Weight watcher

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, what is the moral to the story?

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

Why should we bugger off? The food is free!

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Pigeon Man of North Sea Camp

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

Well, nobody ever said it would be easy.

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

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

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

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

So, I am "The Pigeon Man".

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

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

The young girl was blushing but clearly enjoyed the joke.

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Come rain, come shine

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

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

"Hello," says she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Welcome to my world," said I.

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A good week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not really.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The leafy bower

There is a tree.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off I went to the OMU department.

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

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

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

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

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

So I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

The Galloping Gourmet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Days like these

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

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

"Is it you, Frank?" said he.

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

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

That was Thursday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was Friday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get off you bastard!" I told him.

Some people seemed to find that comical.

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Lincoln Green

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

He replied that Robin Hood didn't exist.

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

"All rubbish," said the great sage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

It's raining

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

Where was I? Oh yes, not going anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice in The Wilderness

Colts, coats and cats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coats" and "Colts".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good luck with that then.

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

When the music used to make me smile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A walk with Buddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A day out

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

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

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

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

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

Was that the end of it? Not at all.

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

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

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

I mentioned it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Social duties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wanderings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "As little as possible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sixty-five," replied myself.

"Sixty-five? Are you sure?"

I sniffed deeply. "I think so."

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

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

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

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

"I'm managing stress," said I.

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

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

He just grunted and went on his way.

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

There is a leafy bower

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

RIGHT!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Better late than never

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Pilgrim's progress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Any idiot can face a crisis

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

Can't deny any of that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mill cannot grind with the water that is past.

The Voice In The Wilderness