This is the last prison blog you're ever ever gonna have to endure from me. No, really - don't roll your eyes. I'm serious about this, cos god forbid I should ever return to that place, there's no danger I'm documenting it again. If that happens, the only thing I'll be writing is a suicide note. Having perserved with The Trash Whore Diaries: The Prison Years for as long as I have, you're probably equally sick of Craiginches, even though you've never set foot in that cursed place. Although I was in prison until September, I stopped blogging about it in March, partly because I was bored of writing about prison life, and partly because I decided to focus my efforts on writing a novel instead, a project I am still working on. Assuming I can get a job and stay out of that big bad place on the hill, my book should be finished by Christmas. Then I guess I'll start looking for someone to take pity on me and publish it. In the meantime, I'll keep updating The Trash Whore Diaries a couple of times a week, blogging about everything and nothing, the way I tend to. If I stop updating, it's either because I've started dealing again or gone back inside. There, that should make the job of the CID a whole lot easier; you don't even need to leave your desks to keep an eye on me. Just keep munching on those Krispy Kremes and I'll do your job for you, just as I did back in January when I led you straight to my big bag of weed.
Although I'm not the most objective person to assess whether the words you're about to read are any good or not, I've saved this blog till last as it's my favourite prison one of all. If you don't know what it's like to be inside after reading this, you never will, short of taking that trip o'er the water to Craigie yourself.
Alright, enough preamble: Take a deep breath - but don't hold it - and enjoy the last and longest prison blog ever. Ever.
Written on: Tuesday 3rd March 2009
Thump. Thump. Thump. The dull rhythmical noise resounds around the hall. I look at the clock on the BBC News channel. 7:30 am. What is this idiot doing thumping his door so early in the morning? I don’t have to wait long to find out.
‘Boss! Boss! I need my methadone!’ it shouts.
Thump. Thump. Thump. 7:30 is the time when meds are served up in American jails, resulting in ‘7:30’ becoming a euphemism for insanity; ‘Stay away from that guy – he’s a 7:30.’ In Craiginches, the medication is served half an hour later. This guy isn’t a 7:30 - he’s an 8:00. Thump. Thump. Thump. The rest of the hall is stirring unhappily. It is bad enough waking to the realisation that you’re in jail without this migraine-inducing racket to contend with.
‘Shut the fuck up or I’ll fucking do ya!’ shouts someone commendably, issuing the standard jail threat for such situations. We thump our way through to eight when the doors are opened and the cons spill out into the hallway. The junkie dashes off to the front of the meth queue to take up his grievance with the nurse. The thumping might have stopped but another sound swiftly takes its place in assailing my senses, a single word that every prisoner dreads to hear.
‘Court’ says the screw curtly, sticking his head around my door. Court? Oh fuck. Prison is bad, but court? Court should be a joyous occasion, the opportunity to stand before one’s peers and clear one’s name of the unfounded allegations that have despoiled it. Court is where heavenly utterances such as ‘Not guilty’ and ‘Bail granted’ ring out; it is the place where men are set free to skip their way out of the dock and pull cartwheels along the corridors of justice. Not this court. This is the Sheriff Court, the court of broken dreams and punitive injustice. It is the place where hopes are dashed, families are separated and men are broken, condemned and set about by other broken condemned men.
I have only been in jail for six weeks but already I have lost count of the number of times I have been hauled up in court, only one of which was for the offence I am currently remanded for (being caught in possession of a rather large bag of weed). Once they have you under lock and key, the powers-that-be are prone to dredge up every other minor indiscretion, including non-payment of parking tickets and failure to put the toilet seat down after peeing. It is less about bringing an already condemned man to justice and more about administering a few gratuitous kicks to said man now that he is on his knees and begging for mercy. I have already been in court three times in as many weeks for the heinous crime of being caught in possession of 0.18 of a gram of cocaine some ten months previously, a quantity described by the PF as having ‘a nominal street value’. (I couldn’t bring myself to tell the justiciary that I wipe bigger amounts off my kitchen worktop the morning after a fun-filled nite before. But then they wouldn’t understand. After all, they work for a government that sincerely believes a gram of cocaine can yield as much as 50 lines. 50? They’re having a fucking giraffe. I make it two, and stingy ones at that.) After having the temerity to disport myself in a public place while in possession of microscopic quantities of fun dust, I remained at large for a further nine months. During that time, the police could have come and charged me, but they elected not to. Perhaps, understandably, because they had better things to do with their time, like snort all the drugs they'd seized and circle-jerk in the Masonic Lodge. Now that I am remanded in custody however, I am a sitting duck, on call 24/7 to boost their clear-up rate. It is not uncommon for offenders, once in prison, to be charged for additional analogous offences, even though the police know they were committed by someone else.
