Personal Blogs

There's an odd protocal to jail-cells. At the least the ones that I've been in.

Glasgow, Saturday night, holding-pen in Paisley; I'm lying on the concrete double bed, looking at the toilet-in-the-corner and wondering why the cop-bastards haven't given me a blanket or a crash-mat.

The shiny-eyed burglar-lad is well tucked up. So is the blood-covered boy who's fetal in the corner. That's the one whose tears are just-about over his entire face, the one who is beginning to annoy me with his keening. He has two blankets.

Despite blanket distibution problems I'm the alpha criminal-in-residence.

Then Jesse arrived.

It was clear that he was a known, because there was a bit of almost-casual violence and fliff-flaff between him and the turn-key.

After something of a rant to the general population about this, Jesse turned upon to us and ascertained our issues.

It takes a wee bit to frighten me, Jesse managed to.

"Breech?", he looked at me.

"Yes", easy for him, I was wearing a scarf. He looked at the burglar, he asked, and was answered and then we all looked at the poor wee boy in the corner.

"Ah stabbed ma da..."

Jesse turned to me and said, "you're the only wan gettin out any time soon".