Post Number Sixteen

“More Legal Stuff”

While I’ve been waiting for my SPANISH INQUISITION FASCIST SHOW TRIAL (AKA my court case for kidnapping) these last couple’a weeks, I’ve had a burning need for advice from someone who knows about legal doings– with an equally burning need for someone who won’t fling the word “fee” in my face. Because that fee-flingin’ thing is what got me in trouble in the first place. And of course that same thing (i.e. the fee-flingin’ one) would rule out Uncle Mike Spilligan.

Or so you’d think.

But my Mother (“MA DOOLIGAN” as the clan calls her) sent me to jail with a note informing her half-brother (Mike) that if he charged me a Consultation Fee every time I visited him (which is what I told her he did) then he would hereby and forthwith be kicked out’a the family, thereby (and fifthwith) leaving him with “no place to stay” should he ever find himself kicked out of the warmth and security of his current home (jail). (NOTE re: that note: I haven’t actually told Ma Dooligan about my impending Show Trial yet. Obviously, because I’ll be needing a place to stay when {and/or “if”} I get kicked out of prison myself.)

And so– as a serial visitor– I went back to jail, holding my Mother’s note, with every intention of hearing the wisdom of an elder. Even though he’s only four years older than me. And a moron. The advice I sought was not the sort’a thing that involved “thinking”, though (otherwise, why would I visit Mike?), but rather it was about (sarcasm quotes) “feeling” (end sarcasm quotes). Believe it or not, my sausage-smugglin’ Uncle is the type of crim who’s very adept at “feeling things”. All sorts of things. He’s very tactile in that way. Should’a been a pickpocket, prob’ly. Which is why, for the first (and possibly only) time, I decided I would ask what it “feels” like to dwell in a dungeon.

After he quietly finished reading the note (with his lips moving slow as he spelt out the bigger words) he rolled up said note, reached behind himself, and (with a grimace) shoved the thing forcefully into his back pocket (I hope). Then I queried him about the abovementioned “feelings” shit, and he queried me back about my newfound “incarceration fascination” (my words) “shit” (his word). I lightly touched upon the whole issue of my Show Trial and went straight into hypotheticals. “IF” (I wondered) “I should end up” (I continued) “in here” (i.e. prison) “less as a visitor and more as a permanent resident, what could I expect?”

  • Would I get my own room?
  • Would that room have a North-facing, leafy, tree-lined aspect?
  • Will I be allowed conjugal visits, even though I’m not married?
  • (and haven’t got a girlfriend.)
  • Will my room have Pay T.V?
  • Will I be permitted to swap jails if I find this one is not to my liking?
  • Or what?

Imagine my absolute horror when he answered “NO” to a couple o’ these! And you call yourself a “civilized society”, Reader. Well, I can tell you now: there is No Effing Way they will ever hunt me down and throw me into such inhumane conditions without my consent! I shall fall back on the sympathy of YOU PEOPLE, my reading public. After you’ve given up a few hours (or days) of your time by grouping together, and waving really big placards, and puffing out yer chests, and  makin’ y’selves look like a much bigger crowd than you both are, this (more or less) enormous groundswell of public support will distract the guards and help me escape!

When I told Mike Spilligan of my plans to “bust out’a the joint”, he (gloomsayer that he was) (and is) gloomily said to me:

“Many folks like you have tried. But it was pointless…  Utterly pointless.”

“Why?” probed I.

“Because you’re a VISITOR, cockhead!” he reasoned. “You don’t have to escape! They just open the gate and out yer go.”

“Oh, so I’m the cockhead, am I?” (is what I countered with.) “Well, at least I’m not a STARRY-EYED OPTIMIST!!”

Having put that convict in his proper place, I then duh-MARN-ded that he bring me Natasha De Nasha’s body on a plate. Preferably naked (her, that is. Not him). But for some strange reason my spontaneous, and (as he called it) “uncalled for” call for female nudity caused him to wax lyrical about what a fun place this “boy’s club” of a jail truly was. Even work there was “fun”, he insisted.

(What?? Oh-HO, you touched a sore spot then, Spilligan! For was it not “work” that got me in all this trouble to begin with?)

Still (frustrated sigh) he wanted to waffle on (and on) about the (quote) “sailing vibe” down at the Prison Sweatshop where he spent much of his un-free time. According to him, it was all “yo-ho-ho and a bottle o’ Brasso” (i.e. Brass Polisher. Beverage of Choice. For the Prisoner of Today) down there.

As I politely stifled a yawn (by hiding it behind a piece of paper on which I’d scribbled the words: “THIS IS BORING”), Uncle Mike (ignoring my hint) waffled on about the joy-filled hours he spent in the sweatshop “making buoys”. He told me how much he just lerrrrved rubbing his hands on a shiny new buoy. He went further by saying he lerrrrved givin’ those buoys a polish. Then (and this is the bit I don’t get) he lerrrrved it when the buoys gave him a polish back.


Later when I spoke on the phone to Aunty Beryl (skilfully avoiding all mention of my promise to fix her ingrown toe problem by saying: “I DON’T WAN’A TALK ABOUT YOUR INGROWN TOE PROBLEM!!”) I told her about Mike’s weird new enthusiasm for work. She said:

“That’s not the only weird thing he does. You should hear what happens during my conjugal visits.”

But when I wondered aloud what it was, I couldn’t pick up the answer properly ’cause my phone cut out. Sounded like she said that before those conjugal visits, he tells her to bring a “strap-on strassburg”… and then… one of them… “walks funny” for at least a week.


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