Having been modelling my state-supplied ankle bracelet for the past fortnight now, I feel a blog is in order to extol its aesthetic and ergonomic virtues. I used to think that nothing screamed ‘Dealer!’ like a neck laden with enough gold and platinum to give Mr T a hernia, but I can see now that such trappings were ostentatious overkill. In reality, only one piece of jewellery is required to be demarcated as a dealer: a dull, grey chunk of plastic attached to an equally dull, grey strap, the sort of gimcrack you couldn’t give away, even if you were able to slip it off your ankle. Even the most desperate of muggers would draw the line at denuding a man of his government-owned ankle jewellery. Although never much of a pugilist, I always figured that if truculent troublemakers came calling, the best way to face them down would be to insouciantly sling my jacket to a bystander, roll up my sleeves and feign chewing on gum like the mean motherfucker that I so evidently was. And if that didn’t work, well I could always just run like hell and hope that they would be placated by my sacrificial jacket. Should troublemakers rear their ugly heads these days however I need only roll up one sleeve - that of my right trouser leg - to achieve the desired effect. One look at the monstrosity attached to my ankle and they would flee in abject terror, wondering what this fearsome gangster had done to his last victim to merit such a tag. I probably wouldn’t even need to deploy my opening salvo, which I have drawn up especially for such scenarios: ‘If I get into a fight with this thing on, I’m going back to jail. Seeing how I’ve got nothing to lose then, I guess I might as well kill you .’ To which the faltering reply (which I have also drawn up in my head) will come: ‘It’s cool mate, I’m sorry for knocking your drink over, I da’ want nae trouble. I’ll get you a double.’
While in jail, I derided those who were fitted out with electronic tags only to breach them within days of getting home and wind up back inside again. Little did I realise that I too would breach my curfew within hours of being tagged, and come perilously close to revisiting Craiginches. On the day of my liberation, the authorities left me to my own devices for a few hours, begrudgingly accepting that I’d earned the right to reacquaint myself with the inner workings of my girlfriend. The only stricture was that I be at home from 4pm in order for a Serco official to fit my tag. This didn’t present a problem for, having arrived home at 1pm, formalities such as sex had long since been dealt with. When the knock at the door came shortly after four o’clock, I opened it expecting to be greeted by a gruff, officious Serco employee, shaped from the same mould as the gruff, officious prison officers I had only just gained respite from. To my surprise, I opened the door to instead be confronted by a young, voluptuous college girl, the sort that in different circumstances would be the one getting fitted with jewellery by me…in the form of a pearl necklace. If the penalty for violating your tagging conditions was a home visit from this cum canvas, no wonder so many offenders were breaching their curfews. The muckle-pappet quine (as my mate Christy would surely have designated her) instructed me to walk around the perimeter of the house holding the tag while she calibrated the box to make sure that there were no ‘black spots’ in the building. It wouldn’t do to have a Serco official calling round every time I stepped into the shower just because I was out of signal range. Well, it would do just fine if it was this particular Serco official inspecting my bathing arrangements, but I had a feeling not all of their staff were as pleasing to the third eye.
I had been expecting to be fitted with a state-of-the-art bijou tracking device; instead I got a protuberance that resembled the sort of cheap, tacky, Casio sports watch you might pick up at a car boot sale, only cheaper, tackier and bulkier. It struck me that I could probably do a roaring trade in the Aberdeen Market selling tag accessories to the tagged-up reprobates who slink through there on a regular basis, wearing their tags over their socks, which are worn over their trackie B’s. My stall - Blingtagstic - would sell customised Burberry decals, Rangers and Celtic badges and offer a personalised tag engraving service as the perfect gift for the electronically tagged one you love. In keeping with the low-tech theme, I was supplied with an unprepossessing electronic box to be plugged into the fone line. An aerial protruded from the top to wirelessly liase with the tag, provided, that is, that all my other wireless devices - mobile fone, laptop, TV and stereo remotes and Sky secondary TV router - didn’t interfere with it. I elected for the tag to be fitted to my right ankle so that, in the event of me getting into a fight, I could kung-fu kick my opponent with my favoured left without smashing his brains out on the edge of the tag or - worse still - breaking the device and winding up back inside. The tag was fitted loosely enough for me to cushion it by slipping a sock underneath, but not loosely enough, unfortunately, to be able to slip it off and head for the red light district. I stood up to try it on for size, in the same way that one would try on a pair of shoes, and took a few steps. The tag felt cumbersome, but not as cumbersome, it must be said, as prison. On the plus side, I now had an excuse for leaving my socks on during sex; it wouldn’t do to have the tag slapping against my ankle, chafing skin and drowning out the delectable sound of my balls slapping against my girlfriend’s pert ass. As I Inspected my new bionic implant, I wondered to myself how many other reprobates had worn it before me. Long before it clung to my leg, a prestigious array of bank robbers, sex offenders and murders had most likely sweated on it, bled on it and came on it. And in the case of the sex offenders and murderers, it wasn’t necessarily their own bodily fluids leaching into it.
