A Good Man Inside : Diary of a White Collar Prisoner [1 ed.] 9781908162724, 9781909976030

Citation preview

Will Phillips

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Captures the essence of the sudden incarceration of a previously respectable white collar offender whose reputation and comfortable life have been turned upside down. Not only from self-interest, does he try to explain the futility of locking up people like himself making the book of interest to prison reformers as well as general readers.

Leaving HMP X

‘A fascinating insight into prison life’

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Will Phillips

Will Phillips is a singer-songwriter and performer whose on-stage experiences include as lead singer in bands and working in musicals. Having also worked as a chef and catering events consultant and organizer, in 2010 he was shocked to find himself in prison.

A Good Man Inside

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

The diary of one man’s experiences of his time in prison written over 300 days as he reels from and makes sense of being under lock and key. A white collar criminal he sees himself as someone who should not really be in prison — as ‘a good man’ for whom his incarceration is doubly punitive, not practically necessary or achieving much other than the degradation and powerlessness of being in prison. But as time passes he accepts his fate and settles down to the regime, helping others and using the experience to best advantage.

A GOOD MAN INSIDE

A Good Man Inside

Illustrated by the author. www.WatersidePress.co.uk

Will Phillips

WATERSIDE PRESS

Putting justice into words

WATERSIDE PRESS

A Good Man Inside Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Will Phillips

Illustrated by the author

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ISBN 978-1-909976-03-0 (Paperback) ISBN 978-1-908162-71-7 (Epub ebook) ISBN 978-1-908162-72-4 (Adobe ebook) Copyright © 2014 This work including the illustrations is the copyright of Will Phillips. All intellectual property and associated rights are hereby asserted and reserved by him in full compliance with UK, European and international law. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, including in hard copy or via the internet, without the prior written permission of the publishers to whom all such rights have been assigned worldwide. Cover design © 2014 Waterside Press. Cover photograph of the author by Stephen Murphy. Design by www.gibgob.com Main UK distributor Gardners Books, 1 Whittle Drive, Eastbourne, East Sussex, BN23 6QH. Tel: +44 (0)1323 521777; [email protected]; www.gardners.com North American distribution Ingram Book Company, One Ingram Blvd, La Vergne, TN 37086, USA. Tel: (+1) 615 793 5000; [email protected] Cataloguing-In-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book can be obtained from the British Library. Printed by Lightning Source. e-book A Good Man Inside is available as an ebook and also to subscribers of Myilibrary, Dawsonera, ebrary, and Ebscohost. Published 2014 by Waterside Press Sherfield Gables Sherfield on Loddon Hook, Hampshire United Kingdom RG27 0JG Telephone +44(0)1256 882250 E-mail [email protected] Online catalogue WatersidePress.co.uk

Will Phillips

Contents Copyright and Publication Details  ii About the Author  vi Dedication  vii Acknowledgements  viii Introduction  ix Illustrations  xi Day 1: A Broken Man.......................................................................... 15 Day 2: My Angel.................................................................................. 18 Day 3: God, Where Are You?............................................................... 19 Day 4: Invisible Man........................................................................... 20 Day 5: The Welcome Return of Caffeine............................................. 23 Day 6: Infamy...................................................................................... 25 Day 8: Gym.......................................................................................... 26 Day 9: Groundhog Day....................................................................... 28 Day 10: Bollocks and Boils................................................................. 29 Day 11: Business Studies..................................................................... 30 Day 12: Canteen and Cornflakes......................................................... 31 Day 14: Benefits of Community Service............................................. 32 Day 15: Papillon.................................................................................. 33 Day 16: The Truth................................................................................ 35 Day 17: A Columbian Cold................................................................. 37 Day 18: The Great Apes....................................................................... 38 Day 19: The Naked Butler................................................................... 39 Day 20: The Return of the Great Seabass............................................ 40 Day 21: Sea Bass’ Lucky Day............................................................... 41 Day 22: Mummy’s Boy......................................................................... 42 Day 23: Careless Whisper.................................................................... 43