‘Court’ says the screw curtly, sticking his head around my door. Court? Oh fuck. Prison is bad, but court? Court should be a joyous occasion, the opportunity to stand before one’s peers and clear one’s name of the unfounded allegations that have despoiled it. Court is where heavenly utterances such as ‘Not guilty’ and ‘Bail granted’ ring out; it is the place where men are set free to skip their way out of the dock and pull cartwheels along the corridors of justice. Not this court. This is the Sheriff Court, the court of broken dreams and punitive injustice. It is the place where hopes are dashed, families are separated and men are broken, condemned and set about by other broken condemned men.
I have only been in jail for six weeks but already I have lost count of the number of times I have been hauled up in court, only one of which was for the offence I am currently remanded for (being caught in possession of a rather large bag of weed). Once they have you under lock and key, the powers-that-be are prone to dredge up every other minor indiscretion, including non-payment of parking tickets and failure to put the toilet seat down after peeing. It is less about bringing an already condemned man to justice and more about administering a few gratuitous kicks to said man now that he is on his knees and begging for mercy. I have already been in court three times in as many weeks for the heinous crime of being caught in possession of 0.18 of a gram of cocaine some ten months previously, a quantity described by the PF as having ‘a nominal street value’. (I couldn’t bring myself to tell the justiciary that I wipe bigger amounts off my kitchen worktop the morning after a fun-filled nite before. But then they wouldn’t understand. After all, they work for a government that sincerely believes a gram of cocaine can yield as much as 50 lines. 50? They’re having a fucking giraffe. I make it two, and stingy ones at that.) After having the temerity to disport myself in a public place while in possession of microscopic quantities of fun dust, I remained at large for a further nine months. During that time, the police could have come and charged me, but they elected not to. Perhaps, understandably, because they had better things to do with their time, like snort all the drugs they'd seized and circle-jerk in the Masonic Lodge. Now that I am remanded in custody however, I am a sitting duck, on call 24/7 to boost their clear-up rate. It is not uncommon for offenders, once in prison, to be charged for additional analogous offences, even though the police know they were committed by someone else.
‘Got him in for HBs? Might as well tack on another dozen housebreakings while he’s here.’
Now that I am in jail, it is not just the police who are taking my previous misdemeanours seriously. The good sheriff of Aberdeen is also of the opinion that my crimes are of the gravest nature possible. So grave in fact that he has decided to refer the matter to the High Court that dealt out my three-year sentence for perjury in 20005 in the hope that they will recall me to serve the remainder of that term. (Although I was released from prison in 2006, technically I was still four months shy of completing my three-year sentence in 2008, when that whopping 0.18 of a gram weighed me down and rendered me incapable of running from the police.)
Today isn’t about the quark-sized sprinkling of coke however. Today is about an even more serious offence – failure to pay a speeding ticket. For this crime, I must be hauled before the District Court where the judge will hand me a £150 fine, converted to seven days imprisonment because I am already in prison and thus unable to pay it. The seven days run concurrently to the remand I am already serving, meaning that I will not even receive any additional time. The cost to the oft-cited taxpayer of all this hullabaloo? Thousands of pounds, including the fees for court officials, solicitors, judges and the Reliance turnkeys who have to transfer me back and forth to Craiginches every time the case is called. The cost to me? Fuck all, apart from another wasted day. Yes, even in prison it is possible to waste a day that could have been spent more productively, sleeping or wanking.
The holding cells within the Sheriff Courthouse are truly awful, even by prison standards. I know them affectionately as Hell On Earth. We have spent so long in each other’s company that we are on first name terms.
The holding cells within the Sheriff Courthouse are truly awful, even by prison standards. I know them affectionately as Hell On Earth. We have spent so long in each other’s company that we are on first name terms.
‘Hey Hell, how’s it hanging?’
‘Ah, back again Kai. What for this time?’
‘I’m fucked if I know, Hell.’
