07 March 2006

The John Moore Prison Diaries

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, mum's gone to London to lend moral support to a friend having some cosmetic procedure performed...and I am forced to prepare my own breakfast. She's put it out for me so all I need to do is heat it up. God, I hate being in prison. I must say though that the laundry service is not bad - my clothes have a habit of washing and ironing themselves if I leave them outside the cell. Slopping out is not a problem, although the flush on the lavatory does need some adjusting, as the cistern seems to be over filling slightly, causing the overflow pipe on the outside of the house to drip. As anybody familiar with long term dripping will know, this simple and easy to remedy problem can - if left untended, cause the house and all surrounding areas to fall down through the earth, into hell.
Perhaps I'll form a work party and try to fix it.
I haven't had many visits recently...a loss of privileges resulting from the remoteness of my incarceration. Perhaps I should petition the governor for a transfer to somewhere more sociable - Hampstead perhaps.
The regime here at the Moore Penal facility is relaxed, and reasonably pleasant, although news 24 seems to be on at all times - perhaps the clue is in the title. Anyway, this rolling news is numbing me. Any old shit to fill the time. I never realized Jack Wilde was such a huge star - the likes of whom will never be seen again..Sally over to you for more on the tragic death of Jack Wilde...we've got Mark Lester on the phone....Mark, a sad day for the world...can you tell us your impressions of Jack Wilde?...
These are good times to snuff it if you want to go out with a flourish - as long as it's a slow news day....anyway, I digress.
The screws knock off at about ten O'clock, leaving me to my own devices. I managed to smuggle some whisky in last night - right under their noses.

It's a rainy old day in tiny town, I'm hungry, but I don't think I'll be having that breakfast - as a protest against being woken up at the ungodly hour of 9.45. By the time I reawoke at midday, the coffee was cold, and the place was empty.
I shall stop now...I think I'll go over the wall...or perhaps hang myself with a bed sheet - except I haven't got one...does a duvet cover count?

Should any newspapers want to serialize these frank, shocking and honest ruminations on life inside Britain's least overcrowded prison, do drop me a line.

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