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Day 24: The Sabbath — Another Day of Resting................................ 44 Day 25: Alan Wells............................................................................... 45 Day 26: James Bond and Decency....................................................... 46 Day 27: Did Man Invent Peanuts?....................................................... 47 Day 28: Smashing!............................................................................... 48 Day 29: Appealing............................................................................... 51 Day 30: Better Incarcerated than Stoned!........................................... 52 Day 31: Yet Another Case of Injustice................................................. 53 Day 32: Hoping for the Best!............................................................... 54 Day 33: You Take My Breath Away...................................................... 55 Day 34: Knives and Prison Don’t Make Good Bedfellows!................ 56 Day 35: The Bee Gees.......................................................................... 57 Day 36: The Worst Place on Earth?..................................................... 58 Day 37: Suicide is Painless!.................................................................. 59 Day 38: Meaningful Employment....................................................... 60 Day 39: Lord of the Rings and the Keeper of the Argos Catalogue... 61 Day 40: Ex-wives and Druggies........................................................... 63 Day 41: The Sun................................................................................... 64 Day 42: Nothing to Say....................................................................... 65 Day 43: Oh Dear, Seabass!................................................................... 66 Day 44: No Room for the Truth!......................................................... 67 Day 45: Extra Time.............................................................................. 68 Day 50: Fifty Not Out.......................................................................... 69 Day 51: My Very Own Knockback...................................................... 71 Day 54: Goodbye to Seabass................................................................ 72 Day 57: Useless Lawyers...................................................................... 73 Day 58: Chuwawa................................................................................ 75 Day 60: Groundhog Day… Again....................................................... 76 Day 70: Heady Days!........................................................................... 77 Day 76: Heaven and Hell..................................................................... 78

Will Phillips

Day 77: Cuts and More Cuts............................................................... 79 Day 78: ‘You Can’t be Serious!’............................................................ 80 Day 80: Stone Cold and Sober, and the Arrival of Kitty’s Quilt......... 81 Day 85: Nuts for Lights....................................................................... 82 Day 90: Daves...................................................................................... 83 Day 97: The Right Trousers................................................................. 85 Day 99: Prisons be Damned................................................................ 86 Day 100: Hitting a Century!................................................................ 87 Day 136: Christmas Day..................................................................... 88 Day 140: Released................................................................................ 89 Day 141: George and Georgina........................................................... 94 Day 177: Schindler’s List..................................................................... 95 Day 180: Anyone for Scrabble?............................................................ 96 Day 199: Home For the Elderly.......................................................... 97 Day 200: Prison Life Goes On............................................................. 98 Day 219: Love Doesn’t Hurt, Expectations Do................................. 100 Day 233: The Wrong Trousers........................................................... 101 Day 234: Fabulous Baker Bros.......................................................... 102 Day 242: Wasted Time....................................................................... 103 Day 255: Live in Concert................................................................... 104 Day 256: My Song............................................................................. 105 Day 260: Learn the Rules.................................................................. 106 Day 280: Time Spent Crawling......................................................... 107 300 Days: Giorno Trecento................................................................ 108 Epilogue.............................................................................................. 111

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About the Author Will Phillips is a singer-songwriter and performer whose on-stage experiences include as lead singer in bands and appearing in musicals such as Camelot and Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Having worked as a chef and catering events consultant and organizer, in 2010 he found himself in prison for white collar crimes. The author of several short stories, including Ouija Board and Curse, he spends his free time at home playing his guitar in the company of his Siamese cat and best friend Dexter. For further information see dark-knight.org.uk

This book is dedicated to my dearest daughter Jodie and granddaughter Neve.

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Acknowledgements I wish to thank my good friend Elaine for her love and help in the writing of this book, and my long suffering girlfriend Karen for doing all she could to stand by her man. I would also like to give my gratitude to Bryan Gibson and Waterside Press for making this publishing endeavour possible.

