E*t * d*c*

I spend a good quantity of time lying on my bed staring at the ceiling..

Sometimes i listen to music.

A lot of the time, i don't.

I just think..

It saddens me to think how many people might have been
in the same skiddy situation as i am,

Imprisoned in this very cell,

Staring at the same view.

It's far from clean..

Plastered in random splodges above me are
the skelletal remnants of naked women..

At some point,
this must have been someone's little piece of paradise..

A utopian masterbationary spread of breasts,
butts, thighs and hot, moist vaginas..

Now it's just ripped up random pieces of paper..

There's a green piece that looks a bit like a duck,
who has been decapitated while airborn..

To the left,
a long sharp-edged blob.

Reminds me of that crusty stealth bomber
Decepticon's head from the second Transformers movie..

Also dotted around the ceiling,
random shit inmates have scratched,
daubed and scrawled..

Most of it is in Spanish.

I ain't got a fucking clue what any of it means..

"  D I O S S
Loque para el hombre es imposible, para 'dios' es posible!
Buscalo para que tedes cuente la grandioso que es!
 Si sios no lopuede quien lo vas a ponder!"

To the right,

"Caerse esto permitido pero levanse es una obligacion!"

No clue..

If you do,
let knowledge be born!

Since i got flung in the cell,
the ceiling and walls have had a
few new additions.

No reaches.

Well.

Not many..

Freinds of mine that have done bids back
in the Big Smoke told me that if you ever go to jail,
don't hit no reaches.

They said If you do,
one day you might be seeing them again..

Not likely in my predicament.

But still..

Other than sloppy reaches,
Quotes and advice that get me through each day.

Some, from books i've read.

Others, jewels of wisdom that have been dropped on me
from random inmates..

Or my Cellie..

"TAKE INITIATIVE!"

Pretty self explanitory..

 Worrying myself into an early grave
ain't going to fix shit. The only thing i can do,
take initiative an get the shit that is in my control,
done. Shit that isn't in my control, isn't my problem.

"Your attachments are the source of all your problems"

"wisdom is avoiding all thoughts that weaken you"

"Never make your happyness depend on an attachment
to Any place or Any person"

Most of them,
Wayne dyer bars..

"If you can let go of all your attachments,
your spirit will be the guiding force in your life.

Then as a spiritual being, you can observe your body and be
a compassionate witness to your own existence"


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIziDnmUSAM

Word!

I made a list just before Christmas last year
of things i wanted to do everyday.

A daily routine that would keep me busy
and productive, not just in a constant state
of vibrantly aggressive masterbation..

Around the time i made it,
it lasted about a day, but nowdays,
most of these things do actually get done.

MOST of them..

There is one addition someone decided to add
that ain't part of my daily routine..

See if u can guess which one..

Wake
Pray
Meditate
Exercise
Clean
Create
AnD EaT A DiCk

pricks..

Utterly Fantastic

Another day down.

As i sit cross legged on my bed,
i survey my all too familiar surroundings.

The cell is a mess.

Despite it being a glorified public lavatory,
one tries to keep it in a somewhat orderly
fashion.

It certainly ain't no fresh pad, condo,
apartment or any other typical living
quarters that you might inhabit, but
for now it is all i have at the moment,
and i try to keep things tidy,
organised and presentable.

At this very moment,
it's seen better days.

An anonymous baffoon knocked my shelf down earlier
today, sending plastic cutlery, stamps, bottles of vitamins and
sugar packets all over the fuckin' gaff.

i havn't bothered to pick them up.

In front of me sits my bag of clean laundry.

It's stuffed into my pillowcase,
as i don't quite have the funds for a 'proper'
laundry bag.

Man's gotta make do.

My boy dropped it off before we where
abruptly locked down a few hours ago,
due to someone getting humourously
slapped up on the floor..

My clothes are still warm from the dryer.

I just put my shorts on, now my dick is warm.

It feels good.

I should probably take my clothes out and fold them
instead of sitting here scribbling away.

