My first kids' party!

Yesterday I did something I have never done before - I went to a kids' party. You know the sort of thing - a dozen or more five year old girls, yelling and running everywhere, jumping on bouncy castles and eating rubbish. I had expected tears somewhere along the line but the only appearance that Miss Tantrum made was at the end when they all had to leave - one didn't want to go!

I don't know what anyone else thought, but in my humble opinion these shindigs should employ at least a couple of bouncers - keep the little monsters under control. And that's just the mothers.

I particularly liked the part where they all sang "Happy birthday" because they all started yelling for three cheers. On and on they went - and they even continued the cheering when they all went back to jumping, running and yelling.

As I said, I have never done it before but there is a first time for everything, so I am told.

The Voice In  The Wilderness

Bleak House is history

Well, Bleak House is history. On Thursday 23rd May I had a meeting with the probation folk there and the only thing I really wanted to know was, "Can I go home for good?"

"Well," said my prob-off, "we have had word from Northumbria probation and they have no objections to you going up there for good, and your brother's residence has been approved. Officers have visited and they have no objections whatever..."

Or words to that effect. They also said that officer plod had been too and they had neither objections nor issues, which is nice to know - it's the first time a flatfoot ever said that about me. Come to think about it, I don't recall a rozzer ever saying anything about me that wasn't negative, so it just goes to show. I'm not sure what it goes to show - I'll have to ask a policeman.

Anyway, when they told me I could go home I asked, "When?"

"Tomorrow," said they.

"Tomorrow!" cried our hero. "What's wrong with today?"

"Well," was the reply, "it will give you twenty-four hours to organise things."

"Do you want to see me organise things?" I asked and, taking out my mobile, I phoned Paul - he who shaves his legs and bum. (We worry about him.) "Paul," said I, "Come and get me as soon as you can."

"Right," said he.

That was about nine-thirty in the morning. I was home in no time.

So here I am, back home and, as far as I am concerned, Bleak House is history.

The Voice In The Wilderness

The waiting game - again

Well once again I am waiting. This time it is the last wait because I am waiting for them to tell me that I can go home at last and live independently, just seeing the probation once a week up in Sunderland. I am going to live with my brother and his family because they want me to. Well, there are several who want me to do that but I think Robert is the best bet. There are two seafront flats I could take over if I so decided and a couple of bungalows - well, one bungalow and one cottage. Incidentally, what's the difference?

The Sunderland probation are going to visit our Robert on Tuesday afternoon. The fact that officer plod has already been to check the place seems to bear no weight, the probation has to do it too. Don't ask me why.

So, the prob will call on Tuesday and then phone down here to their partners in crime and tell them I can go, or words to that effect. Once that happens I expect I will be told to phone for a car to come and get me, no problem. It will take them three hours to get here and three hours back, that will be that, this place gone out of my ken forever. Can't come soon enough for me. The next Voice I write will be written in the colder climate of the distant North East, where men are men and sheep are nervous.

Oh well, just the final steps to take, that's all - so watch this space. Until then I shall continue to do what I've been doing for over twenty-seven years - waiting.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A family weekend

It is the females who cause all the trouble you know! I went up to Sunderland again on Friday and no sooner had I got myself settled at Robert's when my sister Ellen arrived.

"Hello, Big Head," says she, punching me in the chest.

"What do you want?" I asked in my best academic manner.

She sniggered.

Anyway, wandered round to my brother Jimmy's for a little chat with him and of course he produces cans of liquid.

"I don't want a drink," said I.

"I'll have one," says Ellen, grabbing a pack of four.

Within an hour I've got several brothers present, a couple of nephews with their wives or girlfriends, a niece or two arrived with their fellows and of course the two women who should never be allowed in the same town together - my sisters. Well it didn't take long before the bottles were being purchased at the off-licence and people were quaffing brandy or whisky - sometimes both.

Have you noticed that when families have these little parties there seems to be a lot of laughing and buggering about, a lot of cars get left in odd places and the music gets louder until somebody (me) turns it off altogether. Then the women decide it's time to have a bit of a sing while all the men want is a bit of a bite to eat. Still going at four in the morning but at least there were no neighbours to upset.

On Saturday we went to an Italian place on the sea-front, ten of us, and I asked who was paying. Our Ellen sniggered and Tanya said, "Guess." We had a couple of the kids with us too. It was great fun especially when little Blake and Abby discovered that there were jars of lollipops on the counter for kids. I don't think they are there now.

Sunday was spent relaxing and upsetting people by refusing to go for my Sunday lunch. Let's face it, you only need one and I was having mine at Jo's, with Kevin - a lovely Sunday lunch.

Coming back we had four of us in the car - Paul driving, Robert in the passenger seat with me and Kevin in the back. 

The Voice In The Wilderness

This internet thing...

Last night I was playing with my computer.

See the casual way I just throw that one in? Well, until a couple of weeks ago, this internet thing was a complete mystery to me. It's not much better now, but at least I can manage a couple of things and THAT'S progress.

Where was I? Oh yes.

So I was playing with the computer and somehow I got this thing, page, about people on their own on a Saturday night - so I had a look at it. It's full of, shall we call them, mature folk? Right - full of them - and I was on there for ages checking out the talent. Maybe it is just me, but a lot of those older ladies have got a lot to offer the world.