Will Phillips

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Introduction I always believed myself to be a good man. So how is it that I found myself behind bars in one of England’s most grim Victorian prisons? After a childhood filled with unhappiness, my adulthood had been blessed with contentment until another sadness struck to the heart of me. A deep and dark depression. What brought it on? A change of fortunes, a run of bad luck? A mid-life crisis, or a nervous breakdown? A combination of all the above maybe. But I think I now know what it was that began the rot. It was an overwhelming sense of so much loss. My daughter had flown the nest, my businesses had failed and been taken away, the family home had been re-possessed, and I was on the verge of divorce from my wife of 25 years. I was bankrupt in every way! Whatever the reasons that influenced me, my actions and wrongdoings had led me to this dreadful place. The banging of the prison cell doors, the jangling of the jailer’s keys and the howling of the inmates would help me loose another piece of my already lost mind. But I told myself to hold on. Probation had told me to only expect a suspended sentence. Therefore, I would win my appeal and my four year prison sentence would be judged to be excessive. I would be free in no time at all. Everything would be alright. Thank God I didn’t know then what I do know now! This is a story about people, both good and bad, and those of us that walk the line in-between. The Warrior of Light unwittingly takes a false step and plunges into the abyss.

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Ghosts frighten him and solitude torments him. His aim had been to fight the good fight; and he never imagined that this would happen to him, but it did.

Shrouded in darkness, he contacts his master. ‘Master, I have fallen into the abyss,’ he says. ‘The waters are deep and dark.’

‘Remember one thing,’ replies his master. ‘You do not drown simply by plunging into the water. You only drown if you stay beneath the surface.’

Will Phillips

List of Illustrations PHILLIPS you’re such a bad man … there isn’t a sentence long enough for the likes of you!  14 Typical A and C-wing inmates.  36 What Lessons have I been taught?: ‘If you can’t stand up, you better learn how to fall’.  50 Teaboat HMP X.  54 Showertime with Chad — the prison mastermind.  62 Almost every prisoner has a story that they’ve been bursting to tell.  70 Suspicious minds. I am accused of hoarding by the local nut baron who thinks I might be treading on his patch.  82 Frustration: Forklift Dave waiting for an answer.  84 Leaving HMP X.  112

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Days 1–300

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PHILLIPS you’re such a bad man … there isn’t a sentence long enough for the likes of you!

Days 1–300

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Day 1: A Broken Man I had been ordered to appear in court at 1.30 pm for sentencing. However, an earlier trial had overrun it’s allotted time, meaning that I was taken away in handcuffs and kept in the cell below court until the previous hearing was concluded. Little did I know just how much this ordeal would pale into insignificance when compared to the suffering that awaited me in the months to come. Fate had ordained that the trial in question, and the reason for my early incarceration, related to a man whose company I would have to tolerate 24-hours a day, seven days a week for the next two months. In the beginning I would help him survive the shock of imprisonment we both suffered but ultimately he would become my nemesis. This would not be my first taste of incarceration but it was my first taste of imprisonment. Following the death of my father my childhood was interrupted by a deep and dark depression treated with sabbaticals to asylums in Devon and Cornwall, in tandem with a small, or large, dosage of electric shock treatment. I cannot remember how much. In fact, I can’t remember anything at all because of the electrocompulsive therapy (ECT). Although I can testify that ECT does not work, as it was my second major depressive disorder, combined with prescription drugs and excessive alcohol that resulted in my changed behaviour and helped explain my illicit actions. My estranged wife sent a friend to report on the day’s events. But other than that in the courtroom I had no benefactors. I was friendless and defenceless. The probation officer conducted an interview with me before sentencing and the pre-sentence report, which contained a potted history of my life — the highs, which

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were not inconsiderable, and the lows — concluded that I deserved a suspended sentence. Judge Willington however, was reading a different misleading script. He described me as ‘A man who lived beyond his means and lied to his family to maintain their lifestyle.’ In his closing address to the court, he remarked that he was sending me to prison ‘a ruined and broken man.’ That is what he wanted for me. That and a harsh four year exemplary sentence to make sure. However, he was wrong, he did not know me. I had other plans, which included a future. He took away my money and belongings, but was powerless where it really mattered. I retained the few people who loved me and their motivation to carry on helped me use my talents to pursue my hopes and dreams. 2

I intend to write this journal, day-by-day, so the events will be fresh in my memory. Today I went to Crown Court, to be sentenced with high hopes of returning home tonight. The judge’s closing remarks included the words ‘ten years plus sentence’ if he tried to sentence each crime individually. But, as if doing me a big favour, he would settle on four years. I went into court hoping for a suspended sentence and left feeling relieved I only got four years. The judge dismissed the pre-sentence report, suggesting a suspended sentence, and any mitigating circumstances, such as my four year depression and addiction to prescription drugs. Any previous good character and having no previous convictions were not mentioned. My solicitor said little and probably busied himself with thoughts of his next Mercedes Benz.

