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Sing-Sing-along

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1963 you were invited to submit a suitable 'old school song' to be sung by the ex-inmates of a prison at their annual reunion.

`Oh, how this competition brings back memories that I am not permitted to elab- orate upon!' tantalisingly sighed one entrant, whose crested letterhead revealed him to be an 'Hon. Ambdr'. Simon Raven did it the hard way — in Latin: 'Floreat Wormwood, / Urbis Stella, / Qua homines sunt mille I Et nil puella!' Stanley J. Sharp- less had a wicked little quatrain which I could imagine the old lags singing with gusto:

Lord Longford came to see us To help us as a friend. He made a fuss, it didn't help us, But it cheered him up no end.

Honourable mentions to Andrew Gibbons, D.E. Poole, B. J. Kennedy and Philip A. Nicholson. The prizewinners, printed below, get £30 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Basil Ransome-Davies.

Twenty years hard if our brief makes a blunder, Sewing the bags for Her Majesty's mail, Wrongdoers clapped by the Law's mighty thunder, Let's raise our glasses to old Walton jail.

Memories of old times will always surround us, Rolling the snout up or dumping the turds, Nightmares of coppers who ruthlessly hound us, Daydreams of juries who swallow our words.

Here's to the wives out in Torremolinos! Here's to the screws who will pocket a bung! Here's to the hacks with the cheques in El Vino's!

In praise of these let our anthem be sung.

Though there are times when the end of a sentence Means we must write a full stop to our stay, We look back fondly, and not with repentance: Walton the beacon that lighted our way.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Banged up together, Slopping out two by twos; Laughing at Howard's blether, Learning to screw the screws; Stitching up mail-bags, Dealing in drugs and snout, Counting the time as jail lags, Till we get out.

Working the whole bent system, Wangling a quick parole; Counsellors, chaplains — twist 'em, Just show a hint of 'soul'. All jolly good cell-mates, Planning with proper pride Jobs we'll do well, mates, Now we're outside. (D.A. Prince) Happy Scrubs! Is that surprising after days in crowded cells, Very little exercising, lots of aggro, nasty smells? Never mind the snags and drawbacks, we had nothing there to lose; Prison life has many clawbacks, even sometimes from the screws.

Let's recall the sun that dapples squares of cell on sunny days, Sundays with the bells for chapels, pimps and poofters and their ways; Visits from our ancient grannies, drugs concealed in chunks of cake, Sitting ages on our fannies, working out what dose to take.

Life outside is full of worry, wives and girlfriends full of bile, No surprise if good men hurry back to prison for a while.

That is why we do our break-ins, raid a bank or crack some Chubbs, So that we can spend the takings with the barons in the Scrubs. (Paul Griffin) We're very special criminals -- we have our social rules - No middle-aged housemasters from the minor public schools - It's major scam and massive fraud that we assert with pride, Or really huge embezzlement — we must keep up the side! While crooks were at your wallet, bust your car or broke your bones, We shifted stuff that wasn't there on mobile telephones. We didn't trouble coppers, though we might have subbed a few; Keeping track of kids and amateurs, they've quite enough to do!

We might have come the heavy if a client wouldn't see sense, But we rarely stoop to violence, a terrible expense.

Our debt to your Society we've paid, as good chaps ought - Remember, for each one of us there's forty never caught - So now we look upon the world with bland and guiltless smiles, Though we spent time within the jug a-plotting further wiles, For we'd never bash your mothers or assault your garden sheds - And while we did our stint inside you slept safe