The moniker is appropriate, for it is quite possible that Satan’s spawn were conceived within one of these foetid pens. Indeed, look closely and you can still see traces of his iniquitous DNA splashed across the concrete floor. Or is it the saliva that has been spat out by a million chain-smoking convicts? It’s hard to tell. Either way, I know I’m going to heaven when I die because I’ve already spent eternity in this earthly hell. In the corners of each cursed cell, where the grimy walls meet the grimy floor, there are mounds of accumulated dirt – out of reach of the floor-scrubbing machines – laced with the excretions of every man every to have darkened their steel doors.
I alight in Hell at 8am. By lunchtime, thanks to the efforts of eight perma-smoking, perma-spitting men, the floor has assumed the consistency of a skating rink. Hell has frozen over. Bored YOs slide from one side to the other, grinding the saliva into the floor with their trainers. This claustrophobic coffin contains more germs than a chicken-pox party and is laced with the stale air of 100 long-haul flights. These horrid surroundings bring out the worst in the horrors who inhabit them, men who are not known for exhibiting their best qualities at the best of times. In the holding cells, it is the worst of times, it is always the worst of times. Countless years of countless lives have been wasted within these damp walls; wasted in waiting to be hauled up in court for spurious offences and then hauled back down to wait some more, and wasted in the years of punitive sentences handed down by grouchy judges, slapping on an extra year because that’s how long they spent queuing at the Haudagain roundabout on the way to work. In prison, inmates take reasonable care of their cells, sweeping and mopping them out. The holding cells make prison seem like a luxury resort however. The men caged inside them are transient, passing through on their way to marginally better things, and couldn’t care less about a building whose masters couldn’t give a damn about them. The detainees save their worst behaviour for this, the worst of all supposedly civilised establishments. Upstairs is all red carpets and elaborately-carved coats of arms; downstairs, out of sight, it’s Hell On Earth. Bored prisoners burn their nicknames onto the ceiling with lighters (‘Skosha’, ‘Toshy’, ‘Jamie 4 Stacy’), they vandalise the CCTV camera, they smear their lunch across the walls, they chase gear and puke all over the floor and they smash the supposedly unsmashable window in the legal representatives room. They verbally and physically abuse the Reliance guards, hurling insults, hot tea and cups of urine. They fight in court; with the turnkeys, with their co-accused in the dock and with the police trying to prevent them from receiving parcels from their mates in the public gallery.
Further along the hallway from my designated dungeon du jour, there comes the incessant banging and shrieking of the women, trapped inside their very own concrete cell. They are, to a skank, junkies and whores. Rattling from heroin withdrawal, they take to rattling their door in a vain attempt to inveigle the turnkeys into supplying them with medication. The only attention they can attract however comes from the bored and horny men in the cell across the hallway. These sex-starved reprobates encourage the whores to flash their tits through the peephole, promising snout [tobacco] in return. When the emaciated breasts are proffered to the peephole to sate each gender’s respective cravings, the promised snout then fails to materialise. Bumped again.
I could tell a million stories about the seemingly million-strong army of men I have shared cell number eight with. Run a swab across the clammy, condensation-laced walls and you’d probably get a match for every suspect on the national crime database. Each one is a walking, gouching tragi-comedy. If these walls had ears, they’d have long since been plugged up with dowts and bodily excretions. With the aid of an industrial-sized box of cotton buds, however, they’d have been privy to some extraordinary confessions. There is the guy who removes his t-shirt to reveal the tattoo that stretches across his back – LeeAnne. Two weeks after the ink had dried, they broke off their engagement when he found out that LeeAnne had been shagging his best mate. The relationship might be over, but the scars will remain forever. His tat’s too large for a cover-up; the only hope is to find another girl called LeeAnne and settle down with her. And possibly to ditch the best mate too, if he wants to avoid history repeating itself. There is the junkie who is sat in the corner of the cell snoring. He is off his face on methadone and is looking forward to going to jail to remove the bag of smack he stuffed up his arse before attending court. I had hitherto considered it impossible to fall asleep on the hard bench seat, but today I have learned that where there’s a will to imbibe enough opiates, there’s a way to lapse into a coma. There is the hyperactive YO, charged with 200 separate offences, mostly involving theft of cars, motorbikes and anything else that can be hot-wired. The charges fall broadly under the category of theft, although ‘charged with being a little shit’ would be a more appropriate summation. In court, he talks back to the judge, calls the police witnesses grasses and loudly acknowledges his mates in the public gallery, much