The Prisoner.

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Saturday 23rd May to Tuesday 16th June, 2009

I’ve used these blogs on more than one occasion to diffuse the numerous frustrations created by the 'police state' law enforcement regime in place here in California, writing things down proving to be as effective a therapy and means of getting things off the chest as any other. But the weekend of May 24th and the fortnight that followed involuntarily afforded me the opportunity to get a much closer understanding of exactly how Uncle Sam's judicial system works, an opportunity that I neither requested, desired nor ever wanted to see again.

Unsurprisingly it all started harmlessly enough. I’d accepted an invite from Megan, my F & G colleague who was celebrating her 25th birthday to a pool barbeque party being held in her honour at her boyfriend’s parents house and with my right hand man back in the UK I accepted Danielle’s offer of a lift and, with her and her mum on a hot Saturday afternoon, headed out there.

The house, located in the prosperous residential neighbourhood of Rossmore was epitomy of middle class American suburbia, a picturesque timber and brick structure standing proudly in it’s own perfectly manicured grounds. The handwritten sign hanging on the front door instructing guests to remove their shoes and enter led us into a large and airy hallway with high, high ceilings and then through to the huge open plan kitchen cum family room complete with sofa, huge flat screen TV hanging on the wall and double patio doors opening out onto the enclosed sun soaked lawned garden, in turn dominated by two fully laden orange trees and a large kidney shaped pool. It wasn’t difficult to see why Matt still chose to live with his parents at the age of 34 !.

Before I go on I must stress that although throughout the day I was partaking of a sip or two of vino tinto I was not doing so to excess, I was simply enjoying the sunshine, the facilities and the company as best I could, so much so that when Danielle and her mum were preparing to leave in the early evening I decided to stay a while longer before finally getting a lift home off Megan and Matt around 8.30pm.

And that I'm afraid is it as far as my own recollections go until approximately four hours later when my memory returned from it’s self imposed hiatus and I found myself slumped dressed in nothing but my swimming shorts against the wall of a square windowless room with cushioned flooring occupied apart from by myself simply by a stainless steel toilet in one corner and two fully clothed Mexicans, curled up and sleeping in two of the others.

In my shorts pocket although I had no idea of it’s origin I discovered a photocopy of a computer print out. At the top was my name and date of birth and it was further populated with various text and boxes of abbreviated comments and codes, the one in particular which stood out from the rest as though written in blood being the word ‘Offence’ followed by the code '647(f)' and ‘Drunk in Public.’ I sat with my back to the wall staring in bemusement at is as I racked my mind trying to recall what the hell had happened.

The last thing I could remember was being in the back of Matt’s BMW X5 and getting dropped off at home and now here I was in jail with no belongings, even my finger ring had disappeared, scuffs on my wrists, I could only presume as a result of being shackled into handcuffs, blood on both big toes and wearing just a pair of swimming shorts.

Every so often over the course of the next few hours the rattle and turning of keys in locks would precede the opening of the thick bolted metal door and herald the entry of another victim of Saturday night revelry in varying stages of intoxication. It was a master class study in human emotions. Anger, incredulity, humour, despair, relief and more all showing their faces at some stage or other throughout the night. As each new ‘inhabitant’ entered the room the rest of the cell mates, or at least those sober or interested enough to care would listen attentively as the newcomer revealed his story as to why he was there, stopping only to answer any questions as and when posed by his captive audience.

Amongst the occupants of the room were Mr Kim, a polite middle aged Cambodian man who spoke limited English strictly only when spoken to who’d been arrested for DUI (driving under the influence), a bearded and heavily tattooed guy in his late twenties who was in for a similar charge and who spent most of his time rolling around on the floor in uncontrollable fits of laughter at the others' stories, a balding guy of Indian origin from north of San Francisco who was in Long Beach with friends, as he put it, for a weekend of partying, who never stopped talking and who had made the colossal error the previous evening of calling a member of LBPD ‘baldy’ in the foolish hope that the follically challenged cop would see the joke, another Indian lad in his early twenties who entered the room dressed in just his underpants (he was later informed by a cop that he’d thrown up all over his clothes in the back of the police van) and who after muttering a series of expletives immediately curled up and went to sleep before waking up an hour or so later with not the foggiest idea why he was in there nor why he was in advanced stages of undress and probably fifteen or so Mexicans who either didn’t speak English or were simply out cold.

