Climbing into Creamfields

I swear, the stuff I get on here could almost have been written by me. It’s amazing what you find when reading short stories and testimonies from prisoners and patients around the country. It’s almost that time of year again when I get to judge all the KOESTLER entries and this time I’m going to type as many of them as I can up with real identities and names included so their families can see their work online. A.D

To begin with I drove there drunk, which I know is neither funny or smart, but it was daft o’clock in the morning and I’d been up all night shotgunning Lambrini, arguing with a young racist girl from the local juvenile hall. If she hadn’t of been so devilishly handsome I would have turned the other cheek, but instead I had a good ole face-off with her in public and ended up getting both cheeks slapped when my own razor-sharp insults got under her skin, but that’s another post.

I parked my lovely racing-green Vectra in the corner of an empty field and approached the perimeter wall. By jumping up as high as I could I could just about get my fingertips on, but to pull myself up would take a valiant effort. It was a good job then that I saw a ladder lying flat on the grass. It belonged to security. They had a little lookout but nobody was in yet because like I said it was milkman time so I used the ladder to get in and then stashed it in case I needed it later to help some friends in or whatever.

Knackered, I found a tent and had a kip in it.

A few hours later I was sober and blue. People were working all around me, sound technicians and other gob-shites. I was well concealed in the fold of a tent but they must have seen me or at least knew I was there because every now and again something would touch me. They were literally working right around me, within spitting distance. Forget these buggers, I said to myself, and got up to go the bog.

Wouldn’t you be in trouble if one of those portaloo cubicles fell over and landed door-side down with you still in? Just a thought.

I roamed around for a while as everyone set up their gear and tested the speakers in the main tent. Testicles, testicles, one-two-testicles.

Luckily for me I came across a guy unloading many crates of Stella so I helped myself to one. He had a van’s worth and he would have only sold each can for £3 anyway, so don’t feel sorry for the scumball. In fact he was lucky I didn’t bash him about his noggin (nut) with one and take his dusty white transit van (aka gypsy van....someone had written drive carefully, don't kill a child, wait for a lawyer on it's filthy side panel).

I downed 2 of those tinnes like chilled Lilt in the desert (doesn't free stuff taste more livelier?) which got me shit-faced again before making my way back out to my car, which I couldn’t find, getting lost in the surrounding rural wilderness after damn near nearly killing myself falling halfway down the ladder and crushing my ribs on the cans. 2 of em' burst open and I had to do some more downing, which fizz-bombed my brain with alcohol.

I finally emerged from the bushes with what must have been a third of a crate down. I’d been playing Bear I-didn’t-know-he-wrote-books Grylls in the trees on my own like a dunce, walking over planks balanced across brooks and s**t like that. To my delight there was a queue of manic fit women in fluorescent dresses and spotty wellies. I swear, the sun came out just as I laid my eyes on all this juicy colourful totty.

I waded over like Moses parting the Red Sea (was it red?) and thereby attracted the attention of some coppers who not only wanted a look at my ticket but also a peek up my bottom as well, for concealed contraband. FOR REAL BRUV! They wanted me to squat and spread em’ behind their van. As is usual when I’m borderline black-out I can’t remember what I said or did from then onwards (think of sleep-walking with activities).

I remember waking up once on a park bench wondering who had shit in my pants. JOKE. It was on a town bench really. JOKE AGAIN.

I came around in Daresbury holding cells. It’s a brand new facility, very modern, with decent lasagne for dinner. I could actually hear the music from Creamfields inside. They let me out quite late once I’d slept my headache off so I walked back to The Wire, forget going back by this point, and stayed at my mate’s flat, where I could see the festival from his 11th story window. In the darkness, it glowed like an amusement park in the distance. I thought I could still hear the music, all the way back from there.

I’d completely forgotten about my car.

Written in 60 mins
© Toby Thomas MMX
HMP Risley

Glastonbury Officer: Great Days

The event is Glastonbury. Back in our school days. One of your friends is off their rocker smashing all the school windows in on a freshly refurbished office block, namely at our treasured school, St Peter & Paul.

The suspect is a one Dan the Man, who doesn't give a shit about anything other than necking as many bottles of Pulse as he can. He is breaking them windows in like there is no tomorrow. But this is just the night before Glastonbury, so it does not matter that much.