By the time the Serco representative had finished calibrating the tag, fitting it and showcasing her delectable bosoms, it was only half past four, meaning I had almost three hours of freedom before my curfew kicked in. I decided to make a trip to the supermarket and stock up on all the essentials that had been taunting me in the food commercials throughout my incarceration; decent coffee, a large Toblerone and a bottle of malt whisky. When I returned home from the shop, the fone was ringing. I picked it up to be greeted by a disgruntled sounding Glaswegian. Upon confirming my identity, he introduced himself as an employee of Serco and asked if I had just been out of the house. I informed him that I had indeed, having just gotten back from the shops, and was there a problem? It was, after all, still only half past six. To my astonishment, I was informed that I wasn’t permitted to leave the house at all on my first day of being tagged and that I had therefore breached my curfew already. I apologised profusely, only too aware that Serco must have immediately marked me down as being a complete dodger, liable to fuck them about at every available opportunity. Even my former fellow convicts I had mocked for breaching their tags hadn’t managed to fuck theirs up this quickly. I explained to the official that I had no recollection of the woman telling me I couldn’t leave the house for the rest of the day, although it may well have been the case that I was so busy staring holes in her sweater I simply didn’t hear her. I was informed in no uncertain terms that this caveat was written in the contract I had received upon leaving the jail. I looked it out and sure enough, there it was in small print at the bottom: ‘Following installation, you must not leave this address before 07.15 on 26/10/2006.’ It was an inauspicious start to my tagging phase to say the least. Although I didn’t think Serco would be so unreasonable as to send me back to jail for the occasional hiccup, I had no desire to use up all my lifelines on the first nite. There would be plenty of other occasions in the coming months (like New Year for instance), when excuses may have to be made for going AWOL. I imagined the tagging control room at Serco headquarters to resemble the battle station on a military submarine, with buzzers sounding and warning lights flashing across the board as the ten-man crew frantically tried to keep tabs on the 1,000-odd degenerates running amok across the land.
For my first week of electronic tag-dom, I made sure to be home in ample time for the 7.15pm curfew and there were no further repeats of the first nite’s teething problems. Then, three days ago, I found myself facing the wrath of Serco once again. During the evening, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to be greeted by a Serco official (not the same one who had fitted my tag unfortunately), who announced that he was here to perform a routine spot-check. I invited the guy in, whereupon he proceeded to inspect my hardware before asking if I’d had any problems with it. I informed him that no, everything had been fine since the slight misunderstanding on the first day. The man informed me that the real reason for his visit was because Serco suspected that I might have tried to interfere with the tagging box, not sexually but in order to sabotage it. Apparently, the box had an inbuilt motion sensor that could detect if someone was trying to fiddle with it. If the box was shaken or stirred more than five times in a week, Serco come calling. Had I had cause to move the box that day, the man wondered? I thought for a moment. ‘Well yeah, I was dusting it a bit’ I shrugged. This explanation seemed to satisfy the man, who advised me that in future I should leave the box in situ when dusting it in order to prevent further unnecessary call-outs. What I didn’t tell him was that I knew only too well why the box had been moved that day, and it had nothing to do with dusting. Earlier, a press fotographer had called round to take some pictures for one of the Trash Wore Diaries features that has subsequently appeared in the local and national press. Like all good - and bad - fotographers, he was keen to incorporate a prop that would illustrate my new life at home as a tagged-up convict. Could I remove the electronic box from the shelf, he wondered, and place it on my lap? Provided it remained plugged into the fone socket, I didn’t see this presenting a problem and so I complied. I hadn’t reckoned on this low-tech piece of kit having a host of high-tech sensors contained within to stop me from using and abusing it. I didn’t fancy telling the Serco official that I had been manoeuvring his piece of kit about for foto opportunities, but thankfully he seemed to buy the dusting explanation. Before heading off, the man left me with a parting gift: after pressing a few buttons on the box, the display burst into glorious luminescent light to reveal a digital clock. I realised then that many families must be sad to see their delinquent progeny’s tagging period draw to a close, bringing with it the removal of box and tag, for it was probably the first time they’d been able to enjoy the luxury of a working clock in their house.