That would be way more productive,
but i want to enjoy this penis warming sensation
a little longer.

It feels somewhat similar to having your balls cupped.

Which is nice.


Considering i jerked off earlier today,
i really shouldn't be feeling this horny.


Jerking off in prison requires expert timing.


Me and my cellie have such a rapour,
that if he's shitting and i need to get something
out of the cell, i just go in and get it.

An vice versa.

It's got to the point where knocking is a thing
of the past..

..Which can lead to problems if you're not shitting...

You get me.

Example.

It'd been about a week i hadn't jerked off.

It was time to deplete my rapidly rising semen levels.

My cellie was nowhere to be seen.

I assumed he was at work, so put the 'shit sign' up.

This consists of wedging a t-shirt or towel over the
glass with a toothbrush or spoon.

Classy.

A brief terminator style scan of the room revealed two
possible sources of visual stimulation.

A celebrity gossip magazine and a copy of Vogue.

In no time at all,
i swiftly unsheash a length of Turkish Sujuk and begin
the laborious process of milking ones member.

Oh how the mighty hath fallen..

..In less than a year i've gone from a lifestyle consisting of
unadultered daily doses of blowjobs and butthole to masterbating
once a week in a prison cell over a picture of Jessica Alba buying a coffee..


In between me strangling this one eyed Turkish snake while
squeezing my balls, i hear someone approaching the door.

Amazing.

I'm about ten seconds away from firing off millions
of kids and now someone is fucking banging at the door.

"YO! TIMDAWG! YO!"

Utterly fantastic.

"YO TIMDAWG YOU SHITTIN?"

Fuck.

FUCK.

I need to think FAST.

If i say yes, he's going to come in the cell.

If i say no, he's going to come in the cell.

FOR FUCK SAKE!

I'm too close to cumming to even consider
whacking my gun back in the holster, i've
got to say something..

"errr...gimme a minute?!"

"THIS FREAK N****R ALWAYS BEATIN' HIS MOTHER FUCKIN' MEAT!
TIMDAWG! HURRY THE FUCK UP, STUPID N****R!"

Cum is reluctantly shot.

Anti-climax of biblical proportions.

I need to get the fuck out of jail.

picturesque utopia

It's a Sunday.

Not that you can tell, mind.

As one might imagine,
the difference betweem the days is barely recognisable
in a situation as amazingly fortunate as the one i am
currently being held against my will in.

On the weekdays,
at least we are given a little glimmer
of the outside world, in the form of mail.

In theory anyway.

Mine never comes,
if it does it's weeks or possibly months late,
and when i send shit out it either turns up months
later, or simply disapears.

Great stuff.

Other than that,
it's the same shit,
day in day out.

Staring up at the ceiling while laying
on my bed is one of my most exciting
hobbies i've got.

I'm pretty good at it too.

Whoever might be reading this,
picture the nearest toilet to where you
are at this very present moment.

Now,
imagine being forced to 'live' in the confines
of that toilet for at LEAST two years.

Y
E
A
R
S

To make matters even more enjoyable,
cut that space in half as you're sharing
it with another dude.

Take this picturesque utopian setting,
and now transport it to a foreign country,
thousands of miles away from anyone that
gives a flying fuck about you,
can help you,
give you advice
and come and see you.

Welcome to my world.

Some days i feel like i'm on the cusp of completely
losing my fucking brain in here.

Staring up at the ceiling with my headphones blaring jazz
music and a bladder full of coffee, i find myself fighting a
constant battle with my over-active imagination..

I think about what i will do when i am eventually free,
where i will go and the various things i will be sticking
my penis into.

That naturally leads one to thoughts of time,
how long to go, how much time has passed,
which then transcends into the same old spiral
of mulling over how utterly DISGUSTING it is that
i am being punished for other people's actions,
while they escape jailtime altogether..

..and other healthy thinking habits of
a similar caliber.

My cellie has just come into the cell,
and predictably wants to take a shit.

The door isn't locked,
it isn't close to lockdown.

I don't even bother to leave the room.

