing to let me go home on Temporary Release On Licence or, as they refer to it in the acronym TROL... or ROTL. (They love acronyms - they confuse the prisoner you see!)

Imagine my surprise, then, when someone arrived at my kennel door with a set of papers for me to fill in applying for home leave! I filled the application document in gleefully and handed it back then sat back waiting for the refusal to arrive so that I could have a good snigger at the refusal reasons (not that they are ever reasoned about any decisions - more arbitrary really). I didn't think it would take long - surely the Smiling Assassin would do her best to put a stop to my shenanigans!

Not a bit of it! The weeks went by and... nothing!

So, a couple of weeks ago, I put a couple of applications in to ask about the current position in respect of my transfer and one to ask about the position in respect of my request for home leave.

I got an answer at last. I have no idea what to make of it, of course, this is all new ground to me - I am a lost soul wandering through the maze of life - and that's funny on lots of levels. Perhaps the best thing to do is actually to reproduce the answer here in full and everyone can see for themselves.

Mr Wilkinson... I am awaiting recommendations from the Police and Probation Service regarding ROTL at the address given.
Your transfer to Category D open conditions is being processed by TACMAN.
I will contact the Probation and Police again today.
I would draw your attention to PSO 6300 Chapter 4.3.1 regarding eligibility, regarding closed conditions.
However your application is being proceeded with in preparation for your transfer to open conditions.
Signed and dated 31/8/11

So, what do we make of THAT? Is it good news?

Well... it's not BAD news. In fact, it's hardly any sort of news because in reality it says nothing, merely a sop to keep me quiet probably. "Well, if he thinks we are doing something he might stop bothering us and leave us alone!" That's not going to happen - I've got nothing else to do with my time but think up difficult questions to ask, reasonable but difficult to ignore.

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that there appear to be all manner of promises but nothing actually happens - not a bleedin' thing! Nowt, zilch, zero, nada. I'm still sitting here picking my nose and watching my new tash grow. (Incidentally, it's coming along nicely - I look a bit like an ancient hippy, or maybe an armchair bandido.)

Oh well, another week of no news - so what's new?

The Voice In The Wilderness

Waiting is such sweet sorrow

Every week I write that there is nothing to report and no change whatsoever on the horizon, not a thing. This week it gives me the greatest of pleasure to write that absolutely bugger all has changed so this week will be no exception. I'm still sitting here, like a tin of condensed milk on a diabetic's larder shelf, tapping away at my retro typewriter like a demented woodpecker.

I did put an application in some four or five days ago to ask what the position is in respect of my transfer to greener pastures or, as Boudica calls it, the Home for Gay Sailors, but of course there has been no response to that application. Having said that, I'm not surprised there has been no answer - what can they tell me? "Mr Wilkinson, we are waiting for a place for you." Well, I know that - so does everyone else.

I put another application in to ask what the position is in respect of my application for a week's home leave while I am waiting to be sent to the home for queer matelots and the only reaction THAT got was somebody came to see me to ask me who he was supposed to send it to for an answer - how am I supposed to know THAT? I'm not running the dump - and if I was, things would get done a lot sooner than they do now THAT'S for sure.

Big Brian (or, as I call him, Herman the Big Mug) wrote to tell me that he wants to come and see me as soon as I get to the bit of the Wash reclaimed from the sea, so it will be nice to see him - and a lot of other folk I haven't seen for so long. I don't have visits in this place, they are like everything else about the joint - nasty.

Boudica is getting a bit stressed about it all, although she will deny it under questioning. But who can blame her? I'm getting a bit stressed myself - poor sleep patterns, all that kind of thing.

I know she is getting stressed because normally, when I am rude to or about her, she would just snigger and be rude back, but she sounded a bit offended in her last letter because she said, "That's right, when you've got nothing to write about, pick on me!" I told her that it's the menopause, but that's like showing a bull
the proverbial red flag. To be fair, there are other factors that need to be taken into account, but I think this lack of progress in my situation is probaly the catalyst and magnet for all other things that are going a little bit wrong here and there. Things that would normally be "laffed" at and ignored are starting to earn comments from her that she wouldn't make as a rule. Things must be getting to her a little bit.

Anyway, now that I've mentioned Herman the Big Mug, I suppose it behoves me to mention him further. I've known Big Brian for donkey's years - longer than I've known Boudica (she's just prettier). Brian is what is commonly called a big lad. He must be six four or five and from a distance he looks little and stocky - he's built like a brick shithouse in fact. He lives in Hartlepool and, years ago, he fell asleep one afternoon on the beach there. When he woke up Greenpeace were trying to shove him back in the water.

