Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Final Preparations

Well, my dearest and most crassulent of readers, this may well be the last time you hear from me as an imprisoned man. You should not assume from this that I will shortly become an imprisoned woman. No, my gender is not the state which will shortly alter, but rather the adjective 'imprisoned', for I am soon to flee this dire place. Tomorrow I will be unimprisoned after I make my daring escape.

I have smuggled a few items in pockets and beneath folds in the white dressing gown that we are obligated to wear at all times. Three drawing pins and a single shredded wheat were all I was able to conceal. Perhaps when I am on the run, I will have need to affix a poster to a wall (in which case the three drawing pins will prove invaluable) or win the favour of Ian "Beefy" Botham (in which case the shredded wheat will become of inestimable value). Time will tell.

As one last indignity before I flee tomorrow, male nurse Pugg Muckle today smashed all but four toes on my left foot with the corner of a chest of drawers. It was purely for sport. It is reasons such as these that lead me to think I have made the correct decision in aiming to leave this asylum. Wish me luck for tomorrow. If I fail, my punishment will be so severe that I may not survive it.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

A Message to my Lady Love, My Dove

Today found me melancholy. I spent almost all of this sabbath fixating unhealthily once more on Carol Doocot, my true love, who awaits my safe return on the outside. Doubtless she is reading these words, her eyes jewelled with tears, her lip a'quiver, anxious for my well-being. Carol, I will soon be with ye (you), for on Wednesday I mean to make my escape.

I am certain you have good reasons for visiting me not once during my incarceration and I look forward to hearing about them when I flee this place.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

More Tales of Resident Lunatics

Readers, as my grim and miserable days in this grim and miserable asylum all follow the same grim and miserable blueprint, there is a paucity of interesting things to write about in this electronic diary. The only thing of any note that happened today was that the madman in the room down the corridor, who insists he is not insane and is actually a time-traveller from the year 2035 where a terrible pandemic has wiped out almost all of humanity, apparently disappeared mysteriously from his locked cell. Doubtless he has merely died of neglect and the wardens have disposed of his body in acid vats in the basement to cover their tracks.

To give you further evidence of the tediousness with which my days are filled, during teatime today, I found myself engaged in conversation to one Fyodor Myshkin, a somewhat dull young idiot who was impounded in this madhouse for his curious behaviour and worldview. However, I confess that when I spoke to him I found his hopelessly naive attitude and inability to understand the politics of the day actually highlighted many of the flaws and hypocrisies inherent to modern life. I found that this so-called madman's innate goodness and child-like questioning alerted me to many of my own prejudices and the depravity of our society. As is so common in this place, I again began to consider that we might well have things back-to-front and that it was not this simple-minded lunatic who was wrong in the head, but rather the rest of the world with all its ghastliness and horror. He quickly provided me with a definitive answer however when he began whooping like some manner of chimp, then pulled down his trousers and defecated in his bowl of soup.

Friday, January 25, 2008

Meet the Natives

My dearest and most curiously moist of readers, I suppose that I should tell you about some of my fellow inmates, whom, over our shared months of incarceration, I have come to regard as, if not friends, then at least as fellow inmates.

In the cell directly next to the left of mine is a slim young man who was jailed for pica. Pica is an abnormal eating disorder whereby the sufferer is driven to consume non-food items such as wax, sponges, bookmarks, convex lenses, snooker cue chalk, and Ginsters Scotch Egg Bars. This fellow eats all manner of crazy things and is therefore excellent entertainment value. Around the asylum, he will happily eat light-bulbs, Blu-Tack, bedding, forks, coat-hangers, and a poster of Rita Hayworth that I was intending to use as part of an escape plan. He was locked up because he developed a peculiar appetite for baby mice, which he ate alive and which led to his expulsion from numerous pet shops around Dundee. He also ate the kidney of a paperboy.

In the cell across the corridor from me is Elwood P. Stewart, an amiable drunk and quite the nicest, most affable chap that anyone would ever hope to meet. A favourite around the asylum, he is friendly, kind-hearted, and honest. His only real "crime" in our blinkered and judgemental society is that he claims to be accompanied wherever he goes by an invisible six foot rabbit, whom he believes is just as pleasant and happy-go-lucky as himself. When I consider how relatively well-adjusted and stress-free Mr Stewart's life is, I begin to ask myself, "Who are the real madmen in this world?" But then I remember that Elwood also skinned his sister in 1979 and the answer becomes abundantly clear.

In the cell to the right of mine, is Amy Winehouse.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

A Dire Warning

My dearest and most alphabetical of readers, I have for you a dire warning. If any amongst you dwell within the city of Dundee and environs, then this dire warning is particularly applicable to you. If any readers amongst this subgroup plan to buy a haggis to consume tomorrow in celebration of the Scottish poet Robert Burns, then this warning is very particularly applicable to you. But if any amongst this further subgroup plans to purchase their haggis from Aspick & Sons Family Butchers in Flensers Wynd, then this dire warning is especially particularly applicable to you. Take heed.

Today, we were woken at 2:00am and informed by thick-wristed male nurse Pugg Muckle that he had a special project upon which we were to expend our energy until late afternoon. All we inmates were birched to fully rouse us for the day's work, then led through to the kitchens where the rancorous odour of festering cat corpses greeted us. Many hundreds of them lay strewn about the floors and work surfaces: clearly, they were the recently slaughtered remnants of Mrs Imogen Pottle's Mid Craigie Cattery. It transpired that this repugnant harridan was by no means the animal lover that her ownership of a Cattery would suggest, for, in league with Pugg Muckle, she had butchered all the feline creatures in her charge.