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The journey from court to HM Prison X took forever, literally. Prisoners are cooped up in seated cubicles (sweatboxes) inside a van with the provision of a small window. We passed landmarks of two counties I’d become so familiar with — roads and turnoffs Karen and I had recently visited on our way to enjoying nice times. Sadly, I knew this trip wasn’t going to be so much fun. You could say I had devoted my life to Miss Kitty since my breakdown and she had become my reason for living. She hasn’t had the best run of good fortune — that includes meeting me! I hope before the end of this diary I will be able to report some good news and an end to her run of bad luck, mine too. HMP X is an austere Victorian building, straight out of the Hammer House of Horrors. A rambling, blood-red brick edifice covered in barbed wire with a token pot plant to encourage hope. All the men who arrived with me at the prison took the shocking experience in their stride, except one. Charlie ‘I shouldn’t be here!’ Bass cried his way through admission all the way to his cell. As I write this, his alarm bell is ringing continuously, but other than setting him free there’s nothing his jailers can do for him. I’ve quickly learned that you must remain positive and stay focused, otherwise you’ll drown in the negativity of your predicament. The media report that prisons are like Butlins. I don’t think Butlins would still be in business if it conducted its holiday camps like Colditz. The first thing required is the Hotel Inspector to sort out the bedding and the breakfast! Tomorrow I will try to explain the apparition I experienced whilst in bed on my first night, and even more difficult to describe, prison food.

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Day 2: My Angel The cocktail of anti-depressants prescribed during my last nervous breakdown period, and the negative effect they had on my behaviour persuaded me not to employ their dubious benefits when offered them on arrival at the prison. Therefore the spiritual experience of the first night cannot be explained away by medication. As if the sleeping arrangements aren’t bad enough, we have a prison cat, which prowls and howls his way through the night. Combine this with cigarette burnt sheets, holier than the Pope, a mattress thinner than a water biscuit and sleep is the last thing on your mind. I think I was half awake lying on the top bunk, listening to HMP cat when a woman bathed in a golden glow lay beside me. I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of happiness and calmness. Was it the Virgin Mary or just a compassionate angel, or was it indeed Kitty visiting in spirit, to comfort me and repair my broken soul. Whatever it was, hope it happens again… soon! I’ve never believed in things you can’t feel or touch but if it happens again I could be converted. One thing I’d rather not touch again is prison food. I’m beginning to think that it consists mainly of… perhaps I better not say what in writing. It wouldn’t be a great hardship to embark on a hunger strike. I’m starting to miss Farley’s Rusks and other baby food products. I don’t think prison life will begin in earnest until I’m moved upstairs to the prison proper. Tonight there are angry, scary noises resonating from the cells there: shouting, swearing and (without sounding racist) some good chimpanzee impressions. I’d rather be locked up with real monkeys. There would be more conversation.

Days 1–300

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Day 3: God, Where Are You? The day starts at 8.05 am with a continental breakfast of Weetabix, yesterday’s toast and a sausage sadder than the inmates. I’m going to make an attempt at escaping my cell and attending prison chapel later today. The Sunday Service was the best experience I’ve enjoyed since Thursday — the prayer of thanksgiving, not sure what I’m thanking God for — moved me to tears and was followed by Holy Communion, the taking of wine and bread, Jesus’ flesh and blood. Reverend Bill explained that we were all travelling on a journey; hope it’s not a one-way fare! A journey forward, that our past was behind us and that, if we open our hearts to God, the future will be bright. It will be filled with success, a career, a wife and family. Trouble is, I had all that and it didn’t make me happy. But, I’m willing to open my heart to God and anybody nice who wants to pop in. After the service a little old lady spied me as the gentlest of the flock and sat beside me, jotting down some notes to reiterate as a prayer. I asked her to pray for Kitty, Jodie, my mother and my speedy release from this hell hole. She mentioned that HMP X is inhumane and there were plans to close it down, forever!

