…feeling the pinch….short of money..?
Why not move to South Armagh and use one of the 51 border crossing points conveniently placed not 5 miles from your doorstop to smuggle any commodity you wish into the United Kingdom. Guaranteed to make you at least a million pounds a year for sitting on your fat ass six days a week. What is more the police and army will watch you do it and make sure nobody robs your house whilst your out making your ill gotten gains.
Aaah the honest life of the South Armagh tenant farmer: a few pigs, some friendly sheep and a industrial fuel processing plant in your kitchen. Everybody here is way too busy counting the cash to bother their ass with anything quite so energetic as killing soldiers these days. Which is a shame as without them trying to kill us there is absolutely fuck all reason for us to be here- unless of course getting massive in the gym is now a central pillar of our Tonee’s foreign policy- probably a more sensible one than his ‘ethical’ one. Unfortunately though the military in South Armagh are now a bargaining tool caught up in the whole painfully drawn out ‘non war’ process, so judging by the speed of progress we could be here for some time to come. I’m sure in years to come the simile ‘like pulling teeth’ will be replaced by ‘like getting Adams and Paisley to agree on anything more controversial than the day of the week’. If only we could have done a Bush and declared victory, flogged off all the mineral resources and hived off the security to private companies owned by our mates we would have been out in 69.
Anyway enough bitching about something way above my pay scale, I will stick to commanding the private phone (with outside line) in my room. Thankfully- as you buggers never phone it - it never answers back, although often in desperation I just pick it up on the off chance that there is somebody out there. Just in case you do ever have a really bad day at work and feel the urge to insult somebody give me a call - if somebody with a thick Irish accent answers you’ve got the wrong number- if somebody claims to have never heard of me before- ignore them- it’ll mean that I’ve been out of the room for 30 minutes and one of the boys has forgotten I ever existed.
I know you’ve all been on tender hooks and could not sleep for wondering so here are this weeks stats:
hours spent outside- less than 1
money spent- less than £10
fun had- incalculable
Last weekend I just happened to be loitering outside the sauna (old habits die hard…although when aged 11 at the local leisure centre you could never quite guess which nubile young thing might emerge, unfortunately here you know exactly what type of thing will splutter forth) when I caught sight of the obligatory army health and safety message (in the crazy world of the MOD even bullets carry their own individual hazard ‘warning this item is liable to kill if placed the right way in the rifle’- so with me you’ve at least got a 50% chance of surviving). Thankfully on the sauna some conscientious civil servant had taken the time to warn me not to:
a. shave in the sauna (thank god he told me)
b. do physical exercise in the sauna (because exercise isn’t painful enough in the air-conditioned gym I thought I might start moving the rowing machine, the peck deck and some exceptional heavy dumbbells into the sauna)
c. engage in sexual activities in the gym (hopefully - in a base full of blokes - unlikely; although a particularly good usage of the word ‘engage’- in the pamphlet of infantry tactics the job description of the infantry has just changed from ‘to close with, and kill the enemy’ to ‘engage the enemy’ - so, in the corridors of Whitehall, ‘engage’ is obviously the new buzz word, to be applied to both loving and fighting)
And before any of you tight fisted tax payers start complaining about the luxuries the gov’t is lavishing upon us pampered boys, I didn’t feel the need to go into the sauna as my windowless box of a cell replicates that millionaire feeling 16 hours a day. My only hope is early release for good behaviour.
Right must dash, one of the locals is off smuggling and he’s asked me to watch his house whilst he’s away.
You all take it easy out there.
25 March 2004
13 March 2004
Armagh, 13th March 2004
As you probably realised by the sudden inexplicable void that has appeared in your social calenders I left on Tuesday for HMP Bessbrook Mill South Armagh. So you can once more breathe a huge sigh of relief and take the call diverts off your phone safe in the knowledge that I will not be bothering you for the next six months- all those who I didn't manage to see, congratulations you're safe till September.
