it's grim up t'east midlands

Coffee with Throg.
Around us the cafe effervesces with life.
My phone rings.
I answer.
The call is expected.
I converse briefly and insincerely with someone who seems on the verge of offering me a job.
The conversation ends.
"What was that about?" wonders Throg.
"Job interview!"
"For what?"
"For a position of office administrator with a charity calling themselves the Saint Stephens Green Trust."
"What do they do?"
"Advocacy for prisoners."
"But Heelers you don't believe in prisoners rights."
"I most assuredly do believe in prisoners rights. I believe prisoners have the right not to be afraid of other prisoners. I believe prisoners have a right to repent of their crimes. I believe prisoners have a right to confess. I believe prisoners have a right to hang their heads in shame. I believe we should smash the power of the IRA and gangland in prisons so that no prisoner's right to live without fear and intimidation can be tainted by the mafia. I believe no Rah man should be able to humiliate, terrorise or recruit in prison. I believe prisoners have the right to live in drug free prisons. I believe prisoners have a right to a chance to reform themselves in harsh but fair prisons without being terrorised by IRA Sinn Fein psychos in G Block."
"Heelers those are unlikely to be the sort of prisoners rights that the charity is advocating."
"What do you know about them?"
"Well who interviewed you?"
"Somebody called X X."
"She's Sinn Fein."
"Is she really? No way. I thought she might be actually. There were three sixes in the phone number. That's always a clue. Is she a sister of the pole dancer that's standing as a candidate in the elections? That pole dancer is a honey. Hard little face. But there' something about her."
"James your conspiracy theories about the number of the beast notwithstanding, I don't know if she's related to the other woman. But I know she's Sinn Fein. You should have nothing to do with them."
"Are you seriously suggesting that the Stephens Green Trust will turn out to be a front for Sinn Fein?"
"I've no doubt that's what it'll turn out to be."
"Wow. Imagine me administering that office."
"Just tell them you're not interested."
"Maybe I am interested."
"You wouldn't last a week."
"I might. I've grown a lot. I'm more mellow. I can accomodate different points of view. My northie accent is improving. Listen to this. There'll be no more killing."
"Uff. Just say no."
"There'll be no more killing. There you go. That's more like it. They haven't offered me the job yet."
"Where did you see their ad?"
"On Trapman's website. Bloody Trapman! Hey. Maybe he's sticking it to me again. Trying to get me working for  the Rah."
There is an awkward silence. Throg has wearied of my levity. He leaves.
Presently I start to laugh, a rueful tinkly one.
I am thinking that the IRA now have a copy of that tissue of lies I pass around as a curriculum vitae.
I suppose they'll probably be as impressed by it as everyone else has been.