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Day 4: Invisible Man Yesterday I enjoyed my first shower and encountered my first homophobic experience. Being accused of being gay when you dislike men as much as you do is a bitter pill to swallow. However, I just retorted ‘I’ve had more girlfriends than you’ll serve hot meals in prison, sonny,’ which raised a scowl. Last night should be the last night I live underground. Today I will be moved upstairs to a grown-up cell with fewer facilities. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Prison has the remarkable ability of turning a bad situation into something worse. My experience of prison so far has only highlighted the lack of any real commitment to rehabilitate prisoners. It has been all about punishment, which is served up cold via endless boredom. I’ve only been let out of my cell for one hour each day. Thank God for this pen and paper. It’s obvious that this prison is at breaking point, too many prisoners being demoralised but too few opportunities to do meaningful work or education, watched over by too few prison guards. Considering the state of the nation’s economy and cutbacks things can only get worse unless they begin using prisons for dangerous, ‘proper job’ criminals. I think these difficult times have helped me understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life was in every way. And, that so many things one goes around worrying about are of no importance whatsoever! There are many challenges to overcome in a lifetime and I haven’t always been able to tackle them in the right frame of mind. It might have been useful if I’d been taught cognitive behaviour in primary school. It could have saved me from incarceration in two asylums and now prison. Whenever I’ve had to face adversity, too often

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my answer has been to fall apart. I’ve thought for too long that I should be successful in all things, career, family life, sport and love life. That I should be smart, witty, liked by everyone. Looking back now I think I was rather good at some of the above, but, sadly, never quite good enough for my troubled mind. CBT, cognitive behaviour therapy, should be re-labelled ‘The Tyranny of the Shoulds’. Monday 10.30 am and I’m off to pastures new — upstairs on A-Wing. Awaiting me on the notice board inside the cell, a previous occupier has written PHILLIPS so large it covers the four feet by two surface. An omen? The food we’re given wouldn’t sustain a dormouse. The day’s lunch is sausage roll, beans and a loaf of bread. The only way to stay reasonably healthy is to spend extra money on the canteen (supermarket mail order). You can spend £21.50 per week; you can earn £8 per week. Therefore the top-up funds have to come from outside the prison. Extra turnover for Her Majesty’s Prison Service. Maybe that explains why prisoners aren’t properly fed. My new cell mate, The Invisible Man — still haven’t seen him! — has a few health issues. He’s in hospital with gangrene of the big toe. That may be something to do with the lack of vitamins and sunshine on the inside. If he survives and returns to our cell, things could be interesting with one pillow and one chair between us. My cell has a view of the block of flats which made the news recently, when residents complained about the noise and abuse coming from the prison. Why do you buy a flat next to a prison? Do they expect polite conversation and pleasant views? I think it unlikely, but according to the cell door graffiti, Norman Stanley Fletcher resided here for five years. Although HMP X is similar to the Victorian prison used for ‘Porridge’, I don’t think either of the two Ronnies have set foot in my cell.

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I continue to be fellow inmate Chris’s carer. He follows me around like a bad smell and has persuaded the guards to put him in the cell next door. I don’t mind but I’ve got my hands full looking after myself. The Stanford Study HMP X is an excellent example of the findings made after a study in the USA in the early 1970s, where volunteers were selected and assigned to being either a prisoner or a guard in a mock prison. The guards grew increasingly tyrannical and the prisoners had to be released early because of their extreme reactions — tears, rage and acute anxiety. The study appears to demonstrate that both guards and prisoners conform to their social roles and that the situational factors are more relevant than dispositional ones. England has just beaten Pakistan to win the second test, best news today.

