Gig 6 – Gareth Stack – Exchange Dublin from dbspin on Vimeo.

I finally did it… I bit the bullet and got up on stage. The first time was like my junior cert, leaving cert and début Butt Magazine shoot all in one. I sat at the back of the room folded into the foetal position, repeating my set over and over in my head, pausing only to drain an endless series of 7ups. When my name came- all too quick and earlier than I’d been warned, it was like being dragged to the chair at noon instead of midnight. The spotlight was blinding, like the full beam lamps of an oncoming moon driven by a mad moonman. I forget myself halfway through a sentence. I gibbered like an iguana given the power of speech. I got addicted.

So far I’ve managed to get five gigs down, not bad as it’s a fact that there are eight hundred Irish ‘comedians’ to every goon who’d feels like drinking at them. I’ve set up a blog to track my hideous journey. It’s here I shall write of my voyage from virgin to whore, recounting in nauseating detail each punters crude request. Check it out over at Virgin Standup.

Alias, Felicity, Star Trek… Fine mysteries all, exciting adventures, thrilling journeys with insolvable puzzles at their hearts, but what else do they have in common? All are products of the creative genius of one man: Enigmatic writer and producer Jolly Jim Abrams. Within the industry of making television and cinema films in Hollywood, Abrams (49) is renowned as the up and coming go to guy for that certain je ne sais quoi. With a head literally bursting with riddles, puzzles and devilment, and decorated with puppy soft, breeze tussled curls, Abrams will surely delight and frustrate us in equal measure for decades to come.

But did you know, Abrams is not just a creators of mysteries, but also an aficionado, a man who enjoys a good puzzle as much and perhaps more than you? For the first time JJ’s been kind enough to grant Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus access to the eight mysteries that tingle his curiosity late into the cold unfeeling night.

Mystery 1 – The Magical Box

As a young boy, Abrams travelled with his father, also called Abrams, to the Lou Tannen Magic Store on Manhattan’s Lower West Side. There they purchased a magical box, filled with exciting tricks and embossed with the curious interrogative symbol that was to become Abrams emblem. Rather than open that box, JJ kept it, enjoying the limitless possibilities of what it might possess, the exquisite tension of his infinite ignorance, far more than any toy that could have lain within.

Mystery 2 – Mrs Abrams Maw

JJ is happily married with two talented children, the twin gymnasts Pierre and Princess Abrams, who so delighted us at Beijing last year. His wife, Akasuki Abrams is a success in her own right- her computer pet ‘Tamagotchi’ caused a Christmas sensation in the 1990’s, and it’s follow-up the dancing vacuum ‘Happy Vroom Vroom’, is expected to do equally well this holiday season.

A formidable woman, Mrs Abrams is likely attractive, but the world may never know. At their first romantic meeting on a packed Harajuku hypertrain, the future Mrs JJ happened to be wearing a ‘hygiene mask’- an accessory common in the germ phobic Japanese capital. Delighted by her enigmatic ambiguity JJ insisted Akasuki continue hiding her face as their relationship progressed, encouraging his future wife to don a succession of veils, chador and helmets. The happy couple were eventually married at a pitch dark ceremony in the Goa Jepang caves at Pyongyang. To this day Akasuki’s lower head remains an intriguing puzzle, as all photographic evidence of the girls chin and cheeks have been destroyed.

Mystery 3 – The Litter

JJ Abrams, like Genghis Khan and generations of Australian backpackers before him, has literally no idea how many children he may have sired. In addition to his acknowledged heirs, twins from his current marriage, and a large hairless child ‘Porridge Hyacinth Abrams’, borne of an ill advised liaison with Milli of 80’s popsters Milli Vanilli, Abrams is likely the father of thousands of anonymous children. Exact figure are unsurprisingly a mystery, but Abrams admits he enjoys knowing that every child he passes in the street could be his own. Interviewed at a red carpet premier in 2006, Abrams spoke of his ‘Bastard baking technique’, a hobby involving cat burgling poorly guarded sperm banks, to replace their juicy tubules with vials of his own powerful seminal fluid. Whose your daddy? In all likelihood, it’s JJ Abrams.