There was one other guy, Jason, a rangy twenty six year old with swept back shoulder length hair who I immediately noticed was wearing white socks with black trainers, a fashion faux pas that I just had to point out. We chatted and discovered we had quite a lot in common. He told me he had been out with his girlfriend and had been apprehended for dual ‘drunk in public’ and ‘urinating in public’ charges although he strenuously denied both claiming he was purely contemplating taking a leak against the wheel of his car in a darkened car park when apprehended. I tended to believe him as it was obvious that he clearly wasn’t drunk.

Every time I’ve ever seen an American prison on TV or the movies they’ve always appeared to be fearsome places, overcrowded with rival gang members pressing their tattooed, scarred mugs against the bars with white knuckled hands gripping tightly on either side. I recalled Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder being incarcerated in the movie ‘Stir Crazy’ and the associated fear their new environment had instilled in them but for now it seemed as though I’d been very lucky. All the occupants of the room with the exception of Mr Kim and myself were in their mid to late twenties and were no more hardened criminals than myself and as a result there was not the slightest whiff of tension hanging in the air and nothing for me to fear. As the night wore on conscious that release would be just a few hours away I bizarelly actually began to enjoy the experience. Little did I know !!

Well into the midst of the night and still without a shirt I was perhaps not surprisingly beginning to feel a little cold. I noticed yet another Indian lad in his early twenties sat nearby was wearing a brown striped shirt over a white tee and asked him if he could possibly spare me one of them. He kindly obliged.

Five minutes later the by now familiar clunk of metal sounded again, the door swung open and a ferocious looking woman who appeared to have walked directly off the set of ‘Prisoner Cell Block H’ strutted in. She was dressed in a starched brown Police uniform with trouser creases that could cut paper and was clutching a clipboard to her ample chest. She was big, well into her fifties and wore her long ginger hair up in a bun and a pair of gold rimmed glasses balanced precariously on the end of her nose. She held up the board straining to read through the spectacles like a professor marking a paper and speaking to no one in particular called out in an unnaturally high pitched squeal.

“Patel. Come on, you got bail. You’re outta here”

By the strangest of coincidences Patel just happened to be the young man who five minutes later had passed me his shirt and who was so thrilled to be going home to bed that he sprang up and darted to the door. Seconds later the door was slammed shut and I was left thankful for the new addition to my wardrobe.

Maybe five or six more relieved souls departed during the course of the evening, all having friends or acquaintances who’d dug deep and met their bail. The piece of paper in my pocket told me my bail was set at $250 but I knew there was no chance of me going anywhere. No one, I presumed, knew I was here, I had no phone, no wallet and the only US phone number with which I was vaguely familiar, Phil’s, was cavorting somewhere on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

At 5am the door swung open again and in walked an officer followed by two of the most lifeless looking souls imaginable, Mexicans dressed degradingly in orange boiler suits pushing a trolley over laden with plastic TV dinners. It was time for brekky. Our waiters were obviously on long term sentences for something or other hence their soulless demeanor and they shuffled around the cell handing out the trays without a word. I studied the contents of the packet, the tiniest box of cereal imaginable, two equally small cartons of apple juice and milk and two dry pieces of bread pondering how on earth this was going to fill the cavernous void that existed in my stomach before thankfully accepting Jason’s offer of a second helping.

It was noticeable that once breakfast was cleared my mood and that of the whole room took a deifinite turn for the better. It wouldn’t be long now until we’d all be heading home and laughter began to fill the air. At 7am the door once again swung open and the headmistress returned. She called two names from the clipboard and then a third, mine. I turned to Jason with an open eyed look of surprise, shook him by the hand wishing him all the best and stood preparing to leave the room. I was going home.

In the corridor Cruella barked at us to line up in single file before ordering us to follow her. Down the corridor we went, around one corner, then another and then were instructed to take a blanket from the stack that was piled up on the shelf.

‘Take a blanket !?’ I thought to myself. ‘What the hell do I want a blanket for ? I’m going home’. Being so close to freedom I didn’t risk upsetting her by querying her instruction, simply did as I was told, picked up the rough army issue grey blanket and walked on. She opened another door, we filed in and my heart hit the floor. I felt like a victim of the holocaust preparing for a nice hot shower. It had all been a trap.

