The Rift Porridge

JUDGE: Nigel Norman Fletcher,

you have been found guilty of the charges

brought against you and it is now my duty to pass sentence.

DOOR CLOSES

KEY TURNS LOCK

Cyber-crime is a modern menace.

A man of your obvious ingenuity

and intelligence might have used his gifts on behalf of society.

DOORS CLOSE, BUZZER BEEPS, BARS CLOSE

Instead, you chose to employ them in the pursuit of self-indulgence,

greed and gain.

You will now face the consequences and go to prison for five years.

ALARM BEEPS OWL HOOTS

-Ow! Hell's Bells!

-Oh, bloody hell, Fletch!

Every bloody morning you wake me up at some ungodly hour.

Duty calls, Joe. Go back to sleep.

I can't go back to sleep. When I'm awake, I'm awake.

CRUNCHING

-What was that noise?

-What was what noise?

That crunching noise. You stood on something.

-No, I didn't.

-It better not be my Leaning Tower Of Pisa.

It's leaning a bit further now.

Aw, Fletch! I got a special mention for that in art class.

Just a bit of glue, that's all it needs.

Labour of love, this was, you know. Kept me sane.

Gave me a sense of pride and accomplishment.

-Meant a lot to me.

-Well, if it meant that much to you,

you shouldn't have left it on the floor, should you?

I could've got a splinter.

Come on, Fletcher. Early bird catches the worm.

-Look, I'll make it up to you, all right?

-You can start

by not waking me up at the crack of dawn every morning.

All right.

Good morning losers, larcenists, layabouts.

Lots to talk about today. Congratulations to Scuddsy for

passing his massage therapy course

or, as his first client described it, GBH.

But, first, here's a song for all those poor blokes

that are in here for something they didn't do.

They didn't run fast enough.

# Keep on running

# Keep on hiding

# One fine day I'm gonna be the one

# To make you understand

# Oh, yeah

# I'm gonna be your man

# Hey, hey, hey

# Everyone is talking about me

# It makes me feel so sad

# Hey, hey, hey

# Everyone is laughing at me

# It makes me feel so bad

# So keep on running... #

You know what?

Incarceration's a funny thing, innit?

At least on the outside you get to choose who you bunk down with.

On the inside, it's wrong'un roulette, innit?

I'm starting to miss my ex-girlfriends.

I had one who was a thoroughbred lunatic but at least she smelt nice,

unlike some people in here. Naming no names.

Anyway, here's a song for my cellmate - Joe Lotterby -

Nirvana, Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Or in your case, Joe, smells like moth balls.

Good show today, Fletch. I was just wondering,

could you play some Chas and Dave, London's finest?

I might be able to. Any preferences?

Snooker Loopy maybe? Or Gertcha?

Wallop! That's a tune!

You're a dark horse, aren't you, Shel?

-You never play any hip-hop.

-I can't please everyone.

-Are you ever going to play any Yes?

-No.

Hold on to your handbags, here comes Ullett.

-Is this seat taken?

-Yes.

-Don't look like it.

You know you're not welcome, Ullett.

-It's nothing personal, it's just we don't like you.

-Why not?

Cos you're a thieving little git who'd sell his own grandmother.

-Who told you that?

-The bloke who bought her.

I'll tell you what, if you can tell us a joke we ain't heard before,

-we'll let you have your breakfast with us.

-All right.

This elephant walks into a bar...

Heard it. Get lost.

Enjoyed your show. How come you never play any U2?

Aren't things bad enough as it is?

Tell you what, I might you do you a favour if you can help me out.

-What favour's that?

-Seeing as you're our resident tattoo artist,

I wondered if you could take them off as well as put 'em on?

Cos I think it's time I got rid of "Davina."

Well, I can't take 'em off but I can cover 'em up.

Davina, though, a lot of letters.

Shame I never went for someone called called Joy.

I'll fit you in, it's the least I can do.

Bro, you've got that DJ business down.

You could do it when you go out. Maybe even the BBC.

What? Stuck in a radio booth all week for a few hundred quid?

No, no, no.

Freelance DJ, now you're talking.

Backpack and a memory stick.

Parties in Dubai, Moscow, Hong Kong,

50K a night and A-list crumpet.

Got it all worked out, have you? Bit premature.

-You've got at least three years ahead of you.

-Not necessarily.

-What's that mean?

-Not saying.

What do you know that we don't?

-Not saying. Don't want to jinx it.

-Jinx what?

