On the Ahmed bandwagon, but not texting.

If only the author had waited a year or two, he may have got much more information...

The IQRA Trust was set up in 1993 to support the educational and training needs of imams and prisoners. Its aims include raising awareness of issues affecting Muslim prisoners and promoting the importance of education and training in the successful resettlement of Muslim prisoners once they are released.
I am particularly thankful to Lord Ahmed of Rotherham and the Director IQRA Trust Prisoner Welfare, Mr Salah El-Hassan for this opportunity to present my findings at the House of Lords. The event was attended by a large audience, including many prison imams, members of the Prison Service, members of associations, the government and police forces. I hope that my research and findings can contribute to a better understanding of the issues that we are facing within prisons and to help the Prison Service and the Government to change its current security policies.

Author details here.

http://tinyurl.com/dc3ym9

Holiday Job 1976

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Nightmare V. The Dawn of Civilisation.

Dawn.

In the distance a leopard coughs.

A mammoth trumpets, looks around fearfully and trundles off, followed by a determined small boy with a bucket.

Grok yawns, stretches and scratches, then stumbles outside the shelter to relieve himself.

A few seconds later he is joined by Urak, and they stand in companionable silence for a while.

"What's that?" Says Urak. "Wh's wh't? Mumbles Grok.

"What we're pissing on."

Grok dribbles a few last drops.

"A big black thing."

They both look for a while.

"Wasn't there last night."

Says Urak finally.

"Aye...what the fuck is it?"

"A really big stone?" Ventures Grok.

"...I suppose...anyway, breakfast."

They return to their shelter leaving the carbon black monolith absorbing the morning sun, apart from two glistening patches.

*****************

Three months later.

Inside a large shelter, Grok and Urak are standing behind a split log supported on two piles of stone.

Grok is polishing a soapstone beaker with a rabbit pelt, while Urak is putting the finishing touches to a very small arrow. Two others rest on a small disk with a red bullseye painted on it.

Mike comes in. Without a word Grok dips the beaker in the foaming vat behind him and lays it on the log. Mike puts a bead on the log, scoops up the beaker and scuttles to the hearth where he stares into the flames and cackles quietly to himself.

A small bedraggled creature stumbles through the entrance and falls over an old woman.

He extracts himself with difficulty, and staggers to the log, bloodshot eyes fixed on the vat of beer.

"No way Fooks, you've had enough." Grok says sternly, "Go now before you get logged." Nodding at Urak, who was slapping a large log in his palm.

"Have a heart lads." Whined Fooks.

"You offered them last time, Vlad wasn't happy..."

Fooks florid jowls paled and shakily he turned away.

They watched as he zigzagged his way out. "Some people eh?"Says Urak, contemptuously.

"Anyway, I'm starving, fancy some pork scratchings?"

"Ugh-I'd rather have deep fried toenail clippings!" Spat Grok.

"Well you're in luck, here's some I made earlier." Urak puts a basket on the log.

"I reckon we can get away with one bead a dozen?"

"Genius" Says Grok, admiringly.

"Ain't civilisation great?"

Nightmare IV. The shape of things to come.

Grok and Urak stood back and admired their handywork, an igloo shaped medley of branches, mud, pelts and mammoth dung.

Grok, wiping his hands on a passing child, said;-

"A Good Job, Urak, twenty beads at least."

"Hmm, maybe last winter, but now..."

Replied Urak hesitantly.

"Robus and Aitchbos lent all their beads to-"

Screwing one eye shut, he then grabbed an imaginary chicken by the neck and shook it up and down at chest level, simultaneously jabbing a thumb at the chiefs shelter.

"Wah!" Screamed the small child. "I've got to milk the mammoth!"

Grok patted the ululating child on the head, adding to the debris nestling in it's hair.

"On you go Brownlie, we're having a grown up talk about beads."

Turning back to Urak.

"What on earth for?"

"So he can lend them back again?" Shrugging his shoulders.

"There goes the shelter making way of getting beads, then."

Said Grok, scuffing the mud with his toe.

