Avant garde, no?

Dear Diary,
I have been placed on a prison ship. A BRITISH PRISON SHIP! My own people have locked me up in this rat-infested hellhole. I told a guard this but he just laughed and said that's what all the rebellious zealots said. The stench is putrid. It reeks of a mixture of smoke, human excrement and sweat. The provisions provided are repugnant and the concoction which we are told is water…let's just say that it's possible that the malodor is coming from it. Every night the guards bring down chamber pots for us to defecate into. I wonder where they empty them?  Last night the guards killed one of the prisoners for answering back. I was talking to one of the other prisoners when we heard a gunshot follow by a caterwaul. Then there was another gunshot and a thud. However the day was not all deleterious. A supply of meat came in from the mainland. The guards seemed to think this was quite funny. They laughed like drunken hyenas when I asked if it was sheep because I found an eyeball in my stew. It was the most delectable meal I've masticated since I was put on this floating den of iniquity. The heat is intolerable. In the summer it is worse for not only is the heat coming from the sun it is also being emitted from my fellow prisoners.
I must go. Dinner is being served.
Goodbye Diary,
Mr. Pootle.