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Day 5: The Welcome Return of Caffeine Still no sign of my cellmate. Judging from the graffiti in my cell, many football supporters/ hooligans have spent a night or two in here. Although I’m not sure how you would end up here supporting St Blazey FC! Literacy is a common problem with the graffiti artists, e.g. Plymuff, although there’s a possibility they weren’t referring to that city. Chris has asked to be locked-up with me, which is rather worrying after he announced he was going to masturbate his way through his sentence. I’ve messed up my VO — visiting order — which means I’ve lost another week, another week before I will see my beloved. I have no phone credit and I’m not allowed to buy stamps. It’s not funny anymore! If you’re planning staying overnight in HMP X, a brief description of the cells will interest you. Two people are squeezed into a room built for one, all the cheap utility furniture leaning like the Tower of Pisa giving little confidence in its ability to stand up, if you dare place anything in there. The walls are covered in general spillage and graffiti, toilet rolls are in short supply and there is no sanitation. Bed linen is blood-stained and the mattresses are thinner than the sheets. The walls have more holes than a termite hill. Just returned from a health check. Before me, the nurse had seen Chris, which had delayed my appointment by an hour. We both agreed that Chris will struggle to survive prison life. Every other inmate I’ve spoken to is a Scouser, reminding me of home. Unlike Karen, who I understand sometimes, but have to strain hard to decipher. I’m sure they would say the same about me. In fact it was difficult to understand anything in the waiting room filled with Liverpudlians and a chap from Kurdistan.

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Just spotted Chris outside his cell door with nail clippers. That boy is going to start a prison riot! I’ve made a new friend: a young chap with a few teeth missing, from Reading, just finishing a three-and-half-year sentence, 28-years-old on release. He knows the ins-and-outs of everything in prison including talking to fellow inmates via the toilet system; empty all the water from the bowl, shove your head in and chat away. It’s good to talk! Even if the overall experience is a little odorous. I don’t think it will replace the telephone, but it’s a prison education. Did you know you can smuggle a mobile phone into prison by wrapping it in cling film and popping up your bottom? Don’t try it with an Apple iPhone! Today is creeping to a close and because exercise was cancelled my time ‘banged up’ will amount to 24 hours today. I’ve come to the conclusion that government statistics for purposeful activities and time-out-of-cell have been, to quote critics of prime minister Tony Blair, ‘sexed up’. However, things are looking up in the kitchen, maybe they’ve employed someone with a recipe? Even so, I still close my eyes and hold my nose when I eat. Today’s rhubarb crumble is piled higher than the Eiffel Tower. I left the canteen with a huge smile of my face, holding my enormous portion! Not many people can say that. My new prison friend, Chad, with fewer teeth than years of prison experience, bagged me some coffee — the first coffee I’ve tasted for four days. The longest I’ve gone without coffee for 30 years.

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Day 6: Infamy Kitty tells me she’s sacked my useless legal aid solicitors back home, who helped get me a four year sentence, and appointed someone in London who will hopefully help us appeal to the Court of Appeal. She’s also making me a quilt and doing her best to aggravate my daughter and soon to be ex-wife. Speaking with her always returns a spring to my step. Apparently I’ve been on television, something I’ve always wanted. I’ve actually featured in a television food programme and news items in a former life, but this will be my biggest media exposure. I’ve made it! It’s finally happened; I’m banged up with Chris. There’s a long list of negatives; endless cell alarm ringing announcing to the whole prison wing his demands for nail-clippers, wet wipes and bottom moisturiser… and one positive, pornography!

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Day 8: Gym ‘The mind is in its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’

