The Prisoner

Well it’s Saturday night, and I’m at home typing this letter. How sad is that! I should be out on the Disco floor or riding a motorcycle over a cliff. I guess later the excitement will rise as we discuss carpet cleaning products (child vomits and plops on the carpet) or how I eat too loudly. What an action packed night ahead.

England is a dump. Dickens description fits well with today. We are a small Island with narrow thoughts, and limited ability. The trains should be in a museum. The Irish Sea flows with radioactive joy, and fish is consumed for it’s after glow. People shop without knowledge of how or where food comes from. The whole show reminds me of a massive computer, the instructions move to the beat of a clock. Where are all the mad inventors? You know the ones; they invented electricity, petrol engines, magnetism, and radio. England is not long for the future.

After about 2 years of very sporadic work, I landed a job with a Bank. The Bank I love to hate; Barclays Bank, and before you say anything the answer is “No”. There will be no bank transfers into your accounts no matter how many times you take me out on the boat or let me turn the wheel thing, and say “steady as she goes”.

I have to drive a car to work each day on the motorway at 70 Miles/hour. It’s really freaky but due to my intensive skills with video machines I try to think of it as a video game, and I have three lives. I guess it’s not real anyway. Do you think that’s air your breathing (Matrix)?

I miss that small Norwegian island, where the cats roam in summer, and Pottery depicting cats is sold. People laze on the beach with ice cream, and watch me swim and shout, “Bloody Hell it’s cold”. The sea facing side of the Island is barren, and you can see a lighthouse in the distance. My former manager Sverr Hanson took me over to that lighthouse in a small boat. He was drinking beer. That and the tall waves gave me concern. I was even more concerned when he said that he took a chance hiring me, as he didn’t know my background. I thought then that he was taking me over to the lighthouse for some kind of torture/ritual/pain thing. Pity really because I really like Lighthouses. Spoiled the day, and fuelled my paranoia.

Before the Bank job we decided to go on a weeks holiday in North Wales, along the coast. I suggested we stay at Port Merian where the TV show  “The Prisoner” was filmed since I felt a kinship with the main character, who is held prisoner in what looks like a model village but in real size. I am held prisoner by two females, one of which turned into a Mother (wash this wash that, bla bla), and the other a small child who wakes up when it’s still dark, and asks for milk. I’m not a cow. Anyway it rained all week, and we drove down narrow roads the locals call motorways. When we got back I lost eyesight in both eyes and was diagnosed as having some weird eye condition which is extremely rare unless of course your me in which case ho hum. So I guess the motto is visit Wales and go blind. I’m now on eye drops, which are steroids so no doubt I’ll start to grow breasts and take a fancy to women’s clothes. I know what my mother would say, (imagine a Parrot squawking)…”Well at least you can see, that’s the main thing”. She really gets on my tits.

Glad you are both alive. I will contact you again in 7 years time unless of course the Space Ship comes back for me…bastards. They left me to rot. “Just go out and collect some samples”, they said we’ll be back later.

Dear Barbra

I heard you recently landed a two4one all expenses paid package at a local government establishment, and since I am off work today I thought I would pursue a small investigation into the details of such an offer. Well I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. Apparently Donald Pleasance, and Rachel Welch will be given an ordnance survey map of your body, and a ray gun, before being lowered into a “Hello Matey” bath time submarine.

Donald and Rachel are shrunk down to the size of a teacher’s salary (really small). After that they are injected into your body as you watch the omnibus edition of Coronation Street. Believe me you won’t feel a thing. Using the map they steer the submarine to the first trouble spot, and zap anything that looks remotely like a Fiat Punto or the “Chuckle Brothers”. If it’s the chuckle brother I hope they scream in agony. I really hate them. Really. After this first success Donald will take offence at Rachel not respecting his dreams of World Domination/Nasal hair and her need to use the Ray Gun as a hair dryer. Donald looses his cool, and although he later goes on to host children’s daytime TV he crashes the submarine and threatens to exterminate your texting thumb. As Rachel swims free of the damaged submarine your autoimmune system launches endless repeats of Grease “The musical” to drive Donald out of your body. Rachel makes here way to the final mission spot, but without the Ray gun she has to use her conversational skills to bore the squatter to death. With minutes to spare before the shrink ray wears of Rachel emerges from your epiglottis to a rapturous applause by staff and a guaranteed years tour of the American circuit.

So as you can see, it’s close but not that close. Believe me I’ve been there.

Dear Clare & Paul

How many times have I sat before this monitor with the intention to type! Each time I do some fatal distraction occurs, such as a “plop plop” or a “wee wee”. Some nights I just stare at the glowing screen, and wonder who I am. I thought I was Maisey yesterday and proceeded to find Charlie for a picnic. Some of my best friends are TV stars of the 7-8am slot. My adult friends don’t come around anymore, and when they do I’m far too tired to go out at 7pm. I have a large belly just like the Telly Tubbies, and I sleep in the other room on the floor (it’s called a Futon – rock hard).

I used to jet around the world and refuse champagne at 30,000 feet; I was somebody. Now I must contemplate the challenge of the dole office, and cheap beer. Oh how I wept. The contract market died over 10 months ago along with my dreams of escape, and starched white hotel sheets, not to mention room service. Still enough of me, what of you?

So your insane, and you’ve had another child to prove it. According to last nights news you won’t need to save for a pension due to a mile wide asteroid on a collision course with Earth. This is good news as you can now use the pension contributions to travel the world before it’s toasted. Apologies for not visiting you at Christmas and any other time, but the months seem like weeks when your deprived of sleep for so long, so very long. I think I’m going mad, the child is screaming again.

I’m going to be pumped with drugs soon as we are going on “holiday” to France…with a child. Dear God strike me down now. My luggage is brief, and the childs comprises of Boot’s the chemists on wheels. I hope somebody recognises my good looks and I’m whisked away to Studio land to play the victim – I’ll get to lie down more. Thinking of you, thinking of me, thinking of you…

Dear James & Family

The elves and I have been busy preparing for the Christmas fest. Since yours is a particularly large order we have scheduled it for an early, and dare I say conventional delivery via Royal Mail. As usual I am unable to provided you with a return address in case of damaged goods. Simply address any correspondence to Santa at The North Pole, and provided the Royal mail personnel are suitably “tanked up” your letter will be answered.

The impish child urinated on me last night and the night before she pooed in the bath. I physically had to scoop the poo out with my own hands. This was no computer simulation! Her actions are probably due to the fact that I’m far too happy and need to be taken down a peg or two in terms of emotional stability.  Last night I had a dream that I had been locked in a sanatorium for 10 years which had burned down. I was a ghost who tried to escape the sanatorium and achieve human form by drinking the essence of pig. This madness went on throughout the night, until daylight arrived to save me. Any clues/comments?

Last week the trees came and went, past the window. I had to venture out into the storm to trim the branches on the car.