I can’t sleep. It’s 3am and I’m sitting propped up in bed while my girlfriend dozes beside me. Somewhere inside her, the baby dozes too. (I’m not very good at anatomy, but I’m guessing it’s in the fattest part of her.) I tried watching Cliffhanger, but not even Sylvester Stallone’s daredevil antics could tire me out. I went through to the kitchen and made a cheese toastie, and when that failed to impact on my alertness, I started assembling a pile of books that I want to read when I’m in Craigie. Stephen King, Howard Marks, ‘How To Draw Manga', ‘Learn Danish In Three Months’ (I should be able to read that one a few times over) and a book called ‘Busted! - Drug War Survival Skills’, which should come in handy when my drugs trial commences next month. I’ll tell you more about that case nearer the time, not that it’s particularly riveting. In fact compared to the perjury trial I have just been through, it is negatively dull. Because this weblog was the focus of the perjury case, the ladies and gentlemen of the jury had the pleasure of seeing large excerpts from The Trash Whore Diaries projected onto the wide-screen TVs that adorn every corner of the High Court. The prosecution then read aloud these sections, most of which related to my escapades with Paul two and a half years ago, and tried to present this weblog as being a factual account of my life. My defence team then read aloud some of the more colourful entries that showed The Trash Whore Diaries - or certain parts of them - to be a work of fiction. For instance, from Wednesday 19th February 2003, the jury were treated to the following snippet:
‘Once, when I was feeling unusually artistic, I carved my initials into the chest of a cheap whore I had picked up on Shore Lane and then gouged her eyes out with a permanent marker…. The brief flicker of excitement I feel as I thrust the blade into his skull repeatedly vanishes as soon as his Yankees baseball cap and the head within it slumps to the floor and his warm essence trickles towards my feet. I tear at his shellsuit with my knife, exposing an arm littered with tracks and I can’t help but feel cheated; this man was going to die anyway, all I had done was speed up the inevitable process. I wipe the blade across his forehead, leaving behind a red smear that looks like the poster paint I used to use in kindergarten, and put the knife back into my pocket. Upon rejoining George Street, the fat women is nowhere to be seen, but as I enter the Bon Accord Centre I hear a siren, and I know it is only a matter of time before the ned and his stash of stained coins is discovered.’
At one point during the proceedings, two elderly ladies walked in to the public gallery and sat down. I imagine they were trying to kill some time before their bus departed, or before their appointment with the grim reaper. Within minutes, they had stormed out of the court in disgust. The Press & Journal reporter, meanwhile, was trying his hardest not to laugh out loud at the depravity of the weblog extracts he was hearing. Sadly, none of them made it into the following day’s edition apart from a reference to the accused’s ‘bizarre online diary which contained a series of graphic sexual encounters.’ In order for my defence team to prove that not everything in The Trash Whore Diaries should be taken literally, Mr Prais (my Defence Advocate) asked me a series of questions, as a follow-up to the weblog extracts the court had just heard. ‘Have you ever had sex with a dog before?’ he began. ‘I’m afraid not’ I replied. ‘Have you ever had sex with your girlfriend’s mum? Oh, and could you explain to the court what a ‘boner’ is?’ Meanwhile, my own mother was sitting in the public gallery. I had warned her, at the outset of the trial, ‘This case will shock and sicken you. If you thought you had a low opinion of me now, just wait until you hear what comes out in court.’ My mum told me it was OK, and that whatever happened I was still her son and she would love me. The truth is, I don’t think she fully grasped what I was trying to tell her. But then, she’d never heard of The Trash Whore Diaries before.
At the end of each day’s court proceedings, the judge - Lord McKay - ordered the jury not to access The Trash Whore Diaries for themselves when they went home, as they weren’t supposed to see all of it and doing so could further prejudice their opinion of me. That nite, I checked the site counter for this weblog, and sure enough, a handful of people had done a Google search for ‘trash whore diaries’. Whether this was the actions of the judge, the jury or the reporters I couldn’t say, but if any of the aforementioned people are still reading this, I have the following message to impart to:
Lord McKay - Please, your lordship. I’m a nice boy really. Don’t send me to jail.
The Jury - You bastards! Damn you for being so conservative, or at least damn those of you who found me guilty.
The P&J reporter - Cunt! Get my name right. You correctly noted it as being Kai in Tuesday’s edition, yet by Wednesday it had turned into Guy.
The CID - Cocksuckers. You won this time, but I made you work for it. I heard you, shifting uncomfortably in your chairs, when Edgar Prais was getting stuck into you in his summing up speech. I’ll see you in hell.
One of the lessons I learned from my trial was the importance of spin. For example, the prosecution seized upon the following extract from my weblog, which was written following a visit to Paul while he was on remand: ‘Whatever the outcome of the trial, it will have been a costly experience for Paul. We’re speaking tens of thousands here.’ This was a reference to the legal costs that such a case, in the High Court, would incur. The Advocate Depute, however, put it to me that this was in actual fact a reference to Paul paying off myself and other witnesses. I categorically denied this. The following day, the P&J headline ran ‘Man Denies Taking Bribe To Change Evidence’. The jury’s opinion of me, if it wasn’t already low enough, had just slipped down a couple more notches and bottomed out. Never underestimate the power of spin. If I was to publish in my weblog the lurid details of my life as a drug dealer; all the money I’ve made, all the kilos I’ve shifted and all the death threats I’ve received, I have no doubt that the prosecution would use this blog against me in the subsequent drugs trial. But if I was to publish a categorical denial of any wrongdoing, and state here that I have never used or dealt drugs, do you think this weblog could be listed as a production for the defence? I somehow doubt it. One thing I do know is that there are a few cops reading this right now. For the record, I’d just like to state two things:
1. The CID stab shit.
2. I hereby confess to dealing in smack, crack, pills, crystal meth and small Phillipino boys.
Oh, and did I tell you that I am also Jack the Ripper? I guess technically that’s three things I‘ve stated, not two. Does that make it perjury because I lied a few sentences back? Either way, you’ve now got enough evidence to lock me away forever.
As is my wont, I seem to have gotten side-tracked; one minute I was telling you I couldn’t sleep; half an hour later and I’ve bored the rest of you to soma. I should really stop writing this thing so late at nite. And you should really stop reading it so early in the morning.