to the chagrin of the sheriff. The sheriffs, who hate every ne’er-do-well who passes in front of them, reserve particular loathing for this young offender. This may have something to do with the fact that a few months previously, he stole one of the sheriff’s cars, drove it to Perth and flogged it for drug money. Also joining this merry band of renegades in holding cell number eight is the alkie who stopped necking tins of special brew, not to cut down on his drinking, but because his body has developed an immunity to them. Every day he wakes up with the shakes and by lunchtime has succeeded in shaking them away with the aid of a litre of vodka. To pay for his habit, he and his mate do a nice line in stolen vehicles. Using a pick-up truck, they drive about looking for cars to tow away for scrap. Their selection criteria are remarkably relaxed; if it’s parked on the street and there’s no one about, it’s there for the taking. Smash the window, remove the handbrake and hitch it up. Once furnished with the £60 that each vehicle brings, it’s back to the offie again. The alkie also does a nice sideline in witness intimidation, having gotten off with eight attempted murders to date. Today, this motley crew of alkies, junkies and thieving YO’s are supplemented by the obligatory Weegie, who’s in for ‘bottling some cunt’. The deed was performed, predictably, with a broken bottle of Buckfast in his local kebab house. After busting the man’s head open, the Weegie fled still clutching the weapon in one hand and his chicken pakora in the other. And finally, today’s cheery intake is completed by a mad old bastard who whiles away the hours pacing the cell and conversing with himself. He should clearly be in a mental institution, although given the number of loonies to have been temporarily binned in cell number eight, it is an asylum in all but name. The YO’s spend the next four hours teasing the old boy mercilessly, trying to convince him that he is off to Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution.
At I sit, head in hands, on the bum-numbing bench, hemmed in by bodies on both sides, I reach into my pocket and pull out a small speck of dirt. On closer inspection, it turns out to be a tiny crumb of weed. It was given to me in the holding cells some weeks previously by an inmate who was feeling unusually charitable as he had just been granted bail. The crumb had probably been wedged between his toes or worse, up his arse, but I was in no position to refuse his fragrant morsel. ‘Here, anyone fancy a joint?’ In that moment, I know how it must feel to be a genie, smug with the satisfaction that comes from seeing faces light up as prayers are answered. Unusually for a genie, I appear before the puff of smoke and have only the power to grant one wish, but once stoned, all other wishes will be swiftly forgotten about anyway. One of the Aladdins takes out his papers and quickly fashions a single-skinner. It is inhaled deeply and passed around. We spend the next hour giggling at the proclamations of the mad old head-case, who curiously hadn’t seemed that funny up until now.
‘Kai, pull your trousers up’ chides the Reliance guard escorting me along the subterranean corridors towards the bus that will transport me back to prison proper.
I alight in Hell at 8am. By lunchtime, thanks to the efforts of eight perma-smoking, perma-spitting men, the floor has assumed the consistency of a skating rink. Hell has frozen over. Bored YOs slide from one side to the other, grinding the saliva into the floor with their trainers. This claustrophobic coffin contains more germs than a chicken-pox party and is laced with the stale air of 100 long-haul flights. These horrid surroundings bring out the worst in the horrors who inhabit them, men who are not known for exhibiting their best qualities at the best of times. In the holding cells, it is the worst of times, it is always the worst of times. Countless years of countless lives have been wasted within these damp walls; wasted in waiting to be hauled up in court for spurious offences and then hauled back down to wait some more, and wasted in the years of punitive sentences handed down by grouchy judges, slapping on an extra year because that’s how long they spent queuing at the Haudagain roundabout on the way to work. In prison, inmates take reasonable care of their cells, sweeping and mopping them out. The holding cells make prison seem like a luxury resort however. The men caged inside them are transient, passing through on their way to marginally better things, and couldn’t care less about a building whose masters couldn’t give a damn about them. The detainees save their worst behaviour for this, the worst of all supposedly civilised establishments. Upstairs is all red carpets and elaborately-carved coats of arms; downstairs, out of sight, it’s Hell On Earth. Bored prisoners burn their nicknames onto the ceiling with lighters (‘Skosha’, ‘Toshy’, ‘Jamie 4 Stacy’), they vandalise the CCTV camera, they smear their lunch across the walls, they chase gear and puke all over the floor and they smash the supposedly unsmashable window in the legal representatives room. They verbally and physically abuse the Reliance guards, hurling insults, hot tea and cups of urine. They fight in court; with the turnkeys, with their co-accused in the dock and with the police trying to prevent them from receiving parcels from their mates in the public gallery.