What I'm not prepared to say nothing about.

I'll tell you what, I'm taking a phone call at the end of the day,

after which I might be able to shed some light.

Shed some light! I've got it. You're doing your electrician's course.

Give me strength.

What you got there, Joe?

About four weeks of painstaking work in ruins.

You know I have to get up before sparrow's fart and I have to

get dressed in the dark, and you leave things on the floor.

Trouble in paradise. The honeymoon is over.

Tell you what, you said you had an embarrassing tat

you wanted to get rid of. Irish will take care of it on me.

-Gang tat, is it?

-Were you in a gang, Joe?

Yeah! 1959, I were a Teddy boy.

Drape jacket with a velvet collar. Drainpipe pants.

Hair creamed back into a duck's arse.

You had hair in them days, then?

Yeah. And three inch crepe-soled shoes. I was the bee's knees.

What was the worst thing you ever did?

Ooh... Day trip to Scarborough.

Went on the pop, got into a fight and I desecrated the floral clock.

-So where's the tattoo?

-It's "Pauline" on my left buttock,

but I'm not certain if she's still there.

What do you mean you're not certain she's still there?

Well, she might have faded away - I can't see down there -

like her face has faded from my memory.

-Any volunteers to check him out in the showers?

-Pass.

-Pass.

-Cheeky sods.

Bring your buttock over later, Joe. I'll take care of it.

-Busy, Fletcher?

-I am, as it happens, Mr Braithewaite.

-Preparing for tomorrow's radio show.

-That's why I'm here.

I've been tasked with the job of seeing you don't include

-anything inappropriate.

-I'm not sure I know what you mean.

Some of your jokes of late have been a little risque,

-bordering on the blue.

-Oh, you mean one about the gang

nicking all the toilets out the police station?

-Remind me.

-Spokesperson said, "We have absolutely nothing to go on."

"Nothing to go on."

Oh, I see. That seems harmless enough.

But the one about the haggis and the rabbi...

-Mr Meekie took offence, did he?

-He did, yes.

-So...what have you got for us tomorrow?

-You'll love this one.

It's late at night in the countryside

-and a copper's doing his rounds.

-In a car or on his bike?

It don't matter, does it?

What matters is he sees something strange in a field,

-a bloke having it off with a pumpkin.

-Having it off?

-Yeah.

-With a pumpkin?

Yeah.

What does the policeman do?

He walks over quietly in his size 12 boots,

gets out his torch, flashes it, and he says,

"Why are you having sex with a pumpkin?"

And the bloke turns round and says, "Oh, no, is it midnight already?"

Midnight because...?

Think of Cinderella.

Oh, I see!

But Cinderella didn't turn into a pumpkin -

that was the coach.

And the footmen, they were turned back into frogs, or was it mice?

No, she found herself back in her kitchen rags.

You're a comedian's despair, Mr Braithewaite.

Nor do I understand why the man was having sex with the pumpkin

-in the first place.

-Did I fail to mention it was in Scotland?

Point of fact, Mr Meekie's home town.

Mr Hardacre, please. It's Nigel Fletcher.

Yes, he's expecting my call.

Now listen, and listen carefully, it's all going down Friday night.

It's a big haul, gold bars as well as cash and sparklers.

There'll be security but they won't make themselves too busy,

not if everyone's tooled up with Uzis and AKs.

Give Maggie my love.

Hope her psoriasis has cleared up.

Ciao.

Scuddsy, are you mental?

You know the screws ear wig our calls.

I know they do, I just love winding them up.

-Is that your mum? Let me say hello.

-No, I'm on the phone

to a very expensive brief

and I've got to talk very quickly cos I'm paying him by the minute.

Hello? Yes, it is me. Never mind the weather, what happened?

Postponed? For six months?

Why?

You told me it'd be sorted in a week,

that's why I pay you all this money.

OK. You know what you should do, don't you?

You should do what a duck can't but a goose can.

Stick your bill up your arse!

So...

a wee bird tells me your appeal has been turned down.

-SARCASTICALLY:

-Aw.

Still, look on the bright side. It will give you and I a chance

-to get to know each other better.

-It's been postponed, Mr Meekie.

If you're going to ear wig my calls, you should listen properly.

-Good lawyer, is he?

-You know what they say, Mr Meekie.

"Good lawyers know the law.

"Great lawyers know the judge."

Postponed doesn't sound good.

At least you've got that radio show of yours

as a substitute for the warmth of friends and family.

You're enjoying this, aren't you, Mr Meekie?