I spent the last few days prior to departure putting my life into suspension. A bit like the United States packed most of their fast jets off to sit in some desert after the end of the cold war, so the Volvo S40 M6 Stratofighter detaxed and decommissioned, lies like a sleeping leviathan in the garage at home- not for the next six months will it be see burning Sunshine Variety buses off the lights or pulling doughnuts in the car park at the bowls club. However any of you thinking about having a fastball wedding in the next 6 months ( if any of you ladies suspect that the extra spare tyre around the waist may not just be due to the 15 meat pies you ate last Saturday, or if any of you modern men, wish to take a leaf from Dave and Damian's book and take advantage of the new San Franciscan interpretation of the marriage laws before our man Dubya repeals them) do not worry you will not be left without a wedding limousine, Dad (ever keen for some cash in hand) has kindly agreed to don his shiny grey lounge suit, blow the cobwebs off the Vo and deliver you in style to the Holiday Inn of your choice for the reception. He'll even throw in a tasteful textile bouquet made from carpet off cuts- and we can't say fairer than that.
If, like me, you utterly despise the RAF you will be pleased to hear that they managed to surpass even themselves for jobsworth stupidity whilst transporting us out here. Flight Sgt Numb nuts insisted that we each put our rifles, that we were carrying on to the plane as hand luggage, through an x ray machine to confirm that they were indeed rifles. But not content with that, having confirmed that I was indeed carrying an extremely dangerous semi automatic weapon he proceeded to confiscate 5 AAA batteries from me. This of course was in case the terminals of the batteries touched in my pocket causing me to explode and take the plane with me. Whilst admitting I did not really want to waste 6 months of my life sitting in an Irish bog I told him that the prospect was not, as yet, making me suicidal, and that even with the massive electrical force generated by 2 AAA batteries accidentally touching, I thought my internal organs ( with perhaps the exception of my bladder) were stable enough not urge to explode. However he had obviously had a more pessimistic physics teacher at school and the fear of the nuclear winter that the battery explosion would cause prevented him, quite understandably, from bending the rules. After a few minutes verbal sparring (whilst the batteries rolled around on the desk and inched the planet ever closer to Domesday) it transpired that he would relent if placed each of the 5 offending super conductors separately into the finger of the rubber glove that he just happened to have in his bag ( obviously left over from his weekend's antics). Little do you people know how close you came to your maker on that fateful Tuesday morning- if it hadn't been for the suspiciously moist rubber glove we could all be wearing white sheets and singing psalms.
Apart from my £10 pocket money a week for sweets (yes very prep school- hope the shop has wham bars) the rest of my enormous wage packet is going offshore, apparently Haiti is quite a steady bet at the moment. My world renowned music collection is up for grabs, but be quick I've had offers from a number of supermarkets and line dancing clubs already. All those clamouring for my cutting edge M&S woolly jumpers will, I'm afraid, be disappointed they are already encased in moth balls to retain their unique mustiness for my return. I would like to say that as I have just invested in a new phone communications will not be a problem however... My bobby dazzling new phone would appear to do absolutely everything, e-mail, play music, get radio 4, take photographs and videos, track war criminals, move Chinese Spy satellites etc .. apart from make phone calls. I should actually qualify that by saying 'make phone calls when you intend to make phone calls', as I haven't yet worked out how to lock the keys, as soon as I put the little baby in my pocket it seems to systematically go through my phone book, work out who is away in a country with the most expensive phone tariffs and then leave 5 minute messages from my left testicle on their answer phone. So if you've had a long indecipherable message from my left testicle many apologies. Once I have crunched through the 18 volume instruction manual I might know how to transfer my sim numbers across and establish contact. I know that the cynics amongst you might think these lame excuses are merely cunning ploys by the tightest man in South Manchester to avoid making expensive phone calls, however the good news is that as I am now so far up the army hierarchy I have been trusted to have a phone in my room ( obviously when more junior they think you might be unused to such responsibility and try and eat it/ pour beer down its receiver/ wrestle it/ make friends with it) so you will be able to ring me whenever I'm asleep- so don't expect me to answer.
As yet have not seen any of the bad guys, although according to my blokes I do closely resemble a well known terrorist (I thought Che Guevara died years ago), so have to watch my back in case any of the more docile ones try to arrest me as i walk to the shower. That apart thanks for all your letters, do pop in for a chat if you happen to be passing.. and remember your tax returns should be in by the end of the month.
That's all.
Fuck Off you Brit Bastards (as the locals seem to use as friendly salutation around here).