"-nkers." He mumbled.

"That's a good name for them." Said Urak.

"What will we do now?"

"I'm hungry, Mandy said he fancied us around for a spit roast."

The two men looked at each other.

"Naw." They said.

The Lothlothian Question

By Tam Thebamothebinns.

Hey man it's not, like...right, dig...?

Like, those little dudes in the Shire, man, can do what...they want see?

But the righteous dudes of Middle-Earthingland, can't say shit to them...

Well...apart from Soreon the Eye Broon and his lickspittle dude Borrowmore Darling.

The little munchkins are always whingeing about the Ringwraiths on the Brandywine.

But it makes sense...like, we don't want them on the Entwash dude, that would just be too dangerous!

But they do export really gnarly pipeweed...Look at the smokerings...

Bookpushing time

More than thirty years ago I first came across this novel.

It had a different title then, something like-

"How evil Commie bastards are planning to take over the World"

Or-

"The Bear and the Dragon are coming to rape your women."

But that was then.

It's been deconstructed and rewritten and is a really good read.

http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/

PS It's by my brother, but it still is a good read.

Enid Mary Blyton (1897 – 1968)

Enid Blyton was one of my favourite authors when when I was a very small boy, Hollow Tree House being my favoured bedtime reading for a while when I was down.

Living in a hollowed out log, depending upon the charity of

some posh kids for something to eat.

Life isn't so bad after all, my seven year old self used to say to himself, sigh contentedly, give my goll-err...teddy bear a hug and go to sleep.

The thought of Auntie Enid being a racist snob, just nonsense of course...

Twenty-five years later.

The clocks struck thirteen.

"The other one got away..."

Said Comrade first class Urak.

"Shite!" Shouted Commissar Grok.

"We need more rats, those bastards up at Room 101 are upping the quotas."

"However, if you are hungry?"

He said, waving a wriggling bag in front of Urak's face.

"Doubleplus good eating."

Newspoke Grok, noticing a camera.

New Clarkson Scandal

Tractor stats inspired me on this one.

Nightmare III This time it's impersonal.

Sir Fitzurak McGrok and Sir McUrak Fitzgrok are relaxing in their club after a long morning making phone calls.

The Cuban cigar smoke around their two leather armchairs almost obscures the men in grey suits, quietly whispering all around them.

"More Hors d'age?"

Says Sir Fitz, prodding a crystal decanter at the red nose of Sir "Mick" as he is affectionately known by his employees to his face.

"Is the pope a Na-err-yes thankyou."

There is a loud crash from the cheap seats outside the inner sanctum.

A man is attempting to rise from a tangle of furniture but keeps falling on an elderly lady.

"Just that oik Cumnock again."

Says Sir Mick rummaging in a large briefcase.

Sir Fitz opens the humidor on the small table between them, and takes out a Montecristo.

Sir Mick takes a paper out of the the briefcase twists it and lights it in the fire.

"Only six thousand nine hundred and ninety nine to go."

He quips, lighting the cigar.

"I'm starving, do you fancy the spatchcock?"

Nightmare II: A green lifestyle continues...

Grok and Urak, after a long days hunter-gathering, wearily watch Patrick run about in ever decreasing circles.

"What's the chosen one wittering on about now?"

Says Urak, rummaging in a bag.

"Something about dams hurting salmon."

"Dam all can hurt wee Eck." sniggers Grok

"Especially him!"

Urak pulls something from his bag.

"I'm starving, fancy splitting this beaver...?"

Patrick Harvie's nightmare.

Being.

Green.

Sounds wonderful doesn't it?

The simple life of the hunter-gatherer, awakening at dawn each morning, having a healthy breakfast of a handful of berries and a beaker of nearly pure water.

Stepping out of your crude shelter, stretching, scratching your lice and picking up your flint spear.

Looking at your campfire.

"Carbon Emissions!" you cry.

"Eh?" says Grok.

"Put it out at once, it's making the world hotter!"

Grok looks at Urak and makes a circular motion of his forefinger around his temple.

And we all laugh.