So, that's ANOTHER one who will be annoyed at me now. In the meantime, I'm just going to continue sitting here like a pustule on a camel's bum and wait patiently - in fact, much more of it and I'll BE a patient, although Boudica will say that I've been a patient for years.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A fish and chip tale

Once again we reach the end of yet another pointless week here at the Lazy L where nothing at all has happened - nothing of any interest to me, at least. Mind, to be fair, that’s not entirely correct, although what IS new isn’t exactly earth-moving. This week, all I have been able to discover or find out is that I WILL be going to North Sea Camp as soon as there is a space for me there - I have to wait for room, a place. That’s all I ever do - wait. I’m thinking about changing my name to Mr Wait - maybe I will be able to claim Terry as my brother. Having said that, would I want to?

So, North Sea Camp (or, as Boudica calls it, the Home for Gay Sailors - she only thinks she's funny!) - when will I be off to the world of fresh air, cabbage fields and seagull guano? (I was going to say seagull shit, but that sounds a bit rude.)

Speaking of Boudica, I understand that she wasn’t impressed by my little vignette of last week and the fishy fingers. She says everything about me is fishy, but she only says that because she likes me. Apparently she objects (not very strongly) at my hinting that she was travelling around in trains in the swinging sixties, and she says we never met like that anyway. Okay, fair enough - I’ll tell another story then about how we first met. Of course, people will ask, "Is he telling the truth THIS time?" and the answer is, "Of course I am." Well, as near to the truth as a policeman gets when he is swearing someone’s life away in a Crown Court.

Is it any wonder that policemen and supergasses get on so well? They both have the same kind of mind - they can remember things that never happened in the first place and are willing to swear to them on their mothers’ lives.

Anyway, to get back to how I met Boudica. Many years ago, when I was a mere youth in my salad days, I took to the sea and travelled around a good deal. I used to ask the local populace, “Where am I?” Come to think on it, I’m still doing it - I rarely know what I am doing or where I am.

What was I saying? Oh yes, Boudica and the meeting of the same. So there was I, docked in Middlesboro and, for some strange and unfathomable reason, I went to Hartlepool one evening to sample the beverages being retailed in one or three of the public houses, as was my wont in those halcyon days.

I was in a pub called the "Lord Nelson" (I'm safe with that one - every town has a "Lord Nelson" public house), and I was doing my best to "score" for one of the local girls and meeting with very little success - the story of my life really. So, come closing time it was me for a solitary taxi ride back to the ship and an evening spent in the company of Palmler Handerson and her five skinny daughters.

I came out of the pub at about ten-thirty in the evening and across the road was a fish and chip emporium with a bus-stop just outside, one of those with the shelters.

I wandered across toward the chippie and then saw that standing in the bus shelter was a young blonde eating fish and chips from a paper parcel held in her hand.

Nothing unusual about that, it’s a scene being enacted in every town all over the country every day, but what I didn’t tell you, and what caught my attention, was the fact that she had her knickers down around her ankles.

"Erm,” said I approaching hopefully. “Excuse me, Miss, but your knickers have fallen down!”

She looked at me, looked down, looked back at me and said, “Oh! My boyfriend must have gone home.”

Oh dear - she'll make me pay for that one.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A very sick man

Well here we are again, the end of yet another week of strolling the rolling pastures of the Lazy L with neither care nor worry. Whatever you may say about the prison service, there is one thing they cannot be accused of and that is actually doing anything in haste, not for the cons’ benefit anyway.

Having said that, there are a couple of little signs that just maybe something may happen before the Olympics. Actually I’m thinking about putting my name down for one of the events - the Not Moving A Muscle and Doing Fuck All marathon. I think I’m a certainty for double gold.

The other day they came to see me and asked me to sign a paper which said that I agreed to share a cell on arrival in North Sea Camp (if it should be necessary), so I signed that. There was also a question on the paper for this prison which asked:
“Would you accept Prisoner back in the event of a Serious Open Conditions Failure.”
and of course this place has agreed. They are not too keen on letting me go but they will have me back at the shake of a rat’s whiskers. I’m informed that the document was faxed back to North Sea Camp on Wednesday 10th and that I would know what was oing on within a week - so this next few days should provide something definite at last and I’ll believe it when I see it. Next week’s "Voice" should be interesting.

