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The prisoner

Peter Wayne is back inside after a one-month orgy of drunken criminality. It feels like being home from the hols

By Peter Wayne   June 1998

I’m back. the police caught up with me in the end. I suppose, deep down, I always knew they would. It was on All Fools’ Day, significantly enough, when the trap was finally sprung. I was at the wheel of an allegedly stolen Fiat, having just returned to London from a 4,000 mile motor tour of the British Isles. I was entering the City of London through the Square Mile’s “Ring of Steel.” Society-at-large will be comforted to know that this costly anti-terrorist defence system is indeed impenetrable. It certainly plucked me off the moor like a luckless pheasant. So…

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