July 14th
My cell mate is a "bloke" called Doherty. The man says he is a Londoner. I use the word man loosely: he is a vile Regular who thinks that flatulence in a confined space is amusing and who talks like a street urchin. We're "banged up", as the prole might put it, in the brig on the Nagaski. It's not so much the confinment as the lack of a sharp eating implement with which to stab the twit that drives me up the wall.
There is talk of a trial for war crimes. Charges of unsporting conduct against civilians. Heaven knows why or who the buffoons are talking about: my neighbours or those transport drivers who keep trying to smuggle through Bretonia?
I tried to teach Doherty some Kusari so he could communicate with the guards using means other than repeating everything he says loudly and clearly. It's enough to make one melancholic. The man is as educable as a yoghurt.
I should be smashing up the KNF's finest and their agrarian numbskull companions this weekend and instead I'm reduced to eating raw fish and listening to my cell-mate burp his favourite tunes.
My moustache is growing back, thankfully. "Innit bleeding marvellous?", as Doherty might put it.
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