The three of us now found ourselves in a small for want of a better term ‘holding cage’. To the right was a bigger cage, barred from floor to ceiling like the cells seen in the old western movies and furnished with three steel picnic type tables bolted to the floor and another stainless steel toilet in the far corner. It was crowded seemingly to beyond the point of capacity, occupied by fifteen or so Mexicans, tattooed on every available body part who raised their heads as one, looked us up and down like lions at the zoo eyeing up a prospective child snack before nonchalantly returning to whatever they were doing before we’d interrupted their peace. On either side of the cage were two locked and barred sleeping cells containing bunk beds on which sat rolled up on mattresses. I didn't even want to consider the possibility of a night in one of them.

To the left was an identical cell the only difference being that it was occupied solely by black brothers, a blatant if wholly successful case of racial segregation. This I was quickly beginning to realize was a bad situation I was finding myself in and not in the script at all. Just as we were wondering what we were supposed to do next the barred door to the Mexican side mechanically slid open and we were ordered in. Devastated is probably the word that best describes my emotions at this time.

I was still totally unsure how I’d gone from frolicking in a sun drenched swimming pool one moment to being sat on a cold concrete floor in a cell with a bunch of Hispanic gangsters the next. I had no idea as to the whereabouts of my clothes, my wallet, my phone nor the 800 dollar camera that had accompanied me to the party and that just succeeded in adding to my gloom, a gloom that was further exacerbated an hour or so later when another officer came in to check on us.

One of the guys who’d been admitted with me rushed to the bars asking when we were likely to be released. The cop in response shrugged his shoulders and answered rather unhelpfully in a manner that told me he didn’t give a damn,

“I dunno, but it’s a holiday weekend so it could well be Wednesday when you all appear in court”.

WHAT ? Wednesday ? And court ? No one had said anything about court and besides, I had work on Tuesday. It was currently approximately 7.30 on a Sunday morning and felt as though it was weeks since I’d last seen daylight and here we were being told we were going to be held until Wednesday.

As a result the rest of the morning crawled by seemingly lasting forever in a haze of despair. I was given bandages and Dettol for my toes at my comrades suggestion to the request from the buxom black lady “does anyone need medical attention?” and thinking it may mean a brief escape from the cage when an officer posed the question “Anyone wanna take a shower ?” almost raised my hand in response. Only the last gasp realisation of where I actually was and the thought of picking up loose bars of soap caused me to renege at the last second and I was mightily relieved when towels were simply passed through the bars and two of my cell companions stripped and showered in full view of all and sundry in one of the adjacent sleeping cells.

One of the prisoners, as that's effectively what we had become, had been given a long list of local bail bondsmen by one of the duty officers and the three or four of us who actually felt uncomfortable with our environment and who were desperate to get out took it in turns to call the numbers on the handset free speaker phone attached to the cell wall. Two hundred and fifty dollars, I thought would be a small price to pay for my freedom. Each of the forty or so numbers on the list began with the area code 512 and all mysteriously appeared to be either engaged or unobtainable and it was only after an hour or so of trying that the cop informed us, I swear with a tell tale wry smile on his face, that the phone in the cell would only dial out to 562 numbers. It was all I could do to refrain from unleashing a prolonged volley of vitriol in his direction but I said nothing, bit my lip and simply tugged my blanket over my head musing how things simply couldn’t get any worse.

Mid morning a request from one of the prisoners was acceded to and the television perched high on the wall flickered to life. Unfortunately, my Hispanic cell mates all shared a passion for Indy Car racing which appeared on the first channel that came to life, the type of motor racing where the cars simply drive around and around an oval track eighty or so times and second only in the boredom stakes to watching paint dry and I wished to myself I was in the opposite cell with the brothers where Jason along with three of my initial room mates had since been admitted and where they all sat engrossed in movie ‘The Green Mile’.

Lunch, a barely recognizable macaroni cheese due in the main to a blatant ommission of cheese with the obligatory two slices of cardboard bread and an apple and delivered by the same two depressive orange boiler suits came and went and shortly after I made a cunning stab at obtaining release.

There were two duty officers who throughout the morning had been regularly popping their heads in to check that no one was either tunnelling out with a tea spoon or being gang raped or brutally murdered, an officious overly serious young chap who gave off more than a hint of Nazi Youth and a seemingly altogether more reasonable guy who I targeted for the sympathy vote with a complete and utter lie .

