According to a recent news bulletin, 1,000 criminals have committed serious offences in the last seven years while electronically tagged. This includes 700 assaults and five killings. Judging by the opprobrium being heaped upon the government by the opposition, I’m grateful the Conservatives aren’t in power right now. Otherwise, my impending electronic tagging would have been abandoned and instead I would be consigned to serve out the remainder of my sentence in jail and then some until it could be proven that I was no longer a threat to society. I wasn’t even aware that I presented a threat in the first place, but who am I to challenge the wisdom of shadow Home Secretary David Davis, whose solution to rising crime is to build more jails? Mind you, he may have a point given that criminals in England are now having to shack up in police cells because all the prisons are full. Were they to introduce a similar scheme in Scotland, whose jails are also at bursting point, I’d never offend again for fear of being consigned to a police cell for the duration of my sentence. A long weekend in the cells is torturous enough. After a month in one, I’d happily grass up all my mates and confess to murdering Jill Dando if it got me transferred to the comparative luxury of prison. Now that my electronic tagging contract has been signed however, I am getting out of here and there is nothing Conservative politicians can do about it. My fate is in my own hands, and short of taking a prison officer hostage and eviscerating him when my demands for a helicopter and a glass of Creamola Foam aren’t met, it’s hasta la vista in 48 hours.
Today, there was more paperwork to be completed in preparation for the big day when I met with a Job Centre adviser to make an appointment for signing on. It feels wrong to have to lower myself to sponging off the government like my scrounging fellow convicts, but until The Jobby Project bears fruit, I must take what morsels the state throws my way. Dependence on others is anathema to an independent guy such as myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m too proud to doff my cap and implore ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’ when obliged to. I’ve never claimed benefits in my life, partly because I’m not a blagging Weegie but also because I could never stand the horror of having to mingle with the lowlife in the Job Centre. Having mingled with considerably lower life for the past year however, the Job Centre now holds no fear for me. In all my years of drug dealing and not officially existing, I never troubled the government for anything. I didn’t even buy a TV licence because I didn’t want to bother them with having to process all the paperwork. I know how overworked they must be, what with having to repel the hordes of Romanian immigrants, placate incensed Muslims and fly dead British soldiers back from Afghanistan. The last thing they need is me bothering them with such trifles as my TV licence fee. Given my unemployable status however, I feel I have little choice other than to sign on. Besides, it should only be for a few weeks until someone takes pity on me and offers me a job. Unlike the rest of the bums, I’m willing to work, if not able.
The adviser I met with suggested that I might want to apply for the New Deal scheme. Apparently it is an arrangement whereby long-term unemployed can be taken on by companies in return for a six-month government subsidy. Essentially it is for people who leave school at 16 with no qualifications and are too retarded to get a job. Eventually the government gets tired of their scrounging and says to employers ‘Look, we’ll pay you to take these spastics off our hands.’ Although I haven’t been on the dole for the 18 months required to qualify for New Deal, the adviser informed me that I could be made an honorary spastic by dint of my extenuating circumstances; i.e. being a no-good criminal. He didn’t word it as such but the inference was clear; there was no hope of me finding a job within 18 months so I may as well take the New Deal. I thanked him and said I’d consider the offer. It’s comforting to know that should all else fail, I can always find an apprenticeship as a hairdresser or forklift driver that will almost pay enough to cover the cost of my daily commute to work. To be honest, I’d rather make a few new deals of my own, but I’m trying to be a good boy these days.
Earlier, as I waited to meet the Job Centre adviser, I found myself sitting in the corridor outside the interview rooms. A couple of seats further down were two social workers. They were waiting too, not to sign on, but to meet with other convicts. As we sat there, killing time, one of the social workers struck up a conversation, asking me if I had a job within the jail. I told her that I got paid for attending the education department where I produced the prison magazine. Upon hearing this, she peered at me inquisitively and asked for my name. As soon as I told her, a look of recognition passed across her face, whereupon she incredulously gasped ‘You write that website, don’t you?’ She didn’t say the name of it, but then she didn’t have to for I knew she wasn’t speaking about Bangbus.com. I nodded to confirm that, yes, I did indeed write that website. It wasn’t particularly unusual for a total stranger, upon establishing my identity, to ask if I wrote The Trash Whore Diaries. A social worker though - that was different. It just seemed wrong for someone in a position of responsibility to be reading such filth. I appreciate that social workers aren’t easily shocked, but nevertheless, after dealing with fucked up people all day you’d think the last thing they’d want would be to go online and read the fucked up thoughts of yet another misfit. Besides, couldn’t a social worker being so intimate with the contents of my brain present a conflict of interest? If my girlfriend and I were ever to split up and engage in a custody battle, might the social worker not interject and rule in her favour after concluding that anyone who blogs such filth could never be a responsible father?
Of course reading The Trash Whore Diaries doesn’t make you a pervert no more than writing them does (although my parents would beg to differ). Nevertheless, I feel I ought to offer a few words of advice to the social worker in question, and any other professionals in a similar position of responsibility who may be reading this: By all means get your kicks from reading the TWDs if that’s what you wanna do. But just go easy on it. The Trash Whore Diaries is like a glass of fine claret; in small doses, it’s good for the heart and soul. Too much however can ruin your health and your life. If you need any proof, just look what it did to me. Oh, and one other piece of advice: if you’re accessing this site while at work, don’t leave it stored in your browser’s history. It wouldn’t do to have to explain to your boss what you were doing reading about incest, bodily fluids and vegetable insertion. I believe there’s a search engine out there now called browzar.com that automatically deletes your internet history. So long as you access the Trash Whore Diaries (and any other dodgy sites you may wish to visit) through browzar.com, you should be sorted. When I get out of here, I intend to make it the one-stop-shop for all my bomb-making and paedophilia needs. Like an erect penis, the internet is a wonderful tool, capable of delighting and disgusting in equal measure. It’s up to you how you choose to use it. I chose the latter option, parting the folds of my raincoat and flashing my purple prose for all to see. If it offends you, just don’t look. But if, like certain social workers, prison officers and barristers you can’t resist peeping out between the cracks of your fingers, don’t blame me if you are forever tarnished by what you have seen. As the maxim goes, if you throw enough muck, eventually some of it will stick.