Has anyone noticed that when any of us (human beans, that is) is in a pensive or thoughtful mood we have a tendency to relax and go off into a daydream. Our faces completely relax and turn to rubber, sagging and drooping I expect. The overall effect can be of having a miserable countenance. We ain't (miserable, I mean), but that’s the perception of a casual observer.

The other day, I was leaning on the railing outside of cell, (well, it stops me from falling to the floor if I lean) and I was thinking of cabbages and kings, off in a world of my own I expect, miles away. My face must have looked even more miserable than usual because one of the female kangaroos came to lean next to me and asked, “Are you all right? Frank.”
Well, you know me, never miss a trick, never spurn a chance at a good joke, that’s me.
“No,” said I. “As a matter of fact, I’m not.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked she, all concerned and walking right into it.

“Well,” said I, “it’s my brother, Cecil.”
I haven’t got a brother called Cecil - nobody has.
“What’s the problem?” asked Florence Nightinga1e.
“Well,” I settled down to fool her. “He’s a lot older then me and he’s been living in sheltered accommodation for a few years now. The thing is, nobody had seen him for a few weeks and the warden at the sheltered housing place got a bit concerned so he contacted Social Services about it. They arrived with the police and they all started knocking on the door of the flat but couldn’t get any answer. In the end they had to break the door down and when they got inside they found the curtains all closed and all over the place there were opened and half eaten tins of Chum dog food and there were spoons in some of the tins. They searched the flat and every room had these half eaten tins of dog food everywhere."
“What about your brother?” asked Miss Gullible 1962.
“They found him lying on the kitchen floor,” said I, sadly. “Oh my God! Was he dead?”
“No,” said I “But he had broken his neck trying to lick his own bollocks.”
She just looked at me and finally said, “You are a very sick man,” and burst out laughing.
Well, you know what Julius Caesar said just before the Senators perforated his torso:
“Coppula eams se non posit acceptera jocularum.”
(Fuck them if they can't take a joke.)

The Voice In The Wilderness

A fishy tale

Well here we are again, the end of yet another week which has seen about as much progress as the coal mining industry - not a lot. Having said that, I did get an answer to a letter I wrote to Hoss the Boss a couple of weeks back. I wrote to him letting him know that there was a dastardly plot afoot, by persons better left unnamed, to circumvent the Secretary of State and the Parole Board. The plot was to send me to a Category C prison, ostensibly to "wait for a place in open prison". Of course that is pure humbug - once
they got me there they would effectively put years onto my sentence and defeat the whole issue.

Anyway, I told Hoss the Boss and he wrote back to say (amongst other things):

...I can categorically state that we will arrange your transfer to a Category D prison in line with the Parole Board directions...

Well, that seems to be plain enough - unambiguous and final - but it doesn't mention when.

I sent the governor of North Sea Camp a sort of letter-of-introduction-cum-CV and apparently he got it all right and it has been added to my file there. They (North Sea Camp) are in possession of my application, my file, Parole Board and Secretary of State's order, my medical file and my letter-cum-CV. They (apparently) have selection boards at regular intervals and whenever they hold their next one they will decide whether to accept me or not. Back to waiting again.

Boudica says that I have applied for the Governor's job - but we all know that she's got a twisted sense of humour at the best of times.

Wonder Woman and Titus Pullo want to ask the governor of NSC if they can take me out for a meal on one of my days-out, if and when I get to NSC - they must think I need feeding up to get me ready to take Boudica on.

Speaking of Boudica, I am often asked how I met her - well, I was asked once by Blodwyn. You know me - never the same answer to that question twice in a row, so this time will be no exception to that rule.

How did I meet Boudica?

Well, many years ago, when I first took to the sea, we docked one time in Edinburgh, at the Port of Leith, which had a huge fishing market at the time. I was a callow youth then and spent my time at my grandparents' house in Sunderland. So for my leave from the ship I set out to go to Sunderland. However, before I went I visited one of those sea-food stalls they had on the docks at the Port of Leith and bought a huge carrier-bag full of prawns for my grandmother - she liked a prawn now and then. So, carrying my sea bag and the bag of prawns, I got onto the train at Edinburgh Central for the journey down to Newcastle. 

In those days most of the trains were just compartments, no corridors down the sides. If you got caught short during a journey, too bad.

So, I esconced myself into a compartment with one other person - a pretty young blonde girl.

