Lapping it up: Allen Stanford was shown on television flirting with the England team's partners. Emily Prior, wife of wicketkeeper Matt, sat on his knee.
England play West Indies at Lord's tomorrow, in the first of two Twenty20s that make up the Allen Stanford Memorial Series, or the Contractual Obligation Series, or whatever. But while the two teams who once luxuriated in his largesse have a hit and giggle, the man himself will be a long way from London. So what will he be doing?
September 23, 2011.
Woke up in my cell at the Larry Hagman-Karl Rove Detention Center, Houston feeling blue as hell. A Stanford Cricketball Twenty20 double-header rubber starting in The Oval Bowl, London, England and me here in the pokey for a crime I didn’t commit? Not that I can remember if I did it or not: like my lawyer says, I got the amnesia real bad. And seeing as I’m paying Finkleberg or whatever the hell his damn name is a hundred thousand dollars an hour, I told myself: “Take his advice.” To tell the truth, I can’t remember if I told myself that or not. I gots me a serious illness here.
The thought of those cricketeering varmits playing a match-up without my say-so hurts bad enough; but not as bad as Emily Prior refusing my repeated requests for a conjugal visit. I goddamm loved that girl: I said to her “If that no-good catcher husband of yours drops you like he keeps on dropping all them cricketeer balls, you give me a call honey.” She says: “Please leave me alone and don’t make me sit on your knee again.” I love that cute British sense of humour.
To stop me from feeling too lonesome about not being at the cricketball, I organised me a Twenty20 in the prison yard at exercise time. I got me two teams of legends – on the one team, the Stanford Aryan Warriors, on the other side, the Stanford Ghetto Boyz – and I says to them: “Gentlemen, let’s have a good clean game of cricketeering and the winning team will get 20 cigarettes per player. Play ball!”
After the riot had calmed down, and I was recovering in the prison hospital wing, I had a whole bunch of time to think. You get that in the jail: aside from converting to the Nation of Islam and changing my name to Tariq Al Stanford, I’ve had a lot of time to read my mail.
A package just arrived from my old business associate Giles Clarke: it had a cake with a file in it and a note saying: “Get yourself out of there, Shawshank style, and come see me to talk about new mutually rewarding opportunities.”
I know things are bad in Texas jails right now, but if it’s a choice between having any more meetings with that goddamm asshat Clarke and staying in the joint, I’ll take my chances with ole Governor ‘Itchy Fingers’ Perry any day of the week.
Yours in cricketball, and in jail,
Sir Tariq Al Stanford III Junior
Political prisoner and lover of cricketeering
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