Mystery 4 – I’m hideous!

It’s difficult to believe, but we can confirm that this one is absolutely true. Not only has JJ Abrams, skilled TV creator, amateur magician, and professional intrigue weaver failed to behold his lady wife’s puss, the man has never beheld his own face. Strict Hasidic Mormons, Abrams parents raised him in a house without reflective surfaces. Although he has long since abandoned the religion of his birth in favour of the ancient Dionysian cult of hedonism, JJ has maintained this odd superstition.

Refusing to watch his interviews, and never leaving the house without his patented reflection blocking contact lens, JJ Abrams may be the first man in history with no idea of his own appearance- except for blinds.

Consternation erupted in 2005 when a militant group of anti-fans swathed JJ’s plush Hollywood villa in a series of enormous placards depicting his gurning mug. Disaster was avoided when Abrams flew in magician and NLP sex man Darren Brown, who cunningly implanted an hypnotic suggestion, forever protecting JJ from accidental exposure to his admittedly handsome face.

Mystery 5 – Chinese Proverb Say…

JJ Abrams doesn’t know which way the cookie crumbles, and he likes it that way.

Mystery 6 – It Was In, Surely!

The offside rule remains a confounding puzzle to soccer fan Abrams, though it has been explained to him many times.

Mystery 7 – ?
*

Mystery 8 – The End of Lost

A typically risqué scene

Research carried out by sweet rouged Marshmallow reporters has confirmed something fans had long suspected, despite claims to the contrary, JJ Abrams- the genius behind hit series Lost, has literally no idea how the programme will end. “The fucker makes it up as he goes along”, one colleague, then disgruntled, now former, told us, and this does sadly seem to be the case.

Records obtained by stealing from the offices of Abrams Production company ‘Interobang’, demonstrate conclusively that little thought has gone into the final season of the show- due out next year.

The notes, which range from slightly vague to utterly incoherent, are written in Abrams own hand, and consist primarily of brief sentence fragments, with curses and colourful epithets thrown in the margins. Fans of the show will be crestfallen to realise that the ‘Smoke monster’, a hoary puzzle which has remained unsolved since the pilot episode, will be explained as a “trick of the light, giant cigarette, radioactive Hurly guff”.

If you saw the lower half of this picture, you would literally vomit

Abrams’ notes are illustrated by crude, child like sketches of on-again off-again couple ‘Jack Shepard’, and ‘Kate Austin’, engaged in a variety of carnal activities, some of which appear physically impossible.

So called ‘Superfans’, members of the public who’ve devoted tens of thousands of pages to intricate theories explaining seemingly contradictory elements of the show, from time travel to messages from the dead, are likely to be infuriated by the ‘Big Reveal’, described succinctly with the line “Purgawhatsit?, Every one is robots?, It was all a dream!”

* Mystery 7 is a mystery

Bukowski, drinking

You can imagine how flattered, and indeed surprised we were to receive a package purporting to contain an original and as yet unpublished volume of work by that uncouth folk hero of the American literary landscape, Mr Henry Charles Bukowski.

Bukowski’s earthy masculine novels and plain verse poetry earned him the moniker ‘The Prince of the American Night’. While his violently unpretentious articulations of the apolitical anomie of the post-war American barfly gained him a loyal readership. Young women famously sent the writer graphic missives proffering their virginities, and burnt out old men would often turn up on his doorstep begging advice. The American literary landscape has been a duller place since his departure. Thus is is with sincere pride and insincere humility, we present the first new poem from Charles Bukowski in fifteen years.

Dermot Byrne brings you the latest episode in his blasphemous audio comedy series ‘Fantastic Tales of Jesus‘. This week, ‘Jesus at the dole office’.

Download: Jesus at the dole office (3.9 Meg, MP3)

These gentle tales are sponsored by the cool fresh taste of Maureen’s Delicious Grape Wine, the wine that makes you go “More Wine Maureen!”.

You can finally read the book from the beginning almost to the end, with only the final chapter still to come.

There’s a lot that still needs to change, and a good deal of frayed ends that need tying – but we are approaching first draft at maximum dork!