Barring a return to jail, the tag will accompany me everywhere I go for the next four months. I may not like it but I must abide with it for now, for like some cancerous growth, it has become a part of me. Right now, all I can do I is learn to live with it and pray for the day when it can finally be surgically removed. Only then will I be given a clean bill of health...until the evening at least, when I can slink down to the docks and get ball-deep into some crab-riddled slut. Still, it's a small price to pay for freedom.
While in jail, I derided those who were fitted out with electronic tags only to breach them within days of getting home and wind up back inside again. Little did I realise that I too would breach my curfew within hours of being tagged, and come perilously close to revisiting Craiginches. On the day of my liberation, the authorities left me to my own devices for a few hours, begrudgingly accepting that I’d earned the right to reacquaint myself with the inner workings of my girlfriend. The only stricture was that I be at home from 4pm in order for a Serco official to fit my tag. This didn’t present a problem for, having arrived home at 1pm, formalities such as sex had long since been dealt with. When the knock at the door came shortly after four o’clock, I opened it expecting to be greeted by a gruff, officious Serco employee, shaped from the same mould as the gruff, officious prison officers I had only just gained respite from. To my surprise, I opened the door to instead be confronted by a young, voluptuous college girl, the sort that in different circumstances would be the one getting fitted with jewellery by me…in the form of a pearl necklace. If the penalty for violating your tagging conditions was a home visit from this cum canvas, no wonder so many offenders were breaching their curfews. The muckle-pappet quine (as my mate Christy would surely have designated her) instructed me to walk around the perimeter of the house holding the tag while she calibrated the box to make sure that there were no ‘black spots’ in the building. It wouldn’t do to have a Serco official calling round every time I stepped into the shower just because I was out of signal range. Well, it would do just fine if it was this particular Serco official inspecting my bathing arrangements, but I had a feeling not all of their staff were as pleasing to the third eye.
I had been expecting to be fitted with a state-of-the-art bijou tracking device; instead I got a protuberance that resembled the sort of cheap, tacky, Casio sports watch you might pick up at a car boot sale, only cheaper, tackier and bulkier. It struck me that I could probably do a roaring trade in the Aberdeen Market selling tag accessories to the tagged-up reprobates who slink through there on a regular basis, wearing their tags over their socks, which are worn over their trackie B’s. My stall - Blingtagstic - would sell customised Burberry decals, Rangers and Celtic badges and offer a personalised tag engraving service as the perfect gift for the electronically tagged one you love. In keeping with the low-tech theme, I was supplied with an unprepossessing electronic box to be plugged into the fone line. An aerial protruded from the top to wirelessly liase with the tag, provided, that is, that all my other wireless devices - mobile fone, laptop, TV and stereo remotes and Sky secondary TV router - didn’t interfere with it. I elected for the tag to be fitted to my right ankle so that, in the event of me getting into a fight, I could kung-fu kick my opponent with my favoured left without smashing his brains out on the edge of the tag or - worse still - breaking the device and winding up back inside. The tag was fitted loosely enough for me to cushion it by slipping a sock underneath, but not loosely enough, unfortunately, to be able to slip it off and head for the red light district. I stood up to try it on for size, in the same way that one would try on a pair of shoes, and took a few steps. The tag felt cumbersome, but not as cumbersome, it must be said, as prison. On the plus side, I now had an excuse for leaving my socks on during sex; it wouldn’t do to have the tag slapping against my ankle, chafing skin and drowning out the delectable sound of my balls slapping against my girlfriend’s pert ass. As I Inspected my new bionic implant, I wondered to myself how many other reprobates had worn it before me. Long before it clung to my leg, a prestigious array of bank robbers, sex offenders and murders had most likely sweated on it, bled on it and came on it. And in the case of the sex offenders and murderers, it wasn’t necessarily their own bodily fluids leaching into it.