What the fuck is the point.

"The n****r who's shittin' don't give a fuck,
the n****r who ain't leavin' the room don't give
a fuck, nobody gives a fuck"

No shit.

straight

people make jokes about me in here.

Me included,
this place is full of pricks so it's to be expected.

"Timdog when you came in the jail,
surrounded by all these n****rs, you was
shakin' like vegas dice!"

Yeh.

Yeh, i was, it wasn't exactly your everyday
fucking situation..

One doesn't think that circumstances could take such
a swiftly downward turn in a mear 24 hours.


I was not expecting it,
nor had i thought about what i might do if one day
i was sleeping soundly in my apartment and find myself
woken by Secret Service agents wielding shotguns,
didn't plan for that one.

Just as i hadn't done any research into
what i might do if i found myself flung
head first into a maximum security federal
prison.

Wasn't prepared,
definitely wasn't schooled for this type
of a jam.

One of my Jamaican brethren has a fondness for pointing
out that i allegedly look more stressed than anyone in the unit,
and has crowned me the coveted title of..

"Most worried man in the jail"

..Pussyclat.

Do i not have reason to be worried or stressed?!

It's a yes and no answer..

 If i'm focussing on how terrible this predicament is,
how badly i fucked up a lot of things over the last few years
and that my immediate future seems to be situated behind
these grey prison bars,
 then yes i should be stressed.

 On the other hand,
If i just accept my situation for what it is,
a temporary stopping point in my life to sharpen up,
focus on bettering myself physically and mentally,
continue planning my future, stop acting like a pussy
and simply hold my big Turkish balls an staunch this
fucking bullshit chapter of my life out until its
inevitable conclusion,
 then no i have absolutely no reason to be worrying
or bitching about being in this jail.

Yes and No.

It all depends how i'm feeling on any given day.

Today i'm going to say no.

It's all good.

 I ain't sweatin' shit.

I can do this.

 Life is good.

I look great.

 I feel great.

I have support.

The heads that love me show me each
and every day.

 The heads that don't clearly didn't have
love for me from the beginning,
so they can royally fuck off.

Straight.

Still..

I'm talking all this cad shit now..

 It's more than likely i will wake up tomorrow
in a funk, convince myself that the world is over,
the girl who completely deserted me is ACTUALLY
my soul mate and should've had my kids,
and in short act like a pussy..

Place your bets!

Goalasimo

Once upon a time,
in England, i used to play football
In short,
i was obismal.

Like a dog running after a laser pen,
i just ran around the place not really knowing
what the fuck i was doing.

I was so shit it got to the point
that i would just observe, rolling joints from a distance.

Lame?

Very.

I now play football again.

Being raised in England,
one makes the assumption i would be good.

That'd be a negative.

The standards in the prison are so bad,
people actually do seem to believe that i am a somewhat decent 'sarcur' player.

This ain't no normal game of football though..

-------------------

Prison Football:

A mix of standard 4-a-side, mixed martial arts and thai boxing.

There are NO fouls.

If you knock someone down, pick em up.

If you don't, be prepared to put em up cos you're gonna be rockin'.

Winner stays on,

ten minutes each match,

first goal wins.

-------------------

We have 'recreation' every other day of the week.

Most of the time it's just basketball,
but on Wednesdays and Sundays,
football.

Today is Wednesday.

I got woken up just before lunch,
to the sight of Burgers and Chips..

That was the 'official' explanation for the dry donkey tongue
sandwhiched between two green, damp, mould-ridden pieces
of liver flavoured bread.

 For a salad we were told to pick up some brown pieces of lettuce,
green tomatoes and packs of solid mayonaise,
that happen to taste like Cathedral City Cheese,
out of a dumpster filled with dead, sodomised rodents.
In protest,
i threw my hamburger on the floor and stamped on it,
bare foot, to the amusement of the large crowd amassed in my vicinity.

After watching me stomp out my meal with dirty bare feet,
someone actually asked me

"You gon' eat that?"