Further along the hallway from my designated dungeon du jour, there comes the incessant banging and shrieking of the women, trapped inside their very own concrete cell. They are, to a skank, junkies and whores. Rattling from heroin withdrawal, they take to rattling their door in a vain attempt to inveigle the turnkeys into supplying them with medication. The only attention they can attract however comes from the bored and horny men in the cell across the hallway. These sex-starved reprobates encourage the whores to flash their tits through the peephole, promising snout [tobacco] in return. When the emaciated breasts are proffered to the peephole to sate each gender’s respective cravings, the promised snout then fails to materialise. Bumped again.
I could tell a million stories about the seemingly million-strong army of men I have shared cell number eight with. Run a swab across the clammy, condensation-laced walls and you’d probably get a match for every suspect on the national crime database. Each one is a walking, gouching tragi-comedy. If these walls had ears, they’d have long since been plugged up with dowts and bodily excretions. With the aid of an industrial-sized box of cotton buds, however, they’d have been privy to some extraordinary confessions. There is the guy who removes his t-shirt to reveal the tattoo that stretches across his back – LeeAnne. Two weeks after the ink had dried, they broke off their engagement when he found out that LeeAnne had been shagging his best mate. The relationship might be over, but the scars will remain forever. His tat’s too large for a cover-up; the only hope is to find another girl called LeeAnne and settle down with her. And possibly to ditch the best mate too, if he wants to avoid history repeating itself. There is the junkie who is sat in the corner of the cell snoring. He is off his face on methadone and is looking forward to going to jail to remove the bag of smack he stuffed up his arse before attending court. I had hitherto considered it impossible to fall asleep on the hard bench seat, but today I have learned that where there’s a will to imbibe enough opiates, there’s a way to lapse into a coma. There is the hyperactive YO, charged with 200 separate offences, mostly involving theft of cars, motorbikes and anything else that can be hot-wired. The charges fall broadly under the category of theft, although ‘charged with being a little shit’ would be a more appropriate summation. In court, he talks back to the judge, calls the police witnesses grasses and loudly acknowledges his mates in the public gallery, much to the chagrin of the sheriff. The sheriffs, who hate every ne’er-do-well who passes in front of them, reserve particular loathing for this young offender. This may have something to do with the fact that a few months previously, he stole one of the sheriff’s cars, drove it to Perth and flogged it for drug money. Also joining this merry band of renegades in holding cell number eight is the alkie who stopped necking tins of special brew, not to cut down on his drinking, but because his body has developed an immunity to them. Every day he wakes up with the shakes and by lunchtime has succeeded in shaking them away with the aid of a litre of vodka. To pay for his habit, he and his mate do a nice line in stolen vehicles. Using a pick-up truck, they drive about looking for cars to tow away for scrap. Their selection criteria are remarkably relaxed; if it’s parked on the street and there’s no one about, it’s there for the taking. Smash the window, remove the handbrake and hitch it up. Once furnished with the £60 that each vehicle brings, it’s back to the offie again. The alkie also does a nice sideline in witness intimidation, having gotten off with eight attempted murders to date. Today, this motley crew of alkies, junkies and thieving YO’s are supplemented by the obligatory Weegie, who’s in for ‘bottling some cunt’. The deed was performed, predictably, with a broken bottle of Buckfast in his local kebab house. After busting the man’s head open, the Weegie fled still clutching the weapon in one hand and his chicken pakora in the other. And finally, today’s cheery intake is completed by a mad old bastard who whiles away the hours pacing the cell and conversing with himself. He should clearly be in a mental institution, although given the number of loonies to have been temporarily binned in cell number eight, it is an asylum in all but name. The YO’s spend the next four hours teasing the old boy mercilessly, trying to convince him that he is off to Polmont Young Offenders’ Institution.
At I sit, head in hands, on the bum-numbing bench, hemmed in by bodies on both sides, I reach into my pocket and pull out a small speck of dirt. On closer inspection, it turns out to be a tiny crumb of weed. It was given to me in the holding cells some weeks previously by an inmate who was feeling unusually charitable as he had just been granted bail. The crumb had probably been wedged between his toes or worse, up his arse, but I was in no position to refuse his fragrant morsel. ‘Here, anyone fancy a joint?’ In that moment, I know how it must feel to be a genie, smug with the satisfaction that comes from seeing faces light up as prayers are answered. Unusually for a genie, I appear before the puff of smoke and have only the power to grant one wish, but once stoned, all other wishes will be swiftly forgotten about anyway. One of the Aladdins takes out his papers and quickly fashions a single-skinner. It is inhaled deeply and passed around. We spend the next hour giggling at the proclamations of the mad old head-case, who curiously hadn’t seemed that funny up until now.