Chad the prison mastermind, has introduce me to Dave, the keeper of the Argos catalogue. Dave is built like Charles Atlas, a testament to the prison system fitness facilities. This afternoon I have my gym induction. I could end my sentence looking like Dave does. If so, I’ll need a bigger bed when I get home. During the gym induction, Bob the murderer introduces himself, an intelligent well-spoken chap with good conversational skills. Two weeks on and he’s gazing out the library windows looking for UFOs. He tells me he’s written to the Supreme Court appealing his conviction on the grounds that on the day in question he was living on the moon! Insanity another option in prison? There’s just one inmate wearing a bright green and yellow jumpsuit. This is standard uniform for someone who’s tried to escape, the rest of us wander around in grey and sky blue. If you’re on remand you can wear your own ‘outside’ clothes… and do your own laundry! A pointless exercise. Sea Bass is asleep again and snoring like a warthog, which makes it difficult to write. It’s 1 pm and he’s taken to his bed. I’ve worked out he’s only awake for two hours a day and plan my day around his heavy sleeping schedule. Saturdays and Sundays are the low point of a week that starts from minus 50. Staff shortages and lack of priority in rehabilitating prisoners means I am ‘banged up’ for 23 hours each day. Even the promise of ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ — football is retracted before breakfast — leaves another day of cell sitting.

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I’ve established that Charlie’s full name is Charlie Peregrin Bass; therefore his nickname will have to be ‘Sea Bass’. Sea Bass thinks it would be a good idea to avail ourselves of the free condoms, to use for water storage — I can imagine him skipping back to the cell, condoms in hand, singing ‘I’m pretty, oh so pretty!’ A guard has just conducted a search of our cell to check we’re not planning an escape. Might be tricky digging our way out of a second floor cell. Two notices have gone up on the custodial care board announcing an investigation into the suicides of two inmates during the last 12 months. Of course if Her Majesty’s Prison Service really cared there would be enough compassionate prison guards to answer the emergency cell alarm whenever it rings. My advice to the over-manned, overpaid investigation team would be to spend a night inside, ring the emergency alarm and not to hold their breath. I wrote to Karen today and asked her, to quote the Bee Gees, ‘How deep is your love?’ Maybe I should have asked, ‘How long is your love?’

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Day 9: Groundhog Day Prison life is a continuous repetition of yesterday, over-and-overagain. Occasionally there’s a break from the routine: delivery of letters, and for me today a CD Radio. After just over a week my radio has found its way to my cell along with five CD albums. Today will be like Christmas Day, easy listening with Bryan Ferry, accompanied by 100 steel doors banging. Bryan Ferry, The Eagles, John Hiatt and Sting have all arrived and will alleviate some of the boredom. Listening to Mr Ferry singing As Time Goes By, as I watch my life disappear, I can imagine how Humphrey felt as he watched Ingrid Bergman leave. The last time I listened to this I was teaching English to a class of foreign students. What a difference a month makes. ‘There is no alcohol in Iran, but you can get stoned anytime’. This joke reminds me of a poor woman sitting in jail in Iran today awaiting her punishment, stoning to death for adultery. There’s always someone worse off.

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Day 10: Bollocks and Boils ‘There are three kinds of men, the handsome, the caring and the majority’. The prison is full of the latter. The majority are ‘yo-yo’s’ who come and go and come back again as if on a piece of string. Or in a revolving door if you prefer. Sea Bass has now grown an enormous boil on his left bollock which he’s taken personally. This however, hasn’t stopped him developing a crush on prison guard Kerry and he now seems to spend more time out of his cell than in it. The pornography has been removed by the guards. Now there is no benefit whatsoever of being with Sea Bass.

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Day 11: Business Studies The first day of education was farcical. Business Studies, not the study of any business I’ve known and I’ve known a few. One poor inmate had spent weeks developing a business plan with the guidance of the tutor. When released he’s going to start up a removals firm — he doesn’t have a driving licence and his business partner is disabled. One can’t drive the other can’t lift. Good plan! The chair I’m sitting in was previously occupied by a man with similar white collar convictions, tax evasion and fraud. Aged 60, he was caught and convicted. He lost everything including the family home. His wife committed suicide three days into his sentence. He attended the funeral handcuffed to two prison guards.