I get ready for Rec as quickly as possible,
the officers in charge of taking the inmates up have a tendancy
of sneaking into the unit, whispering that it's rec time and running
away before anyone can get ready in time.

After an ultra quick dump,
i brush my teeth and grab my cup to fill up with ice on the
way out the door.

It has a cool Spiderman sticker
on the handle, someone living in Serbia
sent it to me a while back, safe for that!
The line of inmates awaiting transport to the roof is epic proportions.

The sun is shining,
this is the closest thing we get to being outside
so it's no suprise that everyone is going up today..

In the elevator,
everyone is smiling, cracking jokes.

Most of the inmates attitudes change rather drastically
when they find out it's 'Soccer Day' today, they came up
here thinking they were going to play basketball..

Tough shit.

It's not basketball, it's football today,
so fuck off next door.

Mugs.

8===>

I walk out onto the jailhouse roof.

I can't help squinting my eyes,
the sun is damn bright today.

My eyes are not used to the natural light
beaming through the cage above me.

It takes a few minutes to adjust to the
drastic difference in exposure..plus i been
wearing this hyper nerdy specs recently..

I can feel the heat beaming onto my skin.

I take deep, slow breaths, filling my claustrophobic
dirty lungs with cool summer air.

 After a few sets of push-ups,
sit-ups and other silly bollocks, i'm ready to play.

 To my dismay,
my fellow players have formed some kind of
cock smoking, cum snorting alliance against me.

 Sick of losing,
all the best players have got together,
leaving me with the rejects and ultra mugs.

Safe.

Despite my fierce, relentless determination,
ankle twisting footwork, feeble attempts at organisation
and untold amounts of wasted energy running up and down
the pitch trying to defend the goal and correct all of our mistakes,
we're losing every match.

Pathetically.

The ball is being given away, effortlessly,
goals are being let in and all my 'team mates'
can say is,

"Sorry Jimmy"

:<


I'm playing with a 6 ft tall Dominican kick boxer,
that had to be told he can't use his hands to shoot,
 a 5 ft tall Mexican who seems terrified of any contact
with the ball,
 and an Italian who is absolutely terrible, but is sporting
such a jokes cheesy grin on his bonce that i can't even
begin to get mad at him..

After the third embaressingly bad loss,
i'm about to bun it off an go work out..

Out of the shadows,
a couple of dudes stand up from the surrounding benches
an step to manz...

They want to form a new team..

Apart from my brother straight outta Newburg,
most of my team is made up of non-English speaking
players.
 Considering the motley crue of bozo clown-cake motherfuckers
i was rolling with previously, this shit is looking bonafidingly promising.

We got me,
my buddy from Newburg.
a new, older Israeli gentleman,
and a Columbian..

I'm playing defence,
Israel's in goal and Columbia and Newburg
are up front, shit is poppin' OFF!

We win TWO games back to back,
both goals sneaky little set-ups from
Columbia finished by toe-punts off of
Newburg.

Third game is a draw.

Time out.

We take a breather.

It's SCORCHINGLY hot outside,
i'm sweating like a paedo in a kids playground,
so throw my t-shirt to the side.

The sight of my tattoos leads to a few whispers between
the older Spanish dudes.

"El Diablo! Ci! Ci! timoty El Diablo!"
Ok.

Time to finnish these FUCKS.

The superstar team is good.

Real good.

Their main striker is an incredibly muscular Dominican,
who's special move is running into people full speed.

Even so, we're playing ultra dope,
we got these cum-snorters
on the run..

All is going well until some dude,
that i JUST HAPPEN to owe a load of shit to this week an didn't pay,
boots the ball straight into my bollocks.


His debt was instantly paid in full.

Manz tries to front like it weren't a ting, u get me..

TRIES to front..

My legs are shaking, my stomach is fucked and
i feel like i wanna barf chunks all over the pitch.


..Mug..


I shake it off,
an get back into the mix.

We're runnin' tings.

Bigtime.

Then the same bozo boots the ball high up into the air..

Time instantly slows down..

Silence fills the air...

