Letters From Abroad

Yesterday 8th April 2014, I received  two letters from friends living abroad telling me of the exciting lives they lead in the balmy air of the free and easy society in which they will be living for the next few years, whilst official documentation from their lady protector is sorted.  It is expected that she will come clean for the first time in her life by wiping her arse and showing the world what kind of shit she has been sitting on these last twenty odd years.

Yes, it is hoped that Elish Angiolini or to use her proper name, Angelo Dundee Cake will come clean leaving just a tiny trickle down the backs of her legs to remind her of life’s injustices.  It was the discovery of her real birth name, thus identifying her immediate family of Alex Eccles Cake and Kenny MacArbroath Smokey as being perpetrators of the hideous child abuse scandal that is ripping the good name of Dunchilblain on Sea apart and has left my two friends in a kind of dilemma.  Should they call a Scottish spade a shovel or should they really spill the perverse can of beans with a little outside help.  Their problem is that whilst on these enforced, if you like, spiritual retreats that they are enjoying, whilst converting all the good criminals of Scotland into deniers of Dundee and Eccles cakes and particular fishy dishy and turning the sturdy minds of the Scottish Prison Officers Association into haters and loathers of overweight authority, should they tell the world that diet is the best thing since sliced bread or do they go along with the fairy story that prison food is haute cuisine.

The first letter from my friends was from Mr Timothy Rustige only recently welcomed into HMP Grampian on the Coast by the camp governor, Mr Willie Wutlin who offered him is finest cellet in the newly refurbished and extended facility and gave Timothy the sobriquet of 134031.  It comes all found and complete with shower and furlined toilet seat and five shillings beer money every week.  He has been given a single cellet because according to his wife, Ren, his recently diagnosed onset of Alzheimers makes him unpredictable in tight corners and he is likely to verbally lash out at anyone or anything creating a possible Health and Safety problem.

The cellet that he has been endowed with, is brand spanking new and has never been besmirched by any known person except for the small colony of rats that visit now and then asking him to sign his early release forms and a promise to them to leave all well alone in Dunchilblain on Sea.  Mr Willy Wutlin has provided Timothy with three items of the latest gym equipment for Timothy to exercise on, he seems to prefer the rack of the three, because it is only by exercise will Timothy hold back the galloping form of heart disease he picked up some years ago in a mangrove swamp in the Pacific whilst trading Prisoners of Conscience with the Filopegi islanders.  Ren is really worried that the holiday camp raincoats are not allowing drugs in the establishment as they are deadly against Big Pharma and go with their mantra of “Exercise is for Exorcism”.  They are absolutely certain that given time they can drive out the demons in Timothy’s soul.  Ren is not to sure and is pleading with the powers that be for Timothy to be given the powders derived from some oriental plant known only to her.  I’m afraid she is fighting a losing battle as Willie Wutlin is convinced that callisthenics is the only way forward.

The grossly overweight Timothy weighing in at a shade over 10 stone or 63.6kgs in new money is finding the exercise regime ordered by Willie to be extreme but with this and the combination of the a la carte holiday camp menu force fed to recalcitrants, Timothy is certain he can reach his desired weight of six stone two pounds or 39 kgs that has been suggested by the medical staff.  So all seems to be well in HMP Grampian on the Coast and the medical staff are working miracles keeping our darling boy alive.

My second letter yesterday was from the Venerable Bede himself or as he is better known in the child protection world, Robert Green or as his fellow lodgers call him 125799.  Robert has found himself less lucky in some respects because he was welcomed into the slightly older camp of HMP Perth or Piss, opened in 1842 by Willy Wutlin’s bete noire, Dred Cuntin who is still around weilding his trusty cat o’ nine tails albeit in the privacy of his own senility suite.

Robert is a different character to Tim, a lot more circumspect than Timothy, only ever calling a spade a shovel on weekdays, keeping his gentler self for weekends and Holy Days of Obligation.  He has no axe to grind with Angelo Dundee Cake, he got bored years ago of chopping her image in bits, for which he was duly awarded.  No these days the brunt of his dyspepsia is with Alex Eccles Cake who has been rather tardy in getting up to speed with certain aspects of Scottish Tomfoolery that he should have been flying with a long time ago.  This hysterisis on Eccles Cake’s part will more than likely be the cause of his downfall come the vote in September has to whether Caledonia should go or stay, should sink or swim, should zip or unzip.  It will surely be in the hands of Scots and certainly the much ignored bus conductor Mr Brian Souter, Alex’s one time bosom-buddy.  Fatty Alex as he is known to his friends, is some vainglorious megalomaniac from Linlithgow which is on the old main road between Sleaze and Squeeze, not far from Robert’s summer hideaway of HMP Perth or Piss and only a jog down the road from Dunchilblain on Sea and it is Robert’s last wish to demotivate this lowland popinjay.  When I said lowland did I really mean low-life,  it does not matter, but he certainly needs nailing.  He is making bonny Scotland start to smell like a whores crutch, so much so it has put both Robert and I off a partake for whisky of which at one time I was extremely fond.

Robert has been in this early Victorian drafty establishment for nigh on a long time without heed or favour from Eccles Cake’s establishment eclairs.  This never seems to be ending situation is slowly affecting his stout constitution and that with the nocturnal ghostly howling of the ghosts of Messrs Johnstone, Edmundstone and Miszkastone, three gallant men from graniteland who had had carried out the SNP required satanic murder of three women and had been hanged in the courtyard outside the window of Robert’s ascetic retreat for their troubles has caused his blood pressure to jump from its casual 120 over 70 to a gross and untreatable 250 over 170.  He now has palpitations that are being recorded on a Richter scale and chest pains that he has not experienced since he was shot through with porridge in Craiginches a few years ago after tilting at Dundee Cake.

If Eccles Cake does not feel an inch of pity soon for his forgotten pal I feel Robert might have to cite the habeas corpus writ and demand freedom from this misery they call life.  He is now a lot more conciliatory towards his previous enemy and all he wants now is to shake hands providing he can avail of a pair of good rubber gloves and call Eccles Cake a cunt from the top of the Sheriff’s Court roof so that all in Aberdeen will know he, Robert that is, is a reformed character.  He even suggested that they meet up in Eccles Cake private club, The Violet, in Glasgow for a chin-wag and whipping session but Eccles Cake is too busy catching up on his correspondence to stray far from his desk.

Any way as a parting shot from this news bulletin I say chins up lads you have only another 60 years to do and with good behaviour you could be out by the time climate change has moved the temperature in Scotland up to a beautiful 40C in mid-winter.

Adieu, cheerio and Godspeed my mates, I will see you before I die and toodlepip to you, Dundee Cake, Eccles Cake and MacArbroath Smokey may you three be damned to the fires of hell and while your at it bring along Sheriffs Pyle and Bowen  David Moggach, Graham Morrison, old Uncle Tom Kilty and all who love the chicanery that covers up paedophilia and child abuse north of a line drawn in the Cheviots.

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