-Don't answer that, it's a rhetorical question.

-Oh, no.

I'd very much like to answer it...in the affirmative.

You should tell a lawyer joke on your programme tomorrow.

I know a very good one.

What's the difference between a lawyer and a rhinoceros?

I've heard it. Lawyers charge more.

And while we're on the subject, I know a good record you could play,

something your audience would be sure to appreciate.

-Try me.

-Engelbert Humperdinck, Please Release Me.

MEEKIE LAUGHS

Ten seconds till lockdown!

Hurry up, Fletcher!

How did it go?

It didn't. Got postponed for six months.

And he was so confident.

Yeah, so were you. I told you not to count your chickens

but you wouldn't take no notice.

Forgive me for looking for a light at the end of the tunnel

but I do actually want to get out of here!

All I was trying to tell you was that you might be barking up

the wrong tree and flogging a dead horse.

What's a dead horse doing up a tree?

Look, you've got to be resilient inside.

Look for little victories, that's what your grandad used to say,

cos I don't want you going ending up like Billy Forester.

All right, who is, or who was, Billy Forrester?

He were a fella I shared a cell with about 20 years ago.

He were a lot like you - cheeky and full of fun.

He had his appeal turned down.

-What happened?

-Well, it went on for months but it changed him.

He started mumbling to himself

and he never smiled.

He just sat there like a pimple on a gherkin.

-Did he get out?

-No, he got two years added on.

-What for?

-Strangulation.

What, his solicitor?

No, me. I were trying to cheer him up.

JOE SNORES LOUDLY

JOE FARTS

JOE: Oh, no, no, don't!

JOE WAILS IN HIS SLEEP

Oh, no, no, no!

No, stop it, stop it!

Eileen, stop it!

JOE MOANS

HE FARTS

ALARM BEEPS

Oh, no. No, no, no. That is out of order.

That is totally out of order!

What? You're out of order, waking me every bloody morning.

No, you're out of order.

I haven't slept a wink all night because of you and now this.

What?

Oh, I was cutting my toenails last night.

And what do we do when we cut our toenails?

We only do them when we're alone, which I was,

and we throw the parings away, which I did, except I missed one.

Yeah, you missed one.

You're making a mountain out of a molehill.

There we go again, Inspector Cliche.

It's no wonder Billy Whatsisname tried to strangle you

-because it has to said, Joe, you have habits.

-What habits?

You're always sniffing in the morning and you're always

scratching your head. If it's not your head, it's your nose.

If it's not your nose, it's your apple sack.

If it's not your applesack, it's your backside.

It won't be scratching my backside for a few days since Irish

removed Eileen. I can't hardly sit down.

You said her name was Pauline.

I know I did but it turned out different.

I've no idea who Eileen was or why she's been beautifying my bum

-all these years.

-We're getting off the point.

That's another thing that drives me crazy,

leaping from subject to subject like a grasshopper.

I've never complained about your snoring.

You ought to wear on of them adjustable chin straps.

Adjustable chin strap? How dare you!

Listen, son, I've been doing stir for years and I get through it.

You've been here for five minutes

and you're bleating like a constipated sheep.

All I'm saying is there has to be rules, standards.

Yes, all right, I'll try. But a leopard can't...

Change his spots? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

And you can't teach an old dog...

To bark up a new tree? Yeah, yeah, yeah.

-And curiosity killed the cat.

-What's that got to do with anything?

It's the only cliche you haven't used!

HE BANGS ON DOOR

Let me out of here! I'm trying to storm out!

Morning, losers. Welcome to another day wasted at the Greybar Hotel.

We're stuck in here and we're going to hell.

Things can't get any worse.

I think it's time we did something about it.

This is the Kaiser Chiefs.

# I predict a riot

# I predict a riot

# I predict a riot

# I predict a riot... #

MEEKIE BLOWS WHISTLE

What on earth is going on here?

MUSIC PLAYS THROUGH RADIO

-What was that about, Fletcher?

-What was what about, Mr Meekie?

I Predict A Riot.

I predict a week in solitary if there's any more of that, son.

And you played three Cure songs and a James Blunt B side?

If that carries on, I'll be opening up a suicide hotline.

Can't be chirpy all the time, Mr Meekie.

It was a reflection of how I feel and you know why.

You think you're hard-done by, do you? But just remember

I can make your life a lot harder.

I thought that was your life's purpose, Mr Meekie?

That radio show is a privilege, laddy, and you are abusing it.

