A few years ago a brilliant thing happened. Jeffrey Archer was sent to prison. The smug twat then had the gall to write a diary about his time in chokey. Fraser wrote a parody of said diary (as did a couple of other folk, but they didn’t nail it like Cheery B nailed it). Apart from one line it’s a spot on parody of Archer’s diary writing style. DAY ONE
The judge cackles like a wizened harpy on pronouncing sentence. Why does he hate me? The public gallery erupts with cheers as I, Lord Archer, am led away to jail as if I am a commoner and not me, Lord Archer.
As I am led downstairs to the holding cell, the courtroom is in uproar. I can hear champagne corks pop, my fragrant wife Mary being crudely propositioned by a hairy bin man, the strains of “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang.
My mind is swimming with confusion. How can I, a wealthy well-born man, be sent to jail like a common criminal?
Still incredulous, I consult my barrister:
“ Ok,” I tell him, “I lied in court, took five hundred grand compensation that I didn’t really deserve and stepped on the reputations of several innocent parties in order to make it look like I didn’t have sex with a whore but that’s hardly a crime is it?”
“Well yes, yes it is.” He replies, rather un-helpfully.
I mention the possibility of getting an asylum seeker to take my place in prison. My barrister sighs and walks away, shaking his head.
“Just until my appeal!” I call after him, to no avail.
Prison officers lead me into a white van. I shiver with anticipation. Surely the manhandling of my extraneous body parts can only be moments away. I am placed in a small cubicle on my own, leaving me with no option but to manhandle myself.
I am driven to Belmarsh Prison, a forbidding Stalag meant for rapists, murderers and thieves, not for people like me, who have hardly done anything wrong at all.
I am ushered from the van by a female prison guard, a blubbersome vision with a pie in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Just the very idea of the working classes touching me is enough to send a shiver down my spine. After a terrifying spell in a holding cell during which an ethnic actually spoke to me, I am taken to reception. I fear that they are about to strip me and barter for my clothes as the Romans did with Jesus’ possessions as he hung on the cross. Naked and vulnerable, I shiver before them, completely at their mercy. Can it be long before one of these gum-chewing uniformed apes with a badge notices my finely turned calves? My belt and tie are taken but thankfully not my anal virginity, not yet at any case.
I am sent to the medical wing and placed on suicide watch. The thought of killing myself has never entered my head. I mean, why should I? I am an innocent man, nearly.
DAY TWO
I shudder awake from a dream wherein I have become a bitch for the entire population of D Wing. A few of my old Eton chums are there also, egging the commoners on and taking turns at my shop-worn bum-hole. I sigh upon waking as I realise I have my made a mess of my feted bed-sheets. I wearily notice that no breakfast menu has been supplied, then am dumfounded when told that none will be supplied and I am to dine with the ordinary criminals in the canteen. I approach the grizzled looking chef upon entry to the hall and order Eggs Benedict, some coffee and the Financial Times. The ringing laughter of my fellow inmates echoes through the hall for several minutes, during which time I soil myself. Shivering and dismayed, I am invited to avail myself of a plastic tray upon which is dispensed the kind of ominous looking slop one would only expect to see in a glue works. I decline, hoping my fragrant Mary has remembered to send me my favourite biccies from Claridges.
DAY THREE
The following morning I am made to exercise in the yard with all the other prisoners, yes, me, Lord Archer.
I am forced, through fear of my life rather than anything else, to converse with some prole; a petty larcenist named Reg, Mo, Manny, something unswervingly gruesome like that. He advises me to watch out for the man pacing steadily ahead.
“He’s a right naughty jackdaw,” drools the prole, “Slit your throat for a tanner he would.”
I freeze as I see the man approach me, fear gripping me like a curly worm. “I wonder if you could help me,” he stammers, obviously in awe of me, Lord Archer. He then lifts his hand to show me that he has a thorn imbedded in his palm. I skilfully remove it and pat him on the head as he begins to mewl like a little horse.
“I’m a huge fan of your books.” He says, before offering to murder my former secretary who testified against me during my trial. I smile and tell him that civilised men are above such acts. Still, it’s nice to know that I only have to say the word and the bitch is dead.
DAY FOUR
Locked in my cell I go through my massive post-bag of letters from well-wishers. Among them are calls from my fans that I should be set free, compensated and made King of the world. A few former cabinet colleagues have written to tell me that upon my instruction they will undertake a bloody revolution in my name and see me named Lord Protector of England. I must write quickly to tell them to hang fire, for now.
I spend the rest of the evening reflecting on my plight. Will I, like Oscar Wilde before me be banished to a secluded life on foreign shores? In his day he was jailed for simply being a homosexual, an obvious injustice, and one day when lying in court is no longer an offence my jail term will seem every bit as absurd.
I am stirred from my fitful slumber late in the night by pounding rap music. I still can’t believe they have me in here with blacks.
DAY FIVE
The next morning I busy myself by preparing the first few chapter of my explosive expose of the prison service for my publishers. A kindly prison guard offers to post them for me. Like everyone else I’ve met since coming in here, he is a huge fan of my work. He doffs his hat in proper deference to me as he leaves.
DAY SIX
In the exercise yard as I watch the muscle boys work out with no more than an idle interest, I am warned that my life is in danger. Apparently the newspapers are offering a cash reward and use of glamour model Jordan to the first man to stab me.
DAY SEVEN
The next day I give a talk to the creative writing class about how I became a writer. How thrilling it must be for these unwashed feeble-minded souls to have me, a genuine hack writer talk to them as if they are real people! The last time I gave a talk of this nature it was to a conference at Las Vegas – I was treated like the veritable Lord I am and paid a handsome £50,000. Today I am talking to a tiny band of bored looking lags and being paid just about enough to have someone administer a Chinese burn to anyone who annoys me.
Later in the canteen I am told that my favourite, Shepherds Pie is on the menu. As I observe the slop that is placed before me something goes off in my brain.
“I eat at the Ivy!” I scream, “The Savoy! You call this Shepherds Pie? It’s a disgrace!”
With that, I storm back to my cell, where I consider a dirty protest. Considering the smell, I decide to limit my campaign to writing a strongly worded letter to the director of the prison service on the subject of correct preparation of a shepherds pie and include my own recipe for his consideration. Within moments of me finishing the letter, my cell is surrounded by gun toting officers in flack jackets demanding that I give up my protest and eat something. I exit my cell somewhat gingerly, but am jumped from behind by two guards while a third forces a boiled potato down my reluctant throat. It’s a heavy price to pay for my rebellion. The potato is damp and mealy and sits on me heavily throughout the night. It is the end of my first week in hell, but, if the truly terrible state of the food is anything to go by, I fear that my ordeal is only just beginning.
No comments:
Post a Comment