The Ballad of Reading Gaol
(Words by Oscar Wilde, Pictures by George)

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame ...

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Exclusive Brethren Hall, Redlands Road, Reading, UK

They really like to attract visitors with warm bricks, foliage-topped walls and at least two lines of steel defence. Is it to keep us out or...? This too I know - and wise it were
If each could know the same -
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim. 		The now instantly recognisable iron barred gate can only mean another Exclusive brethren Meeting Room. With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!
They look like windows up there, but that must just be architectural candy. And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred. 		Ah yes, The Board. How to word a sign proclaiming a public place of worship in such a way as to put any member of the public off from attempting to visit. Surely the Charity Commissioners have not really investigated these guys? Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.
Yeah, who's Bob? He sounds like a possible friend. Wonder if he takes commissions? Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
[P.N - we presume Bob was probably brave.] 		The Board in closer detail. If you decide to call the numbers, do tell us what they said! The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called,
And left a little tract.

Proposed new site Hollow Lane, Shinfield, UK

Apparantly the EB considered meeting in the garage initially. It is larger than the old police station alongside after all - and seems to have only a couple of windows to block. In the event of Rapture, all they had to do was press the remote and open the door. At last I saw the shadowed bars,
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red. 		And to think we were always told blue is a heavenly color! The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at,
By the quicklime on their boots.
Complete with modern amenities - hope the sewer isn't shared. Always wondered whether the sin is in having a shared sewer as opposed to actually using it. I mean if we never flush, is it still a sin? Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine. 		A few weeds onsite. Frankly they are more attarctive than the planned surroundings - and at least they're alive, natural and bear no ill-will toward the world. The grey cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shapes of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.
Our favorite photo - just manages to capture the essence of weeds, bars, rotting wood and - it's almost as though the land knows who might be coming. Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit may not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may but weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

Any necessary apologies go posthumously to Oscar Wilde. Should you wish to read Wilde's full 1898 poem 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol', it can be found here. Interestingly, this plea for social reform was his last recorded artistic work. Wonder what he would have made of today's EB?