“Excuse me” I started as he finished a conversation with one of the other guys. “My seventy two year old mother arrives in LAX tonight to visit. I’m supposed to be picking her up. She doesn’t know anyone in LA other than me, I’ll have to be there”. I half expected him to shrug his shoulders and say “tough pal” but he gave a look that told me he was considering the burden of guilt that would be on his shoulders at the thought of the elderly lady staggering confused around Terminal two and told me he’d have a word with the desk sergeant.

A long and painfully slow two hours later, the lowlight of which was when a middle aged man who had yet to speak rose from his spot on the floor, shuffled to the pan in the corner, nonchalantly dropped his pants and proceeded, to the accompaniment of sounds usually associated with a whoopee cushion to relieve his stomach of its contents, and my lie had all but completely been forgotten.

I was in conversation with a tough looking but amiable guy with a tattooed neck who was explaining why he was in the cell (domestic dispute, more commonly known as kicking the shit out of his wife) when Nazi youth reappeared. He called two names and mine was the second. The Mexican immediately held out his hand “Hey bro, you’re going home”. I wanted to yell “yeeeee-hahhh” at the top of my voice but resisted, the memory of the disappointment of Cruella De Ville's roll call six and a half hours earlier was still fresh in my mind and I wasn’t about to count any more chickens prematurely. Instead I put all my concentration into remaining calm.

A couple of my other cell mates wished me luck and shook my hand and then the door of the cell slid open and I was instructed to collect my blanket and step in. I was joined from the other side by Jason and minutes later was being finger printed and signing my own release document along with a promise that I would appear in court a week the following Wednesday.

I was given a plastic bag containing the belongings I’d handed over on admission and was disappointed to see that the bag contained just a ring, a bracelet and the string from my shorts. No wallet, no phone, no money, no shoes and no camera. Never mind I thought, I could worry about those things when I got out.

Minutes later Jason and I started the ascent up the steep concrete slope to freedom. The barred steel gates remotely slid open as we approached the blinding sunlight and I made a comment about how this must feel after a proper taste of porridge. I’d only been in for fourteen hours yet it felt like a lifetime.

It didn't take long to realize the police station was situated in downtown Long Beach, approximately four miles from home. None of LBPD’s finest appeared to be offering chauffered rides, I had no shoes and neither of us had any money. We had no option but to walk.

Strolling through the downtown streets with no shoes on receiving disapproving looks from passers by made me feel like one of the cities many homeless inhabitants but once we reached the sanctity of the beach I was able to melt in with the Sunday afternoon crowd out walking off their ample lunches and when we finally arrived back at my flat I was relieved to find my t-shirt, wallet and phone on my patio table. No camera though. I immediately called Megan who was oblivious to everything that had happened, she confirmed my camera bag was around my neck when they’d dropped me off the previous evening and I had no choice but to quickly concede it would never be seen again.

The next week crawled by in hazy blur of stressed out worry. Investigations had enabled me to put some pieces of the jigsaw together in an attempt to re-trace my steps. I’d been dropped off at my flat by Megan and Matt but an hour or so later had been found staggering around the lower reaches of Second Street, five hundred or so yards from home with no shoes, no shirt, no money and no ID on my person. It was here I was discovered by LBPD, shackled, arrested and transported to the station.

My main concern apart from exactly what had happened to me was how my court appearance would affect my re-entry into the United States following my upcoming trip home. I confided in the only colleague I could trust, Jimmy, a native New Yorker who’d told me he’d had dealings with the Mafia in a previous life when his business was selling whelks and cockles across the East Coast and his investigations told me they well could but that it was highly unlikely.

My friend Jimmy Chavez gave me the number of his attorney brother Ron and urged me to ring him for some advice. I did and he told me that a misdemeanor such as ‘Drunk in Public’ wouldn’t affect my immigration rights which was a huge relief and felt like a weight lifted from my shoulders. Now I could just plead guilty, pay the fine, do the community service, the AA or whatever else the judge demanded and be done. During the course of our lengthy conversation I recounted all I knew about the proceedings of the previous twenty four hours which caused Ron to chuckle on more than one occasion before announcing his conclusion. “Sounds like your drink has been spiked”.

It was something I’d already considered but I told him a defence and possible pardoning on those grounds was not an option. Then he asked me another question,

“Were you taking any medication ?”.

Bloody hell, I was, I’d been to see the doctor the previous week about a rash that had developed on my arm and he'd prescribed a course of anti-biotics which I’d finished that morning. Of course everybody knows you shouldn't take alcohol with anti-biotics but that fact didn't even enter my head.