Your job is to play records.

Speaking of which, I have another request.

There is a song by a band called Queen...

..I Want To Break Free.

Oh! Can't unsee that!

It's coming along nicely, Joe. Still a bit pink but no infection.

He's heard that a few times over the years.

None of your lip, if you don't mind. What brings you here?

I've come to remove the last vestiges

of an unfortunate relationship.

Davina, the bird who ruined my life.

She didn't ruin your life, you did.

If you can't do the time, don't do the crime.

-IMITATES HIM:

-If you can't do the time, don't do the crime.

-No pleasing some people, is there?

-You two still rucking?

Just gets to you, this place. How do you cope?

Stir's part and parcel for an incorrigible like myself.

Having a trade helps.

-What's the best tattoo you ever done?

-A fox hunt.

Some mad bugger in County Offaly.

Horses and hounds covered his entire back,

and you could just see the tip of the fox's brush sticking out

the crack of his arse.

That was my Sistine Chapel.

Well, hopefully, this won't take as long as that.

A shortcut would be to keep some of the letters

-and replace the others with something else.

-Like what?

I could stick a P there at the start

and, at the end, make it into a G.

"Paving"? What sort of person has "paving" written on their arm?

It looked great on my Uncle Seamus.

-Don't know about this.

-Sooner or later, you'll meet another girl

and she'll want it to have it off.

Let's hope so.

The tattoo, I mean.

-What's that?

-Numbing lotion.

Give us half a pint and a packet of pork scratchings.

Fond farewells and au revoirs to two of our residents

who are leaving us today -

Hussein al-Rasheed and our young rapper friend, Bubonic Rap Death,

or, as his mum knows him, Timothy Ridley-Coombes.

Siberian winds coming in from the east, lads,

so you'll probably freeze to death anyway.

I've got a request in here from Mr Meekie's father-in-law.

I'm sorry I couldn't find the track he asked for,

My Son-in-law's A Joyless Spanner.

So here is Radiohead with Creep.

Sit down, Joe.

-You sure?

-Of course.

How you doing, old timer?

-Doing well enough.

-Tell Joe what you told me, Scudds.

Two geezers getting shipped out today,

one of them had a single cell and it ain't been filled.

What's that got to do with me?

Well, the kanga on that tier and me have an understanding.

I intimidate him and he gives me bars of fruit and nut.

I'll have a little whisper in his earhole

and he'll move one of yous two in.

Cell of your own, eh, Joe? Dream come true.

-So you want to get ride of me, do you?

-I thought you'd be up for it.

You've been complaining about my habits.

-I thought it was me who had habits.

-I'd rather you moved out

-than I get an adjustable chin strap.

-Whatever.

Why are you giving me a hard time about this?

I'm trying to do you a favour. A cell of your own's a luxury

in the bin, especially at your age.

When you're my age, what a fella likes most is company.

Mind you, I've had better company talking to a wall.

Well, if I'm that boring, maybe you are better off on your own.

-Maybe I am. So, I'll go and shift my stuff, shall I?

-Whatever.

-Can you believe that?

-Does that mean yous two have split up?

Fletcher! Governor, now!

We're not...

You owe Mr Meekie an apology, Fletcher.

Yes, Ma'am. Sorry, Mr Meekie. And apologies to your father-in-law.

I don't understand what's happened to your show.

You persuaded me to let you have it.

You argued that music has a therapeutic

-effect on the incarcerated male.

-So it does, Ma'am.

Yes, if it's positive and uplifting

and until a few days ago it was.

I enjoyed your show and I'm sure Mr Meekie did, too, didn't you?

I... It...had some merit, Ma'am, if you like that kind of thing.

But your recent choices of music, I mean,

Paint it Black, Back to Black, Black is Black.

Highway to Hell.

He's using music to stir up dissent and disobedience, Ma'am.

I have to agree with you, Mr Meekie. I'm sorry, Fletcher,

but I'm seriously considering taking you off the air.

Perhaps you're right, Ma'am. Maybe I'm not in the right frame of mind.

Perhaps Mr Meekie could take over, maybe he'd do a better job

of lifting the prisoners' spirits.

There's no maybe about it, laddy.

The majesty of Kenneth McKeller,

the lifting tones of Moira Anderson,

My Love Is Like A Red Red Rose,

guaranteed to raise the spirits of any man, woman or child.

Oh, yeah. How does that go?

# Oh, my love is like a red red rose

# That's newly sprung in June

# Oh, my... #

Stop it, Mr Meekie.