I spent the last few days prior to departure putting my life into suspension. A bit like the United States packed most of their fast jets off to sit in some desert after the end of the cold war, so the Volvo S40 M6 Stratofighter detaxed and decommissioned, lies like a sleeping leviathan in the garage at home- not for the next six months will it be see burning Sunshine Variety buses off the lights or pulling doughnuts in the car park at the bowls club. However any of you thinking about having a fastball wedding in the next 6 months ( if any of you ladies suspect that the extra spare tyre around the waist may not just be due to the 15 meat pies you ate last Saturday, or if any of you modern men, wish to take a leaf from Dave and Damian's book and take advantage of the new San Franciscan interpretation of the marriage laws before our man Dubya repeals them) do not worry you will not be left without a wedding limousine, Dad (ever keen for some cash in hand) has kindly agreed to don his shiny grey lounge suit, blow the cobwebs off the Vo and deliver you in style to the Holiday Inn of your choice for the reception. He'll even throw in a tasteful textile bouquet made from carpet off cuts- and we can't say fairer than that.
If, like me, you utterly despise the RAF you will be pleased to hear that they managed to surpass even themselves for jobsworth stupidity whilst transporting us out here. Flight Sgt Numb nuts insisted that we each put our rifles, that we were carrying on to the plane as hand luggage, through an x ray machine to confirm that they were indeed rifles. But not content with that, having confirmed that I was indeed carrying an extremely dangerous semi automatic weapon he proceeded to confiscate 5 AAA batteries from me. This of course was in case the terminals of the batteries touched in my pocket causing me to explode and take the plane with me. Whilst admitting I did not really want to waste 6 months of my life sitting in an Irish bog I told him that the prospect was not, as yet, making me suicidal, and that even with the massive electrical force generated by 2 AAA batteries accidentally touching, I thought my internal organs ( with perhaps the exception of my bladder) were stable enough not urge to explode. However he had obviously had a more pessimistic physics teacher at school and the fear of the nuclear winter that the battery explosion would cause prevented him, quite understandably, from bending the rules. After a few minutes verbal sparring (whilst the batteries rolled around on the desk and inched the planet ever closer to Domesday) it transpired that he would relent if placed each of the 5 offending super conductors separately into the finger of the rubber glove that he just happened to have in his bag ( obviously left over from his weekend's antics). Little do you people know how close you came to your maker on that fateful Tuesday morning- if it hadn't been for the suspiciously moist rubber glove we could all be wearing white sheets and singing psalms.
Apart from my £10 pocket money a week for sweets (yes very prep school- hope the shop has wham bars) the rest of my enormous wage packet is going offshore, apparently Haiti is quite a steady bet at the moment. My world renowned music collection is up for grabs, but be quick I've had offers from a number of supermarkets and line dancing clubs already. All those clamouring for my cutting edge M&S woolly jumpers will, I'm afraid, be disappointed they are already encased in moth balls to retain their unique mustiness for my return. I would like to say that as I have just invested in a new phone communications will not be a problem however... My bobby dazzling new phone would appear to do absolutely everything, e-mail, play music, get radio 4, take photographs and videos, track war criminals, move Chinese Spy satellites etc .. apart from make phone calls. I should actually qualify that by saying 'make phone calls when you intend to make phone calls', as I haven't yet worked out how to lock the keys, as soon as I put the little baby in my pocket it seems to systematically go through my phone book, work out who is away in a country with the most expensive phone tariffs and then leave 5 minute messages from my left testicle on their answer phone. So if you've had a long indecipherable message from my left testicle many apologies. Once I have crunched through the 18 volume instruction manual I might know how to transfer my sim numbers across and establish contact. I know that the cynics amongst you might think these lame excuses are merely cunning ploys by the tightest man in South Manchester to avoid making expensive phone calls, however the good news is that as I am now so far up the army hierarchy I have been trusted to have a phone in my room ( obviously when more junior they think you might be unused to such responsibility and try and eat it/ pour beer down its receiver/ wrestle it/ make friends with it) so you will be able to ring me whenever I'm asleep- so don't expect me to answer.
As yet have not seen any of the bad guys, although according to my blokes I do closely resemble a well known terrorist (I thought Che Guevara died years ago), so have to watch my back in case any of the more docile ones try to arrest me as i walk to the shower. That apart thanks for all your letters, do pop in for a chat if you happen to be passing.. and remember your tax returns should be in by the end of the month.
That's all.
Fuck Off you Brit Bastards (as the locals seem to use as friendly salutation around here).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)