We spent the day scooping out the decomposing innards of these wretched beasts, grinding them up, and mixing them with sawdust and loft insulation. Handfuls of the resultant glop we stuffed inside uncoiled gentlemen's contraceptives until they were the size of mangos. These were then collected and boiled for hours in enormous pots. Readers, here is your dire warning: these unspeakable items were sold by Pugg Muckle to Aspick & Sons Family Butchers, who intend to offer them for sale tomorrow as discount haggises. Do not eat them if you are a cat lover.

All inmates were forced to suffer the indignity of eating some of these pseudo-haggises for our repast this evening. I confess I found them deliciously moreish, though I was disguted at myself.


Wednesday, January 23, 2008

A Plan to Escape is Devised

Today saw our weekly outing to Dundee's Mid Craigie Cattery. These trips are ostensibly intended to lift us from our torpor and provide contact with the outside world as part of the asylum's social integration program. In reality, the only human being we see on these visits is the Cattery owner, a po-faced woman named Imogen Pottle who makes no effort to disguise her obvious contempt for us. She is the dowdy, cardiganned mistress of our thick-wristed male nurse, Pugg Muckle, and together they exploit our vulnerable, voiceless position in society by using us as free labour. She only tolerates our presence because Muckle forces us, under the threat of a sound thrashing with a length of birch, to muck out the cats' wire cages with our bare hands. It is humiliating work for a man of my standing.

As we scrabble around their accumulated feculence and the heaped corpses of their departed brethren, the cats themselves are half-crazed with hunger and terror, so tear at our flesh with their unclipped claws and screech wretchedly. Further to this, Imogen Pottle openly flouts the recent ban on smoking in enclosed places by smoking in this enclosed place.

At 3pm sharp, her and the male nurse Muckle leave us unattended and retreat to the back room to noisily relieve their base urges. At 3:04pm they return, their lustful appetites evidently satiated. I have decided that during next week's visit to Mid Craigie Cattery, I will risk all by using this brief window of opportunity to make my escape. It is a risky strategem but, as no other plan presents itself, it is my only chance.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

A Synopsis of my Daily Life

Roote, the boss of this institution, has allowed me access to the internet cobweb for 20 minutes today, so I have elected to use this time to tell my readers about my daily life in Dundee's Home for the Irretrievably Demented. It is with no small amount of shame that I must admit that I have squandered 12 of my allotted minutes in considering the user comments on King Ralph on the IMDB (Internet Movie Database (IMD)). You must understand that some hapless goon had suggested that the title role would have been better played by John Candy, so I felt compelled to register on the website to (a) champion Goodman, and (b) patiently tell this boob exactly why he was incorrect. You will appreciate that I could not let his comment go uncontested.

That said, I will now use my remaining four minutes to give you a flavour of my daily life. It is a wretched and debasing existence. My lower lip trembles, my eyes blur, and my sweetbreads wince as I write these miserable words. Nurse Pawl forces all inmates to rise each morning at 3am (we are allowed a long lie until 3:15am on Sundays), and we are roused into consciousness by a cold shower and a breakfast of flax and powdered limpet shells. Our daily thrashing is administered at 4:00am by a lumpen Irishman named Nurse Pugg Muckle, who has needlessly huge knuckles and mighty belt buckles. We are then forced into the 'Labour Room' where we must toil for hours crafting trinkets to titillate the noveau-riche. At 12:00, we are given sleeping draughts and innumerable concoctions that keep us comatose until 3:00pm, thereby avoiding the need to provide us with luncheon. If it is not a Wednesday, when we are taken on our weekly outing (invariably to the local cattery), then we are permitted to watch Quincy until 4:00pm. We then receive the second of our daily beatings to keep us occupied until teatime at 5:00pm, after which we are dosed with cheap gin and ether, and forced to play carpet bowls until 7:00pm lights-out.

Now of course, I, alone of all the inmates, am permitted the additional luxury of 20 minutes daily to type words onto the internet. Alas, I must go now, for those 20 minutes have now elapsed.

I must escape this place soon or else I will go mad.

Monday, January 21, 2008

An Exciting Development

My dearest and most ombliferous of readers, I have an exciting development to tell you of. My ingenious scheme to escape this Bedlam is nearing completion, but because this institution is no longer equipped with a mute Red Indian, which was intrumental to my plan, I must remain captive for the foreseeable future. The Red Indian choked to death yesterday on a piece of Juicy Fruit.

This is not the exciting development. Rather, the previous paragraph was more expositionary. Do not fear, however, for I will arrive at the exciting development before long. You must allow me some time. I felt it important to precede the exciting development by telling you that I had an exciting development to relate. That way, I meant to capture your interest and engage your galloping curiousity, but furthermore, had I leapt straight in and told you the exciting development, you might not have appreciated that it was an exciting development and you may not have given it your full attention. Your impatience to get to the exciting development, necessitating this cautionary digression in order to calm your nerves, has rather let you down. I see I have once again misjudged the maturity of my readership. You are obviously ill-equipped to deal with too much excitement, so I must quickly let you know of the exciting development.

The exciting development is this: though I am to remain incarcerated in this den of chaos and clucking, I am to be allowed regular access to my electronic diary! Dr Anthony Gland has arranged it, having successfully argued for the therapeutic necessity of this confessional outlet. Thus, I will be able to keep you updated with the grim and miserable events in my miserable and grim life.

I realise now that the exciting development, having been built up by myself in earlier paragraphs to be something truly phenomenal, will likely now be received by my readers as something of an anticlimax. I will apologise only once for this, because I do not think it is a serious enough crime to warrant multiple apologies, and I am sure most of my readers are reasonable enough people and would agree. Sorry.