If you haven’t read the book before, scoot over to ‘Hipnovel.com‘, and check it out from the beginning. Here’s a brief synopsis…

Iago Coakes, television critic, is a man possessed. Possessed of a mysterious fortune, a bitter ex-wife, and a prodigious daughter he can’t stand. Possessed of bowel problems, grim incurable venereal diseases, and a terror of a womans private place. Possessed above all, of unending gluttonous desire – for sex, drugs, power, and for adventure.

And here’s a wee snippet from the latest chapter!

The boot is silent now, the bat and ball of cornering has quieted her. Could be she’s fooling sleep to leap and bite you like a cornered rat. ‘Melody, Melody told me,’ that bitch! Back at your place you will quiet her. There you have all the tools for the job. Good as new mostly. Toys you bought and never used. Idling ambitions. In the bedroom where you never go, there are cuffs on the wall above the bed. It was her dream home after all. Yes, you will string the houri up and pat her down. You will break her fucking silence.

Silence.

Wheel wielded tumbling steel breathless eight millimetre end over end branches through the window verdant boxers swinging gravities fire at your feet crocheting mysteries of glass and steel and ampersands and and and and…

Read on

Michael Gregory is at it again, and it is wonderful. The new autotune the news is out, and it’s the best since no 2. Let me know in the comments if you’d enjoy more reposts of other folks content.

Since the untimely demise of the prince of pop Michael Jackson (search engines take note), rumours have percolated like coffee that many celebrities who happen to be in the full prime of being alive, are in fact deceased. As a public service, Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus have decided to provide a convenient list of celebrities including their being alive status.

Brittany Spears: Alive
Jeff Goldbloom: Alive
Elvis: Dead
The Queen: Alive
Jesus: Fictional

Previous Episodes: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Monday 2PM

Nabbed meself two weeks off while the boss gets the bullet proof fitted. It’s me first holiyers since the divorce, so I have to make sure and go somewhere nice. These days there’s so much choice its hard to know where to stay. Malaga, Benidorm, Sangria. Sure you’d want a geography leaving cert just to keep up.

Monday 9PM

Booked me trip! Heading off on one a them last minute deals. Flight leaves in three hours so I’d better run, zoom! Majorcan minibreak, here I come.

Tuesday 1PM

Magaluf is only lovely. Savage little harbour and all the girls are English. You know what they say about proddy wans! They say they like to ride a lot.

Airport was a nightmare, wouldn’t you know it. First there was the whole, ’stick your bag in here sir’. Course it doesn’t fit, and that’s forty quid down the grotto. Then they want to open the hand luggage in front of everyone. Big laugh. Bet a woman wouldn’t get told off for having a Linford Christie in her bag. I should take it to the court in Europe.

Heading to the ’superclub’ tonight for a bit of a boogie. Chances are I’ll get chatting to the DJ and he’ll let me spin some cuts. Girlies always love a musical man.

Tuesday 11PM

Have a black eye and a swolley nose. Got tossed out of the club for dancing. I suppose they’d kick you out of the jacks if you did a number two. To make tomatoes worse, I think I put me back out doing the crab.

Wednesday 3PM

Lovely afternoon so far. Took the bus down to Palma and hit the streets, working me best material on the beautiful ladies. It’s all kosher here from thirteen up. Now that’s what I call civilised. Best of all, everyone seems to speake Englasias. Well, they know ‘f off’, ‘get f’d', and ‘creepy b’tard’ anyway.

Wednesday 7PM

Met a savage wee bird from Germany, have a date tonight. She’s over on a school trip, so she’ll have to sneak out to meet me. Feel like Jason Bourne on a secret mission!

Her name is Aaline, and she has the loveliest teeth, mad white and all the same size. Told a little fib to get the date. Let on to her I was doing a bit of DJin’ instead of just on holiday. Sure it’s half true anyway, I know me stuff when it comes to the decks.

Thursday 2PM

Writing in a hurry. Can’t stay in one place too long. Wouldn’t you know it, I stumbled into a Catherine Zeta film. Went to meet up with Aaline, but instead of a date I got an earful of ‘where do you work?’, and ‘what’s your real name?’, off a pair of super-size plods.