Everyone on the roof pauses to watch the ball fly majestically through the air
in slow motion..

..It lands directly on top of the cage housing the guards,
that just so happens to be covered in razor wire,
which in turn instantly pierces the ball.

The whole roof lets out a joint sigh of disapointment
at this utter baffoons idiotic manouvre.

Don't get it fucked up though,
we kept on playing!

The ball might be deflating more and more by the second,
but that ain't stoppin' the match,
fuck that.

Our determination pays off,
Newburg boots the now deflated pigs bladder into the goal
last minute, insuring our team finishes Recreation as
the winners..

BO!

fly English shit

All the guys i have been working out with have started to flake.

Each gives relatively poor excuses for why they can no longer
'get that money'.

Brasscats.

Amusingly,
i still ain't slacking.

Each day they but it off,
i work out on my own.

"Check Timdog, thas my n****r!
Gettin' that motherfuckin' money!"

Word.

Today, After chow,
i made my way down to F Tier to see what's poppin'..

It's a Saturday.

We usually work out on weekdays,
but i'm bored.

Puttin' some work in is as good a use of
one's time as any i guess.

The tier is ultra rammed,
everyone is jammin' down there chatting shit,
playing cards, dominoes, usual bullshit..

I'm carrying a matt.

I use it to do planks,
and pushups on my knuckles.

"AWWW SHIT!
Timmboy's come to get that motherfuckin' money!"

I start my warm up.

25 pushups,
followed by ten pullups,
ten times.

I used to struggle doing pullups when i first came here.

I had lost a shitload of weight in a VERY short amount of time,
plus i hadn't really done any heavy lifting since my days as an
office messenger, lugging speakers and untold other crap
and Manhatton..

I used to purposely carry things by hand.

We had a cart,
i just didn't like using it.

My boss didn't clock why i would opt to carry
heavy equipment by hand.

I'd come back from jobs red faced, sweatin my balls off,
i could've comfortably rolled the crap around on that cart,
but manz was tryin' to get in shape!

You get me!

The closest thing i came to lifting weights after that job,
was after many a night out, carrying my drunken wife up
the three frightfully steep flights of stairs in our Bushwhick
apartment building, upto to our smokey little yard on the
top floor
After a few months in here,
i started to eat at least a meal a day,
take vitamins everyday (pronounced vit-a-mins, not vite-a-mins)
and spend time on the roof breathing fresh air and
soaking up some of the suns beautiful goodness.

Slowly, i was starting to look and feel healthier.

Pushups helped give my arms what one can only describe as
microscopic, hollow, atom sized particles of muscles.

They looked like pimples.

One on each arm.

The more work i put in,
the more these miniscule muscles started to grow.

In no time,
i was able to lift single grains of rise, a pube,
sweetcorn, paracetamol, eventually graduating
to weights of CONSIDERABLY larger and heavier
proportions.

An orange peel, lip balm, even a plastic fork.

Reak talk.

Now i can do pullups with relative ease.

I finished todays warm up quick fast.

By now, i'm aware i will not be joined by anyone else.

I dont particularly care.

Everyone is standing around spittin' bars to Hot 97.

It's keeping me amused for now,
plus they're throwing the odd motivational
comment my way every few minutes..

"Check this Turkish n****r here!
This n****r's goin' back to England lookin'
like motherfuckin RAMBO!"

Soon, the conversation turns to mockery.

Mainly focussing on how polite i am when requesting
a product, question, querie or favour from my fellow
incarcerated dribbling neanderthols.

"Yo, Yo, check this, 'excuse me do you possible have any sugar',
thas what that n****r Tim asked me"

" 'would you happen to know who is last for the computer' haha that
n****r Tim's stupid yo!"


My reply?

"The thing you fail to realise, everytime i'm polite i always get what i want. I win, you lose."

I'm confronted by ten fulled grown (apart from mentally) men sporting puzzled,
confused looks on their faces.

One by one,
gradually, they understand what i said, and that politeness has been blagging
me all of their shit for almost a year.