“Get to your doctors as soon as you can” Ron urged, “Find out what they were”.

I called in at the doctors on the way home from work, obtained the name of the steroids I‘d been prescribed and rang Ron straight away. I could hear him tapping on his keyboard as I spoke and seconds later after a brief delve into the world wide web he informed me that one of the known side effects was listed as amnesia.

He added that he’d spoken with his boss about my case and that he'd given Ron permission to take on my defence, that the medication would be the perfect case and that it would just require a “retainer of two and a half”. He may as well have been speaking Swaheli.

I half suspected what he meant but still sought clarification. “Sorry Ron, what do you mean ? A two and a half retainer?”

“You pay two and a half grand up front which is ours and if the bill for whatever reason comes to any more you pay that on completion”. Two and a half thousand dollars !! It wasn’t a figure anywhere near the couple of hundred I was expecting so I politely told Ron that I didn’t have two and a half grand and even if I did it would be silly to pay that when the fine as he'd just told me was only likely to be five or so hundred dollars. Our conversation ended with me thanking him for his time and him wishing me good luck.

When the day of reckoning finally arrived I was nervous and totally in the dark about procedures. Would I be required to enter a dock ?, Would I be required to explain my actions ? I just didn't know. I dressed smartly as advised and arrived at City Hall in plenty of time, made my way to the fourth floor courtroom and waited. And waited.

Court was set for 8am and at 8.45am an ageing policeman lethargically ambled down the corridor rattling a large bunch of keys, opened the double doors to the courtroom and entered followed closely by fifty or so nervous defendants. A typed list had been posted on the wall of everyone due to face the judge that day but my name and Jason's who'd also shown up were mysteriously absent so when everyone had filed in I approached the policeman and informed him of the ommission.

"Just wait against the wall and come see me when the judge has said his opening words".

What judge ? By now it was after nine and there was still no sign of him. If I'd been this late I'd be classed as being in contempt of court and when he finally ambled in he immediately struck me as a dedringer for the guy who played Herman in the Munsters. He called for order with a bang of his gavel and started his address and almost his first words that came from his mouth caused my heart to stop beating. I'd only just finished explaining to Jason how I was going to plead guilty with a little post script for mercy and a show of the photo copy of the doctors prescription that was in my pocket, accept my punishment and be done with it when the judge opened up proceedings in a parrot like fashion that said he'd recited these words a thousand and one times.

"If you're a non US national" he began, looking across at the myriads of Mexicans sat staring intently at the lips of the court translator "a misdemeanor WILL affect your rights to re-entry into the United States". WTF ! Ron, a fully qualified attorney had told me it wouldn't. My life flashed before me and those words kept repeating themselves throughout his twenty minute address. When he'd finally finished I approached the cop.

"They ain't filed yet. Go see what's happening at room 312".

I had no idea what he meant but did as I was told, moved down the third floor and after a two and a half hour wait in the slowest moving queue imaginable finally got to the window. I handed my papers across to the girl and she rapped away on her keyboard leaving me half expecting her to come out with the words "Computer says no". Instead she simply reiterated the policemans words adding that the DA had one full year to issue a summons and that I should return after lunch at 1:30pm.

When I returned I was thankfully able to jump to the front of the queue and once again handed my papers across. Twenty seconds later the girl nonchalantly looked up from her screen and spoke two words

"Charges dismissed".

I don't think she was aware of the huge significance those two words would have on me, so much so that I had to ask her to repeat herself and explain why. She suggested I went over to the DA office to pick up an official pardoning letter and after she'd made a call to let them know I was on my way I skipped along to the adjacent building were I collected a headed 'Rejection of Complaint' letter from Thomas M Reeves, City Prosecutor citing 'Insufficient Evidence' as the reason for reprieve from the complaint issued by one Bruce Roberson. I don't think I have ever been so relieved in my life, spiked or medicinal I didn't really care, now there would be no "sorry, not today mate" when I landed stateside on return from my forthcoming holiday.

Following release of the pressure cooker of concern the next weekend simply had one priority for me, to have some fun, and whilst a day at a theme park has never particularily been my idea of such it was Marisa's 12th birthday and my name was on the guest list. California has several amusement park's within it's boundaries and Knots Berry Farm, fortunately the closest to home was the one of her choice. Queueing for up to one hour in a quest for the one minute thrill of having your lower intestines dragged screaming into your mouth seems a bit of a poor deal to me but that's what we did and the girls had a great time. Actually, so did Phil and I, my afternoon only suffering a low when we came across a soccer game where I boastingly informed Marisa I'd win her the teddy bear prize she was after.