Jeasus isn’t it well I fibbed to her in the first place? Managed to blag me way out a there somehow. Turns out it feckin’ illegal to tell a wee angel a lie over here, so I had to convince the feckers I really was working for Boy George and me name was Alfonzo Kittenpants. Arse, arse, arse, and quadruple arse. Now I have to keep the head down until me flight leaves. That’s not till Saturday!

Sunday 2PM

Made it home. I swear I’m never leaving Dublin ever again. Had to spend the last two nights sleeping in the ditch near the airport, in case the fuzz found me hotel. Last night, just as I was packing up to head for the airport, some English louts spotted me and took turns trying to splash me with their wee.

On the plus side, I got a lovely laminated map of Majorca and a giant Toblerone at the airport. Don’t even have to share it. Wouldn’t mind though…

I awake this morning to a more frightening world. Yesterday blasphemy became a crime in Ireland, one element of a bill supposedly focused on defamation. Today in Ireland, certain categories of ideas gain for the first time a special status; a protection normally reserved for human beings.

Yesterday, in the final moments before the hammer fell, facing a Seanad rebellion the government found a Green party TD wandering the halls to swing the vote. They succeeded in enacting the worst and most pernicious piece of legislation in this countries history. This is our response.

[Note: This article is an editorial - if you'd like more information on the legislation itself, and how it will be enforced, please read our original piece, published in June: Proposed Irish Blasphemy Legislation]

When the Founding Fathers of the United States framed the Bill of Rights, drafting their amendments to the American constitution, they made sure to enshrine both the freedom to worship and freedom to critique. Indeed, not only are these rights protected in the foremost amendment to the US constitution, both rights are stated in a single paragraph.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

The framers of the American constitution recognised implicitly that freedom of speech and the plurality of religious worship necessitate one another. Despite the many abrogations of individual freedom and privacy that have occurred since, this right has remained effectively inviolate. Opinion, especially factually true opinion, may usually be expressed.

The framers of the second Irish constitution had less noble motivations, in publishing the document which persists (necessitating frequent amendment) to this day. In consultation with the hierarchy of the Catholic Church in Ireland, they enshrined the ‘special place‘ of that religion, the importance of a woman’s role as home-maker, and the pre-eminent sanctity of monogamous heterosexual marriage.

Dermot Ahern, Ireland’s current minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform, claims that this flawed and outdated document compelled him to create legislation prohibiting blasphemy, and further that it would be against the spirit of the constitution for such legislation to be toothless. Thus he has created a bill, passed without debate during a session attended by, on average only six TDs at a time, which foists a €25,000 euro ($34,900 USD, or £21,439 Sterling) fine on anyone who “publishes or utters matter”…

“grossly abusive or insulting in relation to matters held sacred by any religion, thereby causing outrage among a substantial number of the adherents of that religion; and he or she intends, by the publication of the matter concerned, to cause such outrage.”

Perhaps the minister, in claiming to be compelled to legislation is being honest. After all, article 40 of the flawed and outdated Irish constitution states…

“The State shall endeavour to ensure that organs of public opinion, such as the radio, the press, the cinema, while preserving their rightful liberty of expression, including criticism of Government policy, shall not be used to undermine public order or morality or the authority of the State.

The publication or utterance of blasphemous, seditious, or indecent material is an offence which shall be punishable in accordance with law.”

So, while the Irish supreme court had ruled that deciding “of what the offence of blasphemy consists” was impossible; and despite recent recommendations from an Oireachtas (parliamentary) committee that references to sedition and blasphemy be removed from the bill, national and international criticism from journalists, and lawyers alike, and frequent suggestions that the constitution as a whole should be replaced, Dermot Ahern may honestly have seen it as his duty to create a heavily penalised crime of blasphemy.