‘Kai, pull your trousers up’ chides the Reliance guard escorting me along the subterranean corridors towards the bus that will transport me back to prison proper.
‘You pull them up,’ I reply. ‘My hands are kind of tied.’
I am double-cuffed, my hands bound together and then separately handcuffed to my designated prisoner escort. In the absence of a belt (prohibited lest I attempt to strangle myself or any one of my odious cellmates), my trousers are snaking slowly south.
‘Here, pull your trousers up!’ shouts a pig as I am marched past the adjoining reception area of Grampian Police’s custody cells.
‘I can't,’ I retort. ‘Besides, with an ass this beautiful, it would be a crime not to show it off.’
The filth return to their duties; detaining a forlorn man whose nose has been burst open, most likely by a well-placed porcine fist. He mops at his beak with blue roll as the blood seeps through.
Inside the Reliance van that will take me on the short journey back o’er the water, I undergo the usual de-cuffing procedure. First, the set of handcuffs shackling my wrists together are removed. Then I step into one of the booths while the turnkey I am attached to stands in the gangway and latches the door. It will now open only a few inches, just far enough for him to reach in and remove the final restraint. The door to my booth slams shut and is double-locked. If the holding cells are tiny, the booths on the bus are minute, each one no bigger than a toilet. My knees are crushed against the far wall and my lungs are filled with the scent of stale tobacco, vented by the previous inhabitant of this hobbit-sized hovel. If you suffer from claustrophobia, it is not a good place to be. And if you don’t, ditto. I peer through the scratched window, engraved with the sentiments of condemned convicts; ‘Nine moon for a poxy breach.’ [Nine months imprisonment for a poxy breach of probation.] The engine roars into life and the turnkey turns up the radio. As we crawl along Union Street in the rush hour traffic, a Transit van draws level at the lights. I press my face to the tinted glass window and smile at the female passenger who momentarily finds herself sat two feet away from me. She waves. Then the lights turn to green and we are off again on our separate journeys. The Reliance van rattles over the River Dee and the jail looms into view. As the shutters roll up and we enter the belly of the beast, Primal Scream sing us through the last leg of the journey. ‘Thieves keep thieving, dealers keep dealing, junkies keep scoring, whores keep whoring.’ The van shudders to a halt and, together with my fellow thieves, dealers and junkies, I alight once again, back where I started.
Inside the Reliance van that will take me on the short journey back o’er the water, I undergo the usual de-cuffing procedure. First, the set of handcuffs shackling my wrists together are removed. Then I step into one of the booths while the turnkey I am attached to stands in the gangway and latches the door. It will now open only a few inches, just far enough for him to reach in and remove the final restraint. The door to my booth slams shut and is double-locked. If the holding cells are tiny, the booths on the bus are minute, each one no bigger than a toilet. My knees are crushed against the far wall and my lungs are filled with the scent of stale tobacco, vented by the previous inhabitant of this hobbit-sized hovel. If you suffer from claustrophobia, it is not a good place to be. And if you don’t, ditto. I peer through the scratched window, engraved with the sentiments of condemned convicts; ‘Nine moon for a poxy breach.’ [Nine months imprisonment for a poxy breach of probation.] The engine roars into life and the turnkey turns up the radio. As we crawl along Union Street in the rush hour traffic, a Transit van draws level at the lights. I press my face to the tinted glass window and smile at the female passenger who momentarily finds herself sat two feet away from me. She waves. Then the lights turn to green and we are off again on our separate journeys. The Reliance van rattles over the River Dee and the jail looms into view. As the shutters roll up and we enter the belly of the beast, Primal Scream sing us through the last leg of the journey. ‘Thieves keep thieving, dealers keep dealing, junkies keep scoring, whores keep whoring.’ The van shudders to a halt and, together with my fellow thieves, dealers and junkies, I alight once again, back where I started.
1 comment:
The grime reality. What happened to the old geezer? Anyway surely 20005 is a typo
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