THE PRISON DIARY OF JEFFREY ARCHER

MONDAY
Surprisingly, the Daily Mail is openly available in here and I have been able to read good old Jonathan Aitken's letter to myself. Here are the best bits:

'On the first night of my sentence in HMP Belmarsh a well-meaning prisoner approached me in "the cage" - the big, communal cell where they put each day's new arrivals from the Old Bailey until the initial formalities such as strip-searching, finger-printing and cell allocation are completed. This was the warning he whispered to me:

"You're a tall poppy so don't let them put you in a peter on the wing 'cos if you get the least bit lairy with any of the big faces they'll snooker yer 'amsteads or give yer a servin' with claret. So take the cucumbers! For Gawd's sake take the cucumbers!"

'Disadvantaged by my Eton and Oxford education I was unable to translate this advice, which was just as well for I would have been scared stiff if I had understood it.

'What my informant was saying was that as a high profile prisoner (tall poppy), if I was allocated a cell (peter) on one of the ordinary prison landings (wings) the hard men (big faces) might knock out my teeth with a billiard ball (hampstead Heath - teeth) or beat me into a bloody pulp (serving the claret) were I to get slightly uppity (lairy) with them.

'The punch line of rhyming slang horticultural advice about cucumbers was a reference to numbers. "Taking the numbers" means applying under rule 43 to be segregated in isolation for your own protection as a vulnerable prisoner.

'Applications for this Rule 43 protection are regularly made by jailed police officers, prison officers, and sex offenders. My adviser evidently felt that any passing Cabinet Minister would be wise to take the same precaution.'

I have decided to take Jonathan's advice and have therefore refused the cucumbers.

TUESDAY
Am missing my fragrant wife. These prisoners don't half pong. (Oh lord, see how quickly I drop into the vernacular). Note to self - must compile dictionary of prison slang. I hope no-one beats me to it.

WEDNESDAY
Dropped my soap in the shower today. I don't think anyone noticed. Or maybe no-one fancies me. Oh what have I done to deserve this? Oh that's right, I've lied my arse off all my life.

THURSDAY
I hear my son will be visiting me soon. That's nice. Still missing Mary, though now I can't remember why.

FRIDAY
Chap in the next cell tells me he's a big fan and has asked if I would like to come round to his place and play with his collection of lard. Am sorely tempted.

SATURDAY
I have heard from Mr Big. It is not good news. Apparently he's a Kurd.

SUNDAY
Don't know how much more of this I can take. Contemplated suicide for a while there, but decided there's not much money in it. Still, only another 207 weeks to go.