"Oh ho!" said I to myself, "A mucky little matelot stuck into a train all the way to Newcastle with a pretty girl - enormous opportunity to get up to no good!"

Remember, it was the Swinging Sixties - not that I saw much of it at sea.

Once the train got moving, and she had nowhere to go, I started to chat her up - but she put me right down, looked down her nose at me with disdain (she's been doing it ever since), and made it quite plain to me that, as far as she was concerned, I could just bugger off. (She's been saying that ever since too).

So I turned nasty, as young men do under such provocation, and I started to eat the prawns and throw the shells at her. She objected, of course, but what could she do? Not a lot.

So there I sat, munching prawns and chucking the shells at her as she got more and more irate and annoyed until in the end she leapt to her feet and pulled the communication cord.

I laughed and pointed to the sign, "Hey!" said I. "When they see what you've done, you'll get fined five quid!"

She retorted, "And when they smell your fingers you'll get five years."

Bugger! She'll make me pay for that one. 

The Voice In The Wilderness

Godot ain't here yet

Well, here we are again - Sunday 31st July and the end of yet one more week when nothing has happened and, while a lot seems to be promised, there is nothing forthcoming at all, not a thing, zilch, zero, nada, nowt, fuck all.

However, I don't choose to see it as the end of yet another week - my feet are planted firmly in the air - I see it as the start of a fresh month because it's August tomorrow. My next parole hearing is in September 2012. That's only thirteen months as the crow flies - and the way this place operates I'll still be sitting here doing G.B.H. to the typewriter. Forgive me if I sound a little cynical, but experience has taught me that this place offers much but delivers nothing.

As we all know, the Secretary of State gave me a sixteen month review and I now find out from my solicitor that sixteen months is actually a breach of my human nights under the ECHR Article 5 (4) - whatever that says. Twelve months is normal, apparently, and can only be extended under extraordinary circumstances - but that's MY interpretation, not my solicitor's.

So he is contemplating some form of challenge to have that period reduced to twelve months - and THAT would make my next parole hearing in May of next year, not September. What's that - nine months? Nine months to do all I have to do with interventions and the like and get reports written - all done IN open prison. The way this place operates, I'll still be sitting here in nine months.

However, my solicitor is the expert - I'm just the one who has the stress-filled and anxious nights where sleep sits on my shoulder and sniggers at me.

The trouble is, I'm not getting any younger. In the words of Pink Floyd:

So we run and we run to catch up with the sun
But it's sinking.
Racing around to come up behind us again.
The sun is the same in a relative way
But we're older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Well, I can subscribe to THAT!

It may be remembered (or it may not) that the other day I was told that my details would be sent off to every open prison in the country. That hasn't actually happened, as far as I know, and I've not had a word on the subject since. It's not going to happen, of course - remember, we are dealing with the Lazy L here, and what the Lazy L says and what the Lazy L does are always two entirely different things. As I say, they promise much but deliver nothing.

Still, we've got to be like Felix Dennis and see the world as a glass half full - it prevents insanity creeping up on us.

You can't really object to folk when they get a bit difficult when it comes to dealing with the likes of me - after all, I am scum. Hey! Before anyone starts getting the wrong idea, let me just say that it wasn't easy getting to be scum - I had to work hard at it, I suffered for my art! Scum is a calling that many aspire to but few actually get the gold star! Let me tell you, I've got the gold star and two bars. When the scum of the world have their judgement day, I'll be there, right at the front of the queue, waiting for what's coming as a reward.

In the meantime I'll just let the Lazy L continue to hold their own scum awards - and guess who will get the nomination here?

By the way, he's not here yet - that Godot feller. I'm getting toward the point where I'm starting to think that he's just a figment of someone's imagination - a bit like me being sent to open prison by the Lazy L.

The Voice In The Wilderness

To labour and to wait

Yesterday, July 27th, I was called to the office and when I got there I was handed a letter which I had originally sent out to Andrew on 3rd July, twenty-four days earlier. I was informed that Security had stopped the letter from leaving the prison on the grounds that it named members of staff. All I had done was quote the Parole Board document - but it's all academic now because times have moved on considerably. At least the envelope came in useful to send out another letter to him, this time without making anyone nervous, hopefully.

In fact, yesterday was a bit of an interesting day, as days go in the Lazy L. Someone from the Tactical Management Team came to see me (they are the mob who deal with transfers) and it was a very pleasant and hopefully reliable young woman. I won't use her name for two reasons - the first being that this place would start to panic again and the second being that I don't know her name anyway. The outcome of our little chat was that there was no question of me being sent anywhere other than to an open prison - which one is the only question.