Today, there was more paperwork to be completed in preparation for the big day when I met with a Job Centre adviser to make an appointment for signing on. It feels wrong to have to lower myself to sponging off the government like my scrounging fellow convicts, but until The Jobby Project bears fruit, I must take what morsels the state throws my way. Dependence on others is anathema to an independent guy such as myself, but that doesn’t mean I’m too proud to doff my cap and implore ‘Please sir, can I have some more?’ when obliged to. I’ve never claimed benefits in my life, partly because I’m not a blagging Weegie but also because I could never stand the horror of having to mingle with the lowlife in the Job Centre. Having mingled with considerably lower life for the past year however, the Job Centre now holds no fear for me. In all my years of drug dealing and not officially existing, I never troubled the government for anything. I didn’t even buy a TV licence because I didn’t want to bother them with having to process all the paperwork. I know how overworked they must be, what with having to repel the hordes of Romanian immigrants, placate incensed Muslims and fly dead British soldiers back from Afghanistan. The last thing they need is me bothering them with such trifles as my TV licence fee. Given my unemployable status however, I feel I have little choice other than to sign on. Besides, it should only be for a few weeks until someone takes pity on me and offers me a job. Unlike the rest of the bums, I’m willing to work, if not able.
The adviser I met with suggested that I might want to apply for the New Deal scheme. Apparently it is an arrangement whereby long-term unemployed can be taken on by companies in return for a six-month government subsidy. Essentially it is for people who leave school at 16 with no qualifications and are too retarded to get a job. Eventually the government gets tired of their scrounging and says to employers ‘Look, we’ll pay you to take these spastics off our hands.’ Although I haven’t been on the dole for the 18 months required to qualify for New Deal, the adviser informed me that I could be made an honorary spastic by dint of my extenuating circumstances; i.e. being a no-good criminal. He didn’t word it as such but the inference was clear; there was no hope of me finding a job within 18 months so I may as well take the New Deal. I thanked him and said I’d consider the offer. It’s comforting to know that should all else fail, I can always find an apprenticeship as a hairdresser or forklift driver that will almost pay enough to cover the cost of my daily commute to work. To be honest, I’d rather make a few new deals of my own, but I’m trying to be a good boy these days.
Earlier, as I waited to meet the Job Centre adviser, I found myself sitting in the corridor outside the interview rooms. A couple of seats further down were two social workers. They were waiting too, not to sign on, but to meet with other convicts. As we sat there, killing time, one of the social workers struck up a conversation, asking me if I had a job within the jail. I told her that I got paid for attending the education department where I produced the prison magazine. Upon hearing this, she peered at me inquisitively and asked for my name. As soon as I told her, a look of recognition passed across her face, whereupon she incredulously gasped ‘You write that website, don’t you?’ She didn’t say the name of it, but then she didn’t have to for I knew she wasn’t speaking about Bangbus.com. I nodded to confirm that, yes, I did indeed write that website. It wasn’t particularly unusual for a total stranger, upon establishing my identity, to ask if I wrote The Trash Whore Diaries. A social worker though - that was different. It just seemed wrong for someone in a position of responsibility to be reading such filth. I appreciate that social workers aren’t easily shocked, but nevertheless, after dealing with fucked up people all day you’d think the last thing they’d want would be to go online and read the fucked up thoughts of yet another misfit. Besides, couldn’t a social worker being so intimate with the contents of my brain present a conflict of interest? If my girlfriend and I were ever to split up and engage in a custody battle, might the social worker not interject and rule in her favour after concluding that anyone who blogs such filth could never be a responsible father?
Of course reading The Trash Whore Diaries doesn’t make you a pervert no more than writing them does (although my parents would beg to differ). Nevertheless, I feel I ought to offer a few words of advice to the social worker in question, and any other professionals in a similar position of responsibility who may be reading this: By all means get your kicks from reading the TWDs if that’s what you wanna do. But just go easy on it. The Trash Whore Diaries is like a glass of fine claret; in small doses, it’s good for the heart and soul. Too much however can ruin your health and your life. If you need any proof, just look what it did to me. Oh, and one other piece of advice: if you’re accessing this site while at work, don’t leave it stored in your browser’s history. It wouldn’t do to have to explain to your boss what you were doing reading about incest, bodily fluids and vegetable insertion. I believe there’s a search engine out there now called browzar.com that automatically deletes your internet history. So long as you access the Trash Whore Diaries (and any other dodgy sites you may wish to visit) through browzar.com, you should be sorted. When I get out of here, I intend to make it the one-stop-shop for all my bomb-making and paedophilia needs. Like an erect penis, the internet is a wonderful tool, capable of delighting and disgusting in equal measure. It’s up to you how you choose to use it. I chose the latter option, parting the folds of my raincoat and flashing my purple prose for all to see. If it offends you, just don’t look. But if, like certain social workers, prison officers and barristers you can’t resist peeping out between the cracks of your fingers, don’t blame me if you are forever tarnished by what you have seen. As the maxim goes, if you throw enough muck, eventually some of it will stick.
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