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Lord Archer — 'I'm the fuc*kin' daddy now'

Disgraced Tory peer Jeffrey Archer is making quite a name for himself at Lincolnshire's North Sea open prison, we can reveal. The distinguished novelist — currently doing a "four stretch" for perjury and perverting the course of justice — has cast off the affectations of fame and wealth, and established a reign of brutal terror as the prison's new "daddy".

Taking no shit
Archer's entire life until his conviction was a heady white-knuckle ride of lies, deceit, bluffs and blunders. Highlights included a spell as Tory MP, Chairman of the Conservative Party, millionaire novelist, and contender for the position of Lord Mayor of London. Now that he has broken the eleventh commandment (Thou Shalt Not Get Caught), and is paying the price, Archer has undergone a strange metamorphosis.

For where once there was the snivelling, know-it-all air of a right ponce, there is now the granite-hard exterior of a seasoned old lag. Where previously he would have thought carefully before answering a question, and still failed to come up with a sensible comment, his reply is now more likely to be a string of head-butts or the slash of an open razor. And gone are the sharply-tailored Savile Row suits and the practiced expression of one who's trying just a little too hard to appear erudite. In their place are drab denims and the arrogant snarl of one who's taking no shit from anyone.

Indeed, now that Archer has well and truly found his feet within the UK prison system, he's taken complete charge of his temporary home. In a recent bare-knuckle fight he deposed former "daddy" Tony "The Axeman" Carlson, and now controls the entire prison through violence and fear, enforced by his "posse" of other tooled-up perjurers. The prison's drugs trade falls entirely under his evil dominion and, according to an insider, he's responsible for organising at least one "hit" on the outside while banged up. Such is the power that he wields, unless he personally sanctions a hit, or in fact anything of importance, it simply doesn't happen.

Lying, thieving git
So deep runs the fear of Archer's terrible retribution on "grasses" and other "slags", that we could barely convince other lags to offer a couple of words on the subject. However, for a couple of ounces of snout and two tubes of Colgate, one man was prepared to take the risk: "He's reverted to his true nature," our thoroughly untrustworthy source reports. "I mean, we always knew he was a lying, thieving git, but no-one realised that underneath it he was actually a brute who revelled in mindless violence. On me life, guv, he gets off on it, he really does — there's nuffink His Lordship likes better than a good ruck and the excuse to cut some geezer".

Dangerous liaisons
It seems also that Archer's love of illicit sex is as undiminished as his appetite for savage violence. Never short of company since turning into his own personal version of Mr Hyde, he always has one or two "bitches", as he calls his young men, to cater for his every warped desire. Bizarrely though, the peer's Doctor Jekyll occasionally resurfaces, notably when he insists on paying his conquests for their sexual services. Habit of a lifetime, we suppose. "Jolly good," he's been heard to comment to some poor unfortunate young lad after a particularly raucous and no doubt painful encounter, weirdly slipping back into his aristocratic lingo. "Yes, jolly good, really well done, my boy." Then, suddenly reverting to his new-found prison patois, he gruffly orders: "Now get aht of here, ya puny scrote, go on, clear off, get your scrawny bitch-ass aht of it!".

Thuggery and buggery
But there's more to the fallen Lord than mere thuggery and buggery. He's well known for his Ali G impersonations, which he's convinced are spectacularly "bang on", and has the prisoners in stitches, mostly round the eyes. During these comedic interludes the noble Lord refers to his wife, the saintly Lady Mary Archer, patiently waiting on the outside, as "me Julie" and won't hear a word said against her — her support during his times of trouble has indeed been unwavering.

The very fragrant Lady Archer appeared distraught at her husband's rather sudden descent into small-time gang boss mode. "He was always crooked, that goes without saying," the Blessed Mary confided, sniffing back a tear, "but I never really thought that underneath his sublimely dull exterior he was the aristocracy's answer to Ronnie Kray."

"How on Earth am I going to deal with this when he gets out," she mused, gazing absently into the middle distance in that maddeningly ultra-cool, supercilious way that she has. "I suppose I'll have to dress like a common whore and pleasure him the way only a whore can. Mmm — I think I could go along with that."

Four years? You're 'avin a laugh!
Keen to get to the root of this strange turn of events, we went in search of someone who had been there when the errant Lord had been sent down, and was soon speaking to a court official. "Actually, I have to say, I suspected something of the sort," the official told the Rockall Times. "When the judge handed down his sentence, Lord Archer whispered something that I thought at the time was somewhat out of character." When asked to elaborate, the official said that as far as he could remember, Archer had smirked and muttered: "Four years? Leave it aht sonny, I could do that standin' on me 'ead, just watch me".

"That should have given me pause," the usher said, "but he's a Lord isn't he, and well, you just don't think, do you?" Apparently not.

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