On second thoughts, Fletcher,

maybe I'll give you one last chance.

Thank you, Ma'am.

-Caught you!

-Caught me what?

Thieving, red-handed, right in the middle of the day.

I reckon it's a sickness with you, Ullett.

You're a bona fide kleptomaniac.

-I'm not thieving, I'm moving in.

-What?

I've been reassigned.

By who?

Mr Meekie. So, do you want the top or bottom bunk?

Don't move. Do not unpack a sock until I sort this out.

You get off that bunk!

Don't, Fletch!

-It's mine!

-Get off there!

Scuddsy, Ullett's in my cell!

What's he nicked? I'll get it back off him.

No, no, no. Meekie's put him in there. Look, you've got to talk

to your pet screw. I need to get Joe back in with me. Where is Joe?

His new cell ain't ready yet, so he's gone for a walk round the yard.

In this weather? He'll freeze his nuts off.

Joe, what are you doing out here in the cold, you old loon?

Come on, let's get you back inside. We've got a lot to talk about.

Joe?

Joe?!

Get the MO! It's an emergency!

Lotterby has been taken to hospital.

The MO reckons it's hypothermia.

But is going to be all right?

I won't sugar-coat it, Fletcher.

When they put him in the ambulance, he didn't have a pulse.

You not doing the radio show today, Fletch?

Don't feel like it just yet.

-It's all my fault.

-No, it's not. He was pretty old.

Did he ever talk about it? How he wanted to go, like?

-Burial or cremation?

-Cremation, that would be my choice.

You would say that, Loomis, you're an arsonist.

In India, they have a funeral pyre and the body floats down the Ganges.

I quite fancy a Viking funeral.

What's that?

They put your body in a boat full of kindling wood,

push it out to sea,

then set fire to it with flaming arrows.

Not being funny, Shel, but you don't look much like a Viking to me.

And the closest you've been to the sea is Bermondsey.

We take our holidays in Ilfracombe.

Scudds, what did the hospital say?

Spoke to the nurse...

She said...he's no longer with us.

What, you mean...?

She said he's gone, Fletch.

Hello, everyone.

This is not a good day. I'm not going to pretend.

I'm sorry to have to tell you that Joe Lotterby is no longer with us.

My greatest regret is that my last words to him were in anger.

I'll think about that for a very long time, Joe,

and I'm really, really sorry.

It's not easy doing time, we all know that.

We live like sardines

and most of us are strangers to each other.

Joe had been banged up longer than any of us,

but he never complained.

I'll miss you, mate.

Porridge will be a lot harder without you.

Bloody hell, the daft bugger thinks I'm dead!

Well, I can't say it's good to be back.

That was Bill Withers with Ain't No Sunshine.

If anyone else has got a song for Joe, just let me know.

-Johnny Cash, Ring Of fire.

-Oh, you...!

How's it going, Fletch?

How's it going? We thought you'd snuffed it!

Scuddsy rang the hospital, they'd said you'd gone!

Yeah, so I had. They needed the bed.

Yeah, but they said that...you...were no longer with us.

Scuddsy, if you're listening, you're an absolute dingbat.

-I've just eulogised you to the whole nick!

-I know, I heard most of it.

It were like being at my own wake.

Lovely sentiments, Fletch.

Now put something cheerier on,

I'm dying for a cup of tea.

INMATES CHEER

All right, that will do, carry on!

-Cup of tea, Joe, just the way you like it.

-Oh, thanks, Fletch.

Do you need a kip, Joe?

You must be feeling a bit off after what you went through.

Stop fussing. I'm feeling fine.

Do you remember what it was like, you know, when you were...dead?

-Yeah, I do.

-What happened? When you went over to the other side?

-What was it like?

-It were like the Yorkshire Dales on a summer's day.

What, raining with loads of caravans?

No, you clown.

Rolling hills and gentle streams,

and a maiden in a meadow -

young and pretty.

And the breeze ruffled her frock, exposing freckled thighs.

Freckled thighs, my word!

As I got closer, I recognised her.

It were Eileen.

What, the tat you forgot about on your bum?

Yeah! That's the one.

She were always just out of reach.

But she seemed to be saying,

"I'll still be here when you get back."

Then I woke up and a nurse were giving me an enema.

Well, it's nice to have you back on this side

and I'm sorry I was tetchy.

-I'll try to be better next time.

-Thanks, Fletch.

CRUNCHING

Oh!