WORLD EXCLUSIVE! The Archer Prison Diaries! Day One. What a forlorne day in the history of civillisation, that a Nobel Prize Winner for Litterature like me should be bunged up in a prison cell! This will be a stern test of my intellectual and morall resorces, by Kevin Myers
Even keeping a diarry is ilegal. Still, I am used to hardship. I endured the naked brutality in the Gulag, where I gave Leonid Solzhenitzen a few helpful tips about how to write novels.
He never actually mentioned me in his account of the Archipellago, but I am identifyable as the kind and couragious prisoner who gives his life so that a mother and her two children could survive. And that happenned, of course, exept I didn't die, I escaped, but Leonid couldn't put that bit in, the way I did it was to dramatic, involving tight-rope walking a mile along a one million killawatt power line to the nearest Red Air Force Base, where I stole a MIG 29 and flew at Mach 2 all the way to the West. That was why the US gave me the Congressional Meddle of Honour. But I'd rather not talk about, I was just doeing my duty.
Green Berets
Day Two. What a night! Attacked by flees, and hardly slept at all. That the worst time from insects since I led the Green Berets in their attack on Haiphong and was captured by the North Vietnamese. I was tied to the ground and bamboo shoots grew up through my stomach while I was been eaten by mosquitos. I would probably have perrished, except that a sumptious Vietcong girl fell for me, and one night helped me escape, and we spent a week of passion on the Ho Chi Minh trail, while I directed B 52s to their target. Where are you now, Li Chi?
Day Three. Meeting with the Governor. I told him not to bother with protockol, merely to call me My Lord. He seemed greatful. I mentioned the inaddequate prison diet. I suggested a discreet supply of foie gras, quale eggs, some game pie, oysters, that kind of thing, and he undertook to look into it. Would I like an ellectric blanket, he asked in a funny tone.
I confess, I aloud him a small smirk, and politely declined. I have known far colder conditions than Bellmarch Prisson. Such as when Rannulph Fyennes and I crossed the Artic towing a bulldozer sideways. He gave up, of course, all that SAS training was of no avale, so I put him in the cab, and towed the vehicle by myself to the Pole. That's how I got the George Cross (Special Clandesstine Order).
Shortening the war
Day Four. Another bad night. I don't think I have been so exhausted since I lead the Dam-busters on their legendary mission, for which Guy Gibson got the glory. That was because just as I blew the final dam apart, crippling German industry, and shortening the Nazi war by decaids, my de Havilland Lancaster was hit. I bailed out without a parachute, but haply I landed in a fraulein's bed, and only after I had serviced her a dozen times did she allow me two leave.
I've never been so tyred since, not until this morning anyway, after spending a third sleepless night while flees gorged themselves on me, cockroaches rattled inside my chamber-pot, and overhead, the din of prisoners killing one another, God this place is hell. Worse than that time when I brought Apollo Thirteen safely home.
Day Five. I still have not spent a week here, and it seams like a month. No singe of the special food which the governor promissed me. I am calling fourth all my resserves of ressilience and stoiscism. It takes me back to the bad old times in the POW camp after I had sunk the Bismarck - when I got my first VC - and I was being held in a Nazi death cell.
But my philosophey is, do not complane. Small consolations sustane me, such as when I scored the winning goal for England in the World Cup Final in 1966. Or when I won the Ashes with that double century not out against Gary Sober's West Indies.
Moddest acheivements, I know, but at least their mine.
This time, finally, my jail writings might see the light of day! I was in a French jail when I wrote "Waiting for Godo" which I showed to an Irish drunk in my cell. Alas, I helped him escape, the rest is history. Something simmilar happened with my first novel, "The Day of the Jackal", and my next, "The Godfather". This time, these prison-words of mine, my precious jewels will stay concealed, until I am free - free, do you hear me, FREE?
Discovery of DNA
Day Six. You learn to ask questions in jail, such as: Is my fellow prisoner's appaling behaviour due to genes? Since my discovery of DNA with Crick and Watson, we have learnt much about mankind. But some questions remain. Why are some people pathologickal crooks and liars? And why are some so generous? What made me share my discoveries about Windows with Bill Gates? Why was I so kind to Monika Coghlan? Why can I not tell a lie? An end to such speckulation! Tomorrow, I am free!
Day Seven. 8 am. Bliss! Hell on earth over. In the hisstory of the world, no man has suffered like me. Out in an hour.
Noon. Disaster! Back again! They've discovered my diary! And because I'm so used to jail, I've been given another five years! And I've got a cellmate. A 6'6" hommosexual rapist called Elvis.
AAAAAAAARRRRRGGHHH.
