In case you were primed for some celeb-gets-cushy-treatment outrage, sorry: no one is hand-feeding peeled grapes to George Michael or fluffing his feather pillow. Of course that's a euphemism! Everything is a euphemism these days.
Sounds rough. He says he's been passing his time "reading thousands of letters and postcards," which makes you wonder if vans are backing up to the prison every day, disgorging bulging sacks of mail for one particular prisoner. The mail couldn't possibly be checked. That would seem to be special treatment. For all we know his confederates have been mailing him a secret escape vehicle one part at a time, and in three weeks, six days he will smash through the walls and fly off in to the distance, cackling with mad laughter, as the warden says "oh for heaven's sake, he was going to get out tomorrow anyway."
That's the only way I can make the story any more interesting. You're welcome to have a go at it.
