The locks were opened, and my guard approached me again. I lived with the oily hessian smell of the sack under which I spent my days, but as soon as he came close, the moron’s garlic and sweet, soapy aroma mixed in with his raw and noxious sweat overpowered everything else nearby. Feral. Mine was the dried in filth of complacency. His was the stink of deprivation. He had been set the task of seeing that I was no trouble, and he performed it with a single-minded dedication. In total silence. A retard, hell bent on impressing the witless thugs above him in the operation.
The only noise that came from him, was of poorly translated English pop music from earlier times. He had memorized complete versions of 70% correct lyrics. Blindfolded, it was hard to be sure, but I detected this air of boastfulness, as if his knowledge of the text spoke to his mastery of English. His favorite bands seem to be The Jam, and all I’ve heard for the last few days is:
“I’ve a little money and a takeaway curry
I’m on my way home to my wife.
She’ll be lining up the cutlery, you know she’s expecting me,
Polishing the glasses and pulling out the cork.”
I’m down in the tube station at midnight, oh oh oh oh oh
I first felt a fist, and then a kick
I couldn’t help smell their breath
They smelt of pubs, and wormwood scrubs
And too many right wing meetings.
My life swam around me,
It took a look and drowned me, in its own existence.
The smell of brown leather,
Blended in with the weather …
My old friends know, that I have a problem with lyrics that don’t make sense, and feel duty bound to point them out, so now, from beneath my sack, as he sings along, I join in with sub-vocalised observations about the song. I try to sing them in tune and in time with him, and I think he’s taken it as a sign of endearment. We must take our consolations where we find them, so I have quite enjoyed telling him “It doesn’t look like it did much damage to your sense of smell, mate,” and that, “virtually nobody in England would have wine with curry, but that I understand where he’s coming from because he’s already referenced beer.” It’s quite a challenge, but one which I look forward to. It’s my Wordle, if you will. And, by the way, now I’m here: right-wing meetings – what do they smell like, exactly? Same, better or worse than WormwoodScrubs? Of course, WormwoodScrubs will smell of urine and cooking like any other prison. I’m no literary critic, but I have my suspicions that WormwoodScrubs only made it into the final version because it rhymes with pubs. I’m not saying the librettist was stupid or anything when he wrote the song. But he probably was.
I got the feeling, that he was close to lifting my sack today. Tomorrow perhaps. Then we can have a proper sing-song together.
Dickie White's Diary 