By the time the Serco representative had finished calibrating the tag, fitting it and showcasing her delectable bosoms, it was only half past four, meaning I had almost three hours of freedom before my curfew kicked in. I decided to make a trip to the supermarket and stock up on all the essentials that had been taunting me in the food commercials throughout my incarceration; decent coffee, a large Toblerone and a bottle of malt whisky. When I returned home from the shop, the fone was ringing. I picked it up to be greeted by a disgruntled sounding Glaswegian. Upon confirming my identity, he introduced himself as an employee of Serco and asked if I had just been out of the house. I informed him that I had indeed, having just gotten back from the shops, and was there a problem? It was, after all, still only half past six. To my astonishment, I was informed that I wasn’t permitted to leave the house at all on my first day of being tagged and that I had therefore breached my curfew already. I apologised profusely, only too aware that Serco must have immediately marked me down as being a complete dodger, liable to fuck them about at every available opportunity. Even my former fellow convicts I had mocked for breaching their tags hadn’t managed to fuck theirs up this quickly. I explained to the official that I had no recollection of the woman telling me I couldn’t leave the house for the rest of the day, although it may well have been the case that I was so busy staring holes in her sweater I simply didn’t hear her. I was informed in no uncertain terms that this caveat was written in the contract I had received upon leaving the jail. I looked it out and sure enough, there it was in small print at the bottom: ‘Following installation, you must not leave this address before 07.15 on 26/10/2006.’ It was an inauspicious start to my tagging phase to say the least. Although I didn’t think Serco would be so unreasonable as to send me back to jail for the occasional hiccup, I had no desire to use up all my lifelines on the first nite. There would be plenty of other occasions in the coming months (like New Year for instance), when excuses may have to be made for going AWOL. I imagined the tagging control room at Serco headquarters to resemble the battle station on a military submarine, with buzzers sounding and warning lights flashing across the board as the ten-man crew frantically tried to keep tabs on the 1,000-odd degenerates running amok across the land.
For my first week of electronic tag-dom, I made sure to be home in ample time for the 7.15pm curfew and there were no further repeats of the first nite’s teething problems. Then, three days ago, I found myself facing the wrath of Serco once again. During the evening, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to be greeted by a Serco official (not the same one who had fitted my tag unfortunately), who announced that he was here to perform a routine spot-check. I invited the guy in, whereupon he proceeded to inspect my hardware before asking if I’d had any problems with it. I informed him that no, everything had been fine since the slight misunderstanding on the first day. The man informed me that the real reason for his visit was because Serco suspected that I might have tried to interfere with the tagging box, not sexually but in order to sabotage it. Apparently, the box had an inbuilt motion sensor that could detect if someone was trying to fiddle with it. If the box was shaken or stirred more than five times in a week, Serco come calling. Had I had cause to move the box that day, the man wondered? I thought for a moment. ‘Well yeah, I was dusting it a bit’ I shrugged. This explanation seemed to satisfy the man, who advised me that in future I should leave the box in situ when dusting it in order to prevent further unnecessary call-outs. What I didn’t tell him was that I knew only too well why the box had been moved that day, and it had nothing to do with dusting. Earlier, a press fotographer had called round to take some pictures for one of the Trash Wore Diaries features that has subsequently appeared in the local and national press. Like all good - and bad - fotographers, he was keen to incorporate a prop that would illustrate my new life at home as a tagged-up convict. Could I remove the electronic box from the shelf, he wondered, and place it on my lap? Provided it remained plugged into the fone socket, I didn’t see this presenting a problem and so I complied. I hadn’t reckoned on this low-tech piece of kit having a host of high-tech sensors contained within to stop me from using and abusing it. I didn’t fancy telling the Serco official that I had been manoeuvring his piece of kit about for foto opportunities, but thankfully he seemed to buy the dusting explanation. Before heading off, the man left me with a parting gift: after pressing a few buttons on the box, the display burst into glorious luminescent light to reveal a digital clock. I realised then that many families must be sad to see their delinquent progeny’s tagging period draw to a close, bringing with it the removal of box and tag, for it was probably the first time they’d been able to enjoy the luxury of a working clock in their house.
Barring a return to jail, the tag will accompany me everywhere I go for the next four months. I may not like it but I must abide with it for now, for like some cancerous growth, it has become a part of me. Right now, all I can do I is learn to live with it and pray for the day when it can finally be surgically removed. Only then will I be given a clean bill of health...until the evening at least, when I can slink down to the docks and get ball-deep into some crab-riddled slut. Still, it's a small price to pay for freedom.
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