Luckily,
before it sinks in,
the annoying female guard turns up.


She takes it upon herself to join in the conversation.

"You're always pullin' that fly English shit Guvercin"

"Yeah, an it always works. Especially on you."


Her asshole shaped face starts winking at me.

Instantaneously, homegirl transforms into what looks
like a bulldog chewing a mouthful of scorned female wasps,
drenched in vinegar and fermented tramps urine.

"Some somethin' funny Guvercin, ask me somethin' stupid soundin' in English,
ask me if i have any grey poupon"

All the inmates stop what they're doing,
turn and wait for my response.

I crack my knuckles.

Drop to the push-up position.

Pause, then reply.

"i don't do requests. I ain't a clown here to amuse you"

An continue my workout..

..followed by the sound of her hoofs clip cloppin' on the floor
as she gallops away sportin' the Gucci face,
 and a squadron of baffoons fallin' around laughin', stomping
their feet on the freshly waxed floor..

The guys spittin' bars in the corner paid it all no mind..

Legendary Peanut butter joint

Today is the fourth of July.

As an Englishman,
especially one being held against his will in an American prison,
surrounded by such breathtakingly intelligent, culturally diverse, open minded clientelle,
this has about as much meaning and emotional value as a tissue
full of freshly shot semen.

To celebrate this day,
the inmates have arrange a chess tournament.

At this very moment,
i'm watching a stick-up kid from Philly locking horns
with a Columbian Coccaine smuggler.

As you do.

Sitting next to them is a Nigerian gentleman know as either
'The Black Cat' or 'Vibes Killer'.

 He's known for suddenly appearing behind people
while they are playing cards, chess, checkers, dominoes,
then they lose.

Despite correcting him every day for the last two months,
he calls me Jimmy.

"Hey Jimmy woz good"

When he thinks he is winning an any chosen sport,
everytime he moves a piece he mutters to himself

"moose on tha loose"

He's a weird guy.

 Blatantly the type of guy that would arrange to
do a drug deal on a pier at 2am, have you robbed at gunpoint,
then chopped into pieces.

It's safe to say i don't trust him.

He just won,
and is now laughing like a maniac.

As i finished my workout earlier,
they gave out ice cream.

What a sight.

90 'fully grown men' scrambling to the kitchen
just for a pathetically undersized pot of boiled
puss flavoured sludge.

The hero of the hour?

One of my partners.

He managed to bum-rush the kitchen,
and returned to our tier with a whole box,
we got like four joints each,
it was jokes!

People where chanting..

"S** for president! S** for president!"

In one of the first cells on my tier,
is a dude known as Big B.

He's a super morbidly obese gang banger.

We get on very well.

He's a good guy,
a stereotypically jolly fat kid.

Last night before we got locked in,
he came to my cell looking for my cellie.

He was elsewhere.

I on the other than was putting together a very crude
sandwhich.

 Two slices of bread,
on one a slab of peanut butter,
the other a unhealthy dose of Nutella,
whack em together,
Voila!

Tramp sandwhich!

Big B felt the presence of food.

"Whatcha makin!?"

I told him,
and he just got uncontrollably excited.

I offered to make him a sandwhich of his own,
but before i could get my Ramsey on and put his
joint together the guard appeared to lock us in..

As my door was closing,
i dashed my own sandwhich out like a frisbee..

Of course he caught it.

In his eyes,
his life depended on it.

If women and children were in the way,
they would've got stomped for that sandwhich.

"THANKS TIMMBOY!!"

Off he waddled to his cell,
licking his lips, holding that shitty sandwhich
like it was his best freind in the whole world.

About an hour ago he asked me

"Hey Timmy, can you make me another one of
them Legendary peanut butter joints?"

Either he genuinely thought a dollop of Nutella
and peanut butter wedged between two slices of
bread that are teetering on the brink of being
stale is a legendary sandwhich,
 or he's just ultra hungry and is gassing me up
so i'll make him some food..

I have nothing else to do.

He's clearly hungry.

Why not.