However, this got me to thinking about the concept of loneliness and, while my own company is generally preferable to that of others, even a rock needs a river bed to rest in from time to time. No man is an island, no matter what Simon and Garfunkle said. So, I am going to...shall we say, expand my social life? That's the polite way to say it, but what it really means is that I am thinking about putting it about a bit.

Ha! I know what my friend Blondie will say when she reads this, she will be straight on the emails giving me sniggers and stuff. Some people take the mick a bit... not me, of course, I wouldn't dream of it - I'm training to be a saint. The next vacancy that comes up at the Vatican I am applying for the job. I would have applied this time but I was bust trying to work out how to use this computer.

The Voice In The Wilderness

With a little help from my friends

Well it's been a funny ould day to say the least. It started at half-past nine this morning when I had to see my "key-worker" - which is their euphemism for the "in-house" probation officer. Well, there wasn't much to be said by either of us, to be quite frank. (Ha! Ha! That's a cracker. I'll have to remember that one - to be quite Frank. I just come out with them you know. Where was I? I've been wandering again. Oh yes - the meeting with the key-worker here at Bleak House.)

So...not much to be said by either side really. Let's face it, I don't want to be here and the sooner I can leave, the better. They don't want me here (I shouldn't wonder) because quite frankly I don't fit in really. I am not the usual sort of punter they get here and, compared to the rest, I am a bit of a misfit I suppose. Well, I don't take drugs, nor do I drink or argue and whinge about my medication or somebody drinking more milk than me.

So, we had our little chat and as far as I could see the only thing to come out of it was that I owed over a hundred quid in rent and could I cough up before they sent the bailiffs around. So I did. I went down town and got the cash from the hole in the wall gang and brought it back and paid up like a good boy.

So, that was my first meeting of the day over and I left it a poorer but very little wiser man. The story of my life really. However, when I was down town I did have the foresight to purchase myself a cheese'n'onion pie for my lunch at the princely sum of two quid - money well spent if you were to ask me. Went down a treat that did, once I had microwaved it.

After that I set off for a walk to assist the digestive processes and wandered down to the probation offices in a street which must remain secret in case the Russians or somebody finds out where it is. However, anyone who wants to know can go to www.kissmyarse.com and it's all there. (See! This computer business is distorting my mind. I may need counselling by the time I am finished.) Well, I met the Prob-Off mentioned earlier - the "out-house" one as opposed to the "in-house" one who took my dosh. I can't remember the conversation verbatim, only policemen can do that, but ,to paraphrase, it went along the lines of:

"Where do you want to live?" 

"Sunderland," said I. "It's far enough from my old haunts and friends really." 

"Jolly good," said she, clearly another one who would like to get rid of me. "Let's have the details of where you will be residing and all that kind of thing."

Gave her them - address, postcode, colour of door and where to find it on Google Maps, who the place belonged to - all that sort of thing. Apparently she will check with Officer Plod and the Sunderland probation service as to background or something. Provided nothing goes wrong I could well be transferred up to the North East in a relatively short period of time. I am off up there next Friday anyway for another weekend - staying with my brother again so that's okay. I shall come back to this nameless city and Bleak House on the following Monday, clutching in my little hot mitt a selection of photographs of the interior of the cottage I intend to live in until I find a place of my own that I like. Well, they need to see it to assure themselves that I am moving to an acceptable dwelling and not to some garret where I will be living on bread and cheese. Any more rent bills like today's and I won't be able to AFFORD bread and cheese - I'll only get that on my birthdays, and only then if somebody gives it to me.

I can't speak for anybody else here, but what I need is a holiday. I don't mean a few days in the bosom of my family, as pleasant as that may be.... No, I mean a decent break away somewhere exotic, like Scarborough. Speaking of Scarborough, a friend is travelling down with his family shortly for a few days in Skegness, so I expect he will show up to take me out for some of that bread and cheese mentioned earlier. Can't use his name - he has a wife and twelve pigeons to think about.

So, here I am, sitting in my singular abode, battering the keyboard mercilessly. In fact, looking at it, I'm not - I have finished. Watch this space, I may be moving on pretty soon - with a little help from my friends.

The Voice In The Wilderness

A mini holiday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A weekend away

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

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

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

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

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

A letter from Bleak House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A dog's life

Where shall we begin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Wrestling with the twenty-first century

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fair enough!

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

A rich man indeed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We will.”

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

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

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

“There is no need.” she protested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Out in the world again

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

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

So I went.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

I shall not pass this way again

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

Why?

You may well ask.

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

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

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

But I'm not.

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

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

(W E Henley - "Echoes" 1888)

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

Ticking away the moments

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

That's it!

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

That hasn't happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

On my bike - or back to the drawing board?

Things could go disastrously wrong, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where did you get the bike?"

"Fell off the back of a car."

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

Everyone replied, "Yes."

"There would have to be restrictions!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

You can't wind up a broken clock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness

In the bewilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Voice In The Bewilderness

Here we are then

So, here we are then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah!

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

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

The Voice in the Wilderness

Soul-searching

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

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

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

What was I talking about?

Oh yes - soul-searching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even his own friends laughed at him - the clown.

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

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

The Voice In The Wilderness