Except it does, because Dan the Man, when the police arrived, run off, hid in a bin with his mastermind accomplice Sonny Bannah, then sneaked back to where the police officers had parked up their van, snuck in, and ROBBED ONE OF THEIR JACKETS from the driver's seat!

He later sold this on to Jay Bourne, who wore it for Glastonbury the very next day. I believe the price was a packet of fags plus an old pair of trainers which Dan the Man found on the buildy. The buildy is an industrial wreck in Widnes where the leg-end Anthony Marsh was found dead with a needle hanging out his arm. Anthony was not a crack/smack head, however....just an exciting character who enjoyed home-made brew and teaching young fellows how to jump over high fences belonging to posh gardens on Coroner's Lane gardens....no offence Victoria Cullen, u sexy beast from juniors!

Any old way, Jay found himself in a mess come the biggest festival going. He didn't go green in a mud valley or trip out in a dance tent....all he did is politely ask for some cannabis. You know, a few spliffs, a little chong. EXCEPT HE ASKED RASTAS WHILE FORGETTING HE WAS WEARING HIS POLICE OFFICER'S JACKET.

He thought he had tucked the Cheshire Constabulary badge in but he hadn't. Either that or he had and it had come out again.

You can just imagine how our coloured brothers from Jamaica reacted to this. They took it as some kind of hard-faced personal insult and chased Jay off site. He legged it like Linford Christie running for the sake of his lunchbox, hearing nothing but the sounds of "jack him!", "shank him!" and "get him!" all the way.

Eventually he made it clear of the perimeter and managed to slide into a corner shop. A MUSLIM corner shop, who hated him upon appearance almost as much as the Jamaican Rasta Men hot on his tail. But Jay used his brains and commandeered the premises with nothing other than instinctive survival logic and the power of his jacket. When the Rastas followed him in, he raised a 14" wok above his head and told them to lay right off because back-up was on the way.

The big black brothers retreated.

In later life Jay would become a real PO in the London Met. One perhaps may dare say this experience was an early omen which influenced his future career decisions. If I myself had to get pulled by a officer of the law, I sure hope it would be Jay. I would recount this tale to him and dare him to charge me with anything.

I am sure that whatever I did, even if he caught me red-handed, there would stand a decent chance that he may let me off. Because of this story.

Jay Bourne, Chelsea.

accounted confidentially on 1st hand advice by alejandro wol donegan

Rammstein Concert

Awesome display of lasers and explosions as is expected but I felt like a Man U season ticket holder at Old Trafford: You know it's gunna be a brill experience but can it live up to the VERY first time you were dazzled by the Theatre of Dreams? I've been 3 now and this time I even left a song early, after ICH WILL. Plus because their latest album was a let-down the song listing didn't thrill me either. I feel strangely not-very-happy, because several little aspects of the night didn't go my way. This should have been the best night in ages, but I've presently got a bit of a sulk on. Not forgetting postives:

1 The lead singer sang the first song with some kind of lightbulb in his mouth.
2 Loads of spooky dolls hanging from the set blew up.
3 Someone on stage was set on fire.
4 The keyboard player played his keyboard walking a treadmill.
5 Geeky dancing is the best kind of dancing there is.

But there were other mild dissatisfactions that marred what should have been an exceptional occasion. I won't go into them: They're just me......it's just me.

Earlier today I was listening to Dani Filth from the band Cradle of Filth talking about Gilles de Rais who was one of the wealthiest men in Europe from the 13th century and a knight who fought alongside Joan of Arc, but he is best known for being a serial murderer of children (yeah I know, nice bloke). Dani described him as "not giving a stuff", which to me seems like a glowing review, but this shocker slaughtered hundreds of innocent girls and boys between the ages of 6 and 18 in unbelievably cruel fashion after sodomizing them. This news may have played a part in the conspiracy to spoil my day, as I've just realised the WHY of it all now, about ALL bad deeds, call it a revelation: The ghastly f**k was just having things HIS way, at the end of the day. When people go ape shit and do crazy stuff I reckon they're simply seizing control and having things THEIR way. That's what it comes down to. Because surely no c**t can enjoy doing wild crap like that. Surely our nature doesn't stoop that low on its own. Please tell me it must be pushed into a corner first.

Tonight I did not have my way. That's why I'm here, where I can. It's the little things, sometimes, innit, that set you off down the lane of irritations and regrets? There's nothing bigger.