Perhaps this legislation will be struck down at a European level. Perhaps it will prove unenforceable in practice, as the conflicting and competing claims of religious doctrine make prosecution more trouble than it’s worth. These outcomes would be wonderful, and they seem reasonable, but they are in no sense guaranteed. Irish Attorney Generals and Directors of Public Prosecutions have in the past shown little hesitation in bringing manifestly unfair and unnecessary cases to trial, based on bad legislation and the demands of religious special interest groups.

What is less ambiguous is the likely effect of this legislation, whether effectively enforced or not. Without any significant outcry to bolster their indignation, the Irish news media are certain to reduce their coverage of contentious religious issues. Lets take the infamous Muhammad caricature controversy, as an example. Perhaps it was unnecessary for the Irish media to republish the cartoons that were the source of such outrage four years ago, but in today’s new legislative climate, it would be unwise even to report on the debate. Books which take issue with religious convention are this morning more difficult to publish, plays, radio progammes and television shows mocking or challenging the veracity of religious claims more difficult to commission and to broadcast.

Domestic Irish comedy has long been a deceased, decaying creature, lumbering on in blissful disregard of its own death, but we can say goodbye to any hopes of a native broadcaster producing the next Life of Brian, or a foreign broadcaster choosing Ireland as the location for another Father Ted. A friend (who shares my opposition to the blasphemy legislation) has spoken of his distaste in siding with folks like Bill Maher, Sarah Silverman, and “Richard bloody Dawkins”. It’s easy to forget that almost every influential post war satirist from Spike Milligan, to Peter Cook, Chris Morris and the Pythons, would have also have faced prosecution under this legislation.

Ireland seems fond of its dead writers, we name bridges after Samuel Beckett and erect statues of James Joyce and Oscar Wilde, we build writers museums and interpretive centres, and opine grandiloquently on their literary significance. Dead writers are more likeable. Lest we forget, all of these men were in their day accused of blasphemy. All wrote controversial, critically acclaimed works which could have faced prosecution under this bill. Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that had Dermot Ahern been in a position to enact his censorious legislation at the turn of the century, much of our great literature, from Salome, to Waiting for Godot, to Ulysses might not have been published. More recently, the Irish comedian Abie Philbin Bowman performed a critically acclaimed comedy show ‘Jesus the Guantanamo Years‘, reimagining the father of Christianity as an imprisoned Middle Eastern terror suspect. Could such an act get a booking in this country today?

Advocates of civil liberties refer to such ’soft censorship’ as chilling effects. The chilling effect here may influence more than a few edgy comedies and current affairs pieces. Ireland is inarguably recovering from decades of unhealthy religious influence in public life. We know now that the amount and extent of sexual abuse at the hands of the religious orders – who still by the way control 92% of our primary schools, extended to monstrous proportions. The influence of religious interest groups in delaying the legalisation of contraception, homosexuality, and access to sexual health information – all prohibited until the 1980’s and 1990’s, were and continue to be readily apparent. We are a nation coming to terms with multiculturalism, while at the same time dealing with our liturgical demons. Freedom of speech is not merely important at the current moment, it is vital to the recovery of our society from decades of the abuse of the influence of religion over every aspect of civil life.

Ironically the defamation bill of which the blasphemy amendment is a part, creates new protections for Irish journalists from accusations of libel. Timely protections, as Ireland has historically had some of the most egrigeous slander and libel legislation in the world. Legislation that prevented the reporting in the 1980’s of endemic political corruption which siphoned untold amounts from the nations coffers (see previous article). A culture of institutionalised corruption which continues today. A legislative climate which for example, protects the anonymity of investors personally loaned hundreds of millions of euros by the ‘troubled’ Anglo Irish Bank.

What place then, in this or any defamation bill, for the protection of special categories of belief from offence? Blasphemy is of course, not the same thing as defamation. And neither are accurate definitions of what this new legislation prohibits. What it makes illegal is broadly, intentionally offending religious people. But why, one might ask, is it necessary to intentionally offend? Ignoring for the moment the reversal of the the fundamental legal principle of the Presumption of Innocence (under the new legislation a defendant must prove the “genuine literary, artistic, political, scientific or academic value” of their speech), and the impact on the great literary and satirical works already referenced: The freedom to reason necessitates the freedom to articulate.