She went off about her business promising to send my details to every open prison in the country, although I have no idea how many there are - as I said to her, this is all new territory to me. So, my details are going out to every open jail, and she also said that North Sea Camp had requested my medical details so they must be considering taking me already. I also sent the Governor of North Sea Camp my CV yesterday and asked him to accept me, so that can only help.

What it all boils down to is that I will stay here until I find a place to accept me, it's as simple as that. But I have to be where I am going by September because that is when my intervention time is supposed to commence, on the instructions of the Secretary of State for Justice. I am due twenty-six weeks of interventions and I think that is me and The Wallace sorting out details of my resettlement into the community, that type of thing. Then in April of next year there are another twenty-six weeks for parole reports to be written by North Sea Camp (or wherever I happen to go to) ready for the Oral Parole Hearing scheduled for September 2012. That's only fourteen months away and, provided that nothing goes drastically wrong, it will, in effect, be my release hearing.

Let me put it this way - this Christmas should be my last in jail, and even this one could be spent on home leave.

There's a lot to be done between now and then, of course, and it all starts with this place getting mobile and getting me moved to an open prison. I keep coming back to North Sea Camp, not because of any particular reason other than it is the one which The Wallace thinks is ideal for me and I don't know any others. I don't even know where North Sea Camp is beyond the fact that it is on the Lincolnshire coast near Boston and is partly to do with land reclaimed from The Wash.

Ha! I've got this mental vision of them dragging a lump of land out of a washing machine, drying it off and saying, "That's not a bad bit of land - we'll build a jail on that."

So, that's the position - once again a case of hurry up and wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Old Harry certainly knew what he was talking about all right - he must have spent time at the Lazy L.

The Voice In The Wilderness

Say not the struggle naught availeth

Let me begin by copying out a few of the passages from a letter received today (Wednesday July 20th) from the Ministry of Justice, dated 18th July 2011:

OUTCOME OF PAROLE BOARD REVIEW

As you know, the Parole Board has recommended your transfer to open prison. The Secretary of State has now considered the Parole Board recommendation, and agrees with this view for the reasons given by the Panel...

There is a lot of other stuff, but that's the important part.

The letter also mentions that I may have to take part in certain "interventions" when I reach open prison, although that seems to be, to say the least, ambiguous. Whatever it is, I'll be more than happy to go along with it. The letter states that the Secretary of State cannot guarantee to place me on these specific "interventions" through lack of availability of resources, but I may not be suitable anyway.

I am also informed that my next parole review is due sixteen months from the last one - and the last one should have been in June 2010. THAT means that my next review process begins on the twenty-sixth week before the designated hearing date - September 2012. So the review period begins in April 2012 - not too far away, and I have to be in open prison for some time prior to that for certain assessments and considerations to be made in respect of the possible "interventions". I suppose "interventions" is the word being used to replace the word "courses". They don't do courses in open prisons. Actually I think it is mainly to do with matters connected to work done with my probation officer.

So, all the soul-searching and agonising about challenges made by the Lazy L are over at last. I've still got a long road to travel, and there will be pitfalls of course, but I'll avoid them, I'll keep my eyes open for them and, whatever else I may be, I'm not a fool.

All of those fears and anxieties that have given me disturbed and restless nights should disappear now, but they won't of course. I will believe things when I see them - prison  has taught me to hope for the best but expect the worst. That's the Lazy L for you - always expect the worst because that's what generally comes from this place.

So, here I am at last, after all those worries when I thought that nothing else could be done to get sense out of this place. I had lost sight of the fact that, way out of the scope of my ken, there are people who think clearly and who actually make fair and decent decisions, people who were working on my behalf to try to get a sensible conclusion to the situation created by the poor thinking that is endemic at the Lazy L.

It all brings to mind the words of Arthur Clough (poet) in his poem, "Say not the struggle naught availeth" where he wrote:

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

I was the tired waves vainly breaking, but the tide was coming in slowly but surely. Well, it's in sight now and I can hear the waves on the rocks and smell the ozone.

I have written to Boudica, of course - she will be pleased. Mind, she will also have to stop making her unrealistic threats now - she might have to keep them! Come to think about it, I'll have to stop being rude to her too or she WILL keep them, a lot sooner than I expected. The dog better watch out too. I bet it bloody well bites me - I'm lucky like that.

The Voice In The Wilderness

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