“This is the day the Lord hath made” — Mum used to say, this being Sunday — “let us rejoice and be glad in it.” Alas, ‘tis a blessing that Mum never suffered all I've seen, for there is no rejoicing on Sundays in the lockup, where the weeks end wreckage — the drunkards and delinquents, the urinators and fornicators — are piled atop one another like so much flotsam and jetsam at Brighton Pier. ‘Tis a wonder these jailed sods know their own names, having awok from a night of polluted misdeeds and back alley revelry to discover they’ve lost their wallets, along with their bloody decency. Sunday is also the day that the suit-and-tied defilers — spillers of the community — drag their deceitful arses en masse to mass, quivering in the church pews alongside their shamed spouses, begging forgiveness for their unholy ways — the chat room wankery and anonymous sexting of their genitalia. Crikey, Mum, if this is the day the Lord hath made, be thankful He or She made six others, for the sinfulness that I once witnessed as a uniformed foot soldier has only escalated in my online patrolling capacity. Perhaps Monday will hold greater promise.