Language is the tool of thought, framing and to some extent delimiting possible conceptualisations. This is why the freedom to criticise and yes intentionally offend, is vital. Tolerance requires not silence but active plurality, the intolerance of intolerance. What Isaiah Berlin called the difference between positive and negative liberty, the distinction between freedom from and the freedom to. Healthy, positive social change of the kind Ireland desperately needs, only ever occurs though reasoned debate – protest alone is rarely sufficient, but the freedom to freely discuss, to complain, to offend and to upset the status quo, is a necessary prerequisite. These are subtle points, but ones with unsubtle practical consequences. This legislation bring religion right into the heart of issues like gay marriage and adoption – areas of law and civil life that demonstably conflict with matters held sacred by all of the Abrahamic religions. Areas of law that appear to conflict too with opinions held by Mr. Ahern himself. During the dail debate on the decriminalisation of homosexuality in 1993, Fine Gael TD Brendan McGahon stated…

“I regard homosexuals as being in a sad category, but I believe homosexuality to be an abnormality, some type of psycho-sexual problem that has defied explanation over the years. I do not believe that the Irish people desire this normalisation of what is clearly an abnormality. . .

Homosexuality is a departure from normality and while homosexuals deserve our compassion they do not deserve our tolerance. That is how the man in the street thinks. I know of no homosexual who has been discriminated against. Such people have a persecution complex because they know they are different from the masses or normal society.”

At the time Ahern, who as Minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform has rejected proposals for Irish Civil Partnership legislation, not only indicated his agreement with McGahon’s bigotry, but added…

“Will we eventually see the day in this country when, as has happened in the USA, homosexuals will seek the right to adopt children? We should think seriously about this possibility.”

We can’t know that Dermot Ahern intends to use his position to do everything in his power to limit the rights of those he believes to be ‘abnormal’ and unworthy of tolerance, but his own statements do imply that he would not be unhappy if that was one side effect of the new legislation.

Not only is this law unnecessary, dangerous and the result of dubious motivations, to call it poorly worded is a mealy understatement. It is possessed of the self evident ‘truthiness‘ of a Jeremy Carkson rant, or a Daily Mail editorial. This new law places the beliefs of Scientologists, preachers the Church of the Subgenius and worshippers of the Flying Spaghetti Monster on the same footing as the dogma of major world religions. It provides for the “seizure and removal by any member of the Garda Siochana of all copies of the statement to which the offence related that are in the possession of any person“. In practice this wording could refer to anything from the pulping of magazines to the purloining of computers containing browser caches of pages repeating the offence. That, I need hardly point out, might include your computer, since you are currently reading an unquestionably blasphemous website.

Much as been made of the Mr Aherns ‘generous’ last minute climb down on the original wording of the bill – which provided for imprisonment in addition to a €100,000 euro fine, for spoken or published ‘blasphemy’. No one seems to have mentioned that this aspect of the bill directly contravened the 60 year old United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Article 12 of which reads…

Everyone charged with a penal offence has the right to be presumed innocent until proved guilty according to law in a public trial at which he has had all the guarantees necessary for his defence.

Good thing they caught that, on the day the bill was passed.

Religion has many uses, notably as a consolation or hermeneutic device. It provides for some a map of our affective world. Its allegories, be they biblical or koranic, may like Aesop’s fables promote ethical behaver and self reflection. As the writer Alan Moore is fond of saying magic becomes really interesting once you realise it’s reality is an internal one. Secular philosophers have all but abandoned the effort to deduce or advocate a poetic ethics, let alone a pragmatic ideology of purpose. In it’s place have arisen life coaches, new religious movements, ala carte Catholicism, and secular humanism. All of which are worthwhile if individuals find them personally meaningful. It is when we begin to mistake religious belief for concrete reality, protecting doctrine as a special category of privileged knowledge, that we find ourselves in trouble. Meaning is non exclusive, it is the domain of the purely relative. Belief can hold no absolute claim on truth. By enshrining dogma into law, we necessarily make ourselves slaves to outdated traditions that like our constitution, were invented by men now dead, to suit conditions that no longer apply.