I paid my five bucks and entered the fenced off area nonchalantly juggling a stray ball as I went. English accent and playing keepie uppie as I went must have put the fear of God into the stall holder, there wasn't even any visible sign of pre match nerves. Fifteen yards away was a hockey style goal being minded by a cardboard cut out Denis The Menace lookalike. Okay, his arms randomly moved up and down and he moved slowly on his line but he was still only made of cardboard. How hard could this be ?

Balls, I was told would be rolled towards me and it would simply be a case of dispatching them first time beyond the stiff into the back of the net, just like taking sweets off a baby. Unfortunately, the cardboard cut out appeared to have been instilled with the spirit of the great Lev Yashin and as well as I struck my shots he miraculously seemed to get each and every particular part of his body in the way. If I did get past his reach the ball would ricochet off bar or post and after a full minute of continuous shooting I'd managed just three goals. Desperate to put more in and riddled with guillt and humiliation not to mention sweat I continued to fire stray balls at Dennis long after my minute was up as the stall holder, dressed for some reason as a baseball official scrambled around trying reduce the number of available missiles and when I finally slunked through the gate he was probably just seconds from calling park security. Thankfully Marisa trying hard to disguise her disappointment forgave me for my failure.

With June well under way and my escape from the clutches of the law now confirmed as actually being true I was beginning to wind down. I was finally having a holiday, it was imminent and I simply couldn't wait and needless to say my farewell weekend on The Shore was spent with a crazy night in PJ's.

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Photos

The Prisoner.
One star B & B.

The Prisoner.
'The Mouse'

The Prisoner.
And riding 'The Mouse'.

The Prisoner.
"I'll get you a teddy bear" !! Good technique but cardboard cut out Yashin was too good for me.

The Prisoner.
Free at last. Rejection of complaint sheet.

The Prisoner.
Phil's little yelp when we dropped from the top will go down in folklore.

The Prisoner.
It all started so well. Colleagues Danielle and Megan (centre) at the pool party. I'm in the shade of the orange tree at the back.

The Prisoner.
Wood for the trees. The rickety structure of Knots Berry Fram's 'The Mouse' rollercoaster.

The Prisoner.
Frame.

The Prisoner.
The official US bobsleigh.

The Prisoner.
Marisa's birthday lunch.

The Prisoner.
The sign read "Put money in bag - Thanks". Do they not know there are scousers on the course !?

The Prisoner.
Corr blimey !

The Prisoner.
Saturday night in PJ's

The Prisoner.
And again.

The Prisoner.
??!!

The Prisoner.
Neighbour Mark tries to hide when the scousers arrive in his bar at 1am.

The Prisoner.
Line dancin' at Knots Berry Farm.

The Prisoner.
Practice round for Portugal with colleagues PJ< Wil and Anita.

The Prisoner.
San Juan Capistrano. On the green !

The Prisoner.
Hen do.

The Prisoner.
PJ's.

The Prisoner.
Birthday girl opens her cards.

The Prisoner.
And gets the cake.

The Prisoner.
Proud parents.

The Prisoner.
Saturday in PJ's.

The Prisoner.
Startled.

Comments

[harriet]

oh my god...
seriously, dude. write.a.book. you make my travelling adventures look tame, and for that - I salute you! But seriously... less of the arrests please... hope to catch up with you when you're back in the UK at some point, or i may pop by and visit x

[Dut]

Best blog yet - booze, crime, PJ's and crap footy skills! Happy days

[Donna]

Bloody hell Matt, that was one big nightmare for you. Glad it all got dismissed in end. Keep your chin up and enjoy life mate xx

[waymo]

The luck of the pig stays intact! nice to get the frighteners on you tho ha ha

[boultz]

train ride
Dude that has livened up my train ride no end but the people around me are looking at me a little funny, I may be chuckling just a little. Glad it all turned out for the best though mate. Sorry I missed u on your return to metal pig. Next time u come back can you bring some of those ladies... hmmm... ;-)

[Paul Lacey]

When You Home ???
When you home on holiday , lee is over for the ashes on 22nd july for about a month and lynn and steve are in england from the 17th august till 17th sept regards lace kids and ale eh!!!!!!