The response of my peers to this legislation has been characteristically Irish – variations on ‘Isn’t it terrible’, ‘there’s nothing we can do’, ‘ah sure it’ll all blow over’. One friend has already withdrawn a piece written for this website, afraid of its ramifications for his future career. Another seems genuinely scared even to even read articles discussing blasphemy, given “the current climate”.

As for myself, I have no €25,000 to give the criminal justice system. I own no property and am, to be brutally honest the proud possessor of student loans of the type mathematicians refer to as ‘non trivial’. That said, to quote the ever succinct Twenty Major, I shall continue to “blaspheme who I want, you God fearing cunt Ahern“.

A letter arrived for me this morning. I beg your indulgence when I tell you that it was written in my own hand. Despite all common sense I am forced to conclude that it was written by some future me, a man condemned. I have transcribed it here, correcting spelling where necessary.

Dear Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus,

I always knew I’d end up jailed for something. Better I suppose that it was something noble. A martyrdom rather than a condemnation, a brave stand against injustice in place of a grubby harassment suit. I walk, in the penning of this mellifluous missive of corrupt internment, in the footprints of social innovators like Wilde, Pankhurst, and Nice. Though it might be said by one less modest, that their struggles – occurring as they did in the past, can hardly compare to my own battle, which is happening right now.

I had long fantasised about what life in prison might be like, vacillating between two extremes. In one daydream – the one that might be called ‘Porridge’, the inmates ornery suspicion of my cut glass accent and excellent table manners, are quickly replaced by a grudging respect. I help the men pen letters to their sweethearts, assist them with their appeals, and start a social issues theatre company that gives voice to their feelings of imprisonment. Gradually the grateful felons begin referring to me as ‘The Professor’. With time I accrue some degree ’soft power’, through my esteemed social position within the prison, and Nelson Mandela like influence in the wider community. A former chef, imprisoned for poisoning his Rotery club, becomes my personal cook, and my penthouse cell swells with books on post structural philosophy, lush kittensoft toilet paper, and tasteful lithographs by Cezanne and Monet. Eventually the great day comes and I am released. Emerging to the rapturous attentions of the worlds media, I lead my people to a promised land of anarcho-syndicalist peace, tolerance, creative expression and casually meaningful polyamorous nookie.

There has always been, of course, another and less pleasant fantasy – lets call it simply ‘Oz’. Locked up and forgotten by a world more concerned with celebrity Big Brother and some silly fuss in Persia than my plight, I fall prey to the law of the jungle. Within a week I am slowly and ungently robbed of my prostine innocence by a gang of twelve ruffians, three of them possessed of incurable contagions; whilst rotund and callous ‘Screws’ look on, laughing and smoking their harsh Turkish cigarettes. Within a month I am ’shanked’ and lie convalescing in the prisons poorly serviced ‘hospital’. Tragically, though the techniques required to return me to good health would be trivial to the most poorly trained general practitioner, the prisons lone medic, a pickled incompetent whose primary degree is veterinary, botches the surgery: dooming me to lurch forever, hunched and careful lest my fetid satchel burst and betray my incontinence. Sloped, bald and stinking always of the fungi that inhabit my open chest wound, I am swiftly rejected by the ‘decent’ prisoners, who force the governor to move me to the ‘nonce’ wing, where I am subject to mandatory castration and distasteful company. Though I pray for death always, I take many years to perish.

The truth of course has been more banal. I get along well enough with some prisoners, avoiding others who demand money and deliver punches like glorified primary school bullies. Mostly I lie in my cell, silently brooding. Having exhausted the small prison library, primarily stocked with Patterson, Clancy, and the execrable space operas of Doc Smith, there is nothing left for me to read. On the other hand I retain little desire to do so, as the sweet velvet touch of heroin brooks no other lover.

The blasphemy amendment which sent me here is being challenged in the EU, and who knows, perhaps in two years or five, I’ll be a free man once again; liberated, and for once thin! It’s a prospect I relish… They say the gear is better on the outside, and cheaper too.

Signed,

The Political Prisoner

July 7th, 2010