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Day 12: Canteen and Cornflakes One of the prisoners was banging on his cell door making a hell of a racket. ‘What do yer want?’ says the guard. ‘I want to know the time,’ says the prisoner. ‘It’s 2010,’ says the guard. My sentence will hang over me 1,461 days. However, I will be set free on conditional release in two years; with good behaviour and a fair wind I could be allowed home within 19 months. Therefore a 48 month sentence equals 19 months incarceration. Like everything in the UK sentencing is fiendishly complicated. It would seem that most of the inmates have woken up with a black eye. One inmate has received a blow for borrowing burn and not returning it, another has cuts and grazes for stealing another con’s phonecard (of course, he didn’t do it), and now there’s trouble brewing in the canteen over the cornflakes! My new solicitor has highlighted three or four mistakes in my sentencing which could give grounds for an appeal. This could potentially reduce my time in prison by a third. For every letter I get, Sea Bass gets ten or 12, the letters I get are written on small A5 letter paper, his are on A4 sheets. He gets five sheets per envelope — with writing on both sides. I get two small letter pages — writing on one side. If you measured love by quantity, he’s got me beaten… hands down. Despite this Sea Bass is getting grumpier by the day. He did, however, announce that when the new porn arrives everything will be alright. In prison simple is definitely best. Spending 22 hours a day with a 24-year-old man with the mind of an eight-year-old is testing and could drive me to insanity. I now wish I’d let him hang himself in the beginning.

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Day 14: Benefits of Community Service Sea Bass and I have been discussing Judge Willington and the theatrics involved in the courtroom. In his summarising of my case Willington remarked ‘If I stacked up all the offences, you could be serving a ten year plus sentence which is disproportionate to the crime’. As I’ve said already, I went into the courtroom expecting a suspended sentence and left feeling delighted I’d only got four years. Today, yet another government report on ‘Are Prisons Working?’ … It highlighted that 61 per cent of prisoners re-offend. Another study looking at community service produced a result of only five per cent of prisoners re-offending. Experiencing prison life first-hand confirms to me that it can only serve to ‘Make good men bad and bad men worse’. Amazingly, it costs the UK £45,000 a year for each prisoner incarcerated. Where the money is spent I’m not sure. It’s not on the food or education. Why not hand all those millions out to the poor and underprivileged? Then maybe crime wouldn’t pay.

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33

Day 15: Papillon I hated sharing a shower with other men in my rugby playing days, but taking a shower in prison is even worse. This morning I have to take a shower with someone who beat up an elderly man, a young man in his early twenties who slept with an OAP so he could steal £40 from her purse, and a man who battered his cousin and chewed off part of his girlfriend’s face — she still writes. It’s like taking a shower with Hannibal Lector and his prodigies. I’ve started doing some reference reading — Papillon. Henri  Charrière made nine escapes in 13 years. If you can escape Devil’s Island, surely you can break out from HMP X. One chap tried it from the top floor cell and broke both his ankles when the sheets he tied together weren’t quite long enough to reach the bottom. Prison life is full of never-ending disappointments, your present and future in the hands of people some of whom don’t seem to give a shit. All the Open University courses I’ve shown an interest in have been refused on the basis they’re not academic. How can studying for a university degree be considered not academic? I did eventually manage to sign up for a cosmology course which triggered the odd verse: Together you and I, we make an atom A nuclear fusion of unbridled love

Inside my head there’s a box of stars Outside you’re a racing comet Flying past Jupiter and Mars

Grant (GBH) Jones sits next to me in Business Studies. He’s missed a lot of lessons and persuaded me to help him fill in his test

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papers. He tells me about his recent spell in ‘The Block’. The cells there have no TV, no furniture and no association. It’s a special place, where, allegedly, inmates are taught a lesson for misconduct. To avoid a beating, prisoners cover themselves in their own excrement. While Sea Bass is soaking his nails before giving them a good clipping, he tells me about the deal he’s struck with Swifty. Burn (tobacco) is the common currency in jail and worth double the price to anyone without any. Swifty has offered Sea Bass 20 per cent extra in canteen items in exchange for a packet of burn. Swifty will sell the tobacco on, with a 100 per cent mark-up. Unfortunately for Sea Bass the tobacco hasn’t been delivered and Swifty and his lackeys are on the chase for their merchandise. Every five to ten minutes a new ugly mush appears at the 12 inch by two inch cell window demanding the burn. Like dominoes this little drama will involve the whole prison wing by morning.

Days 1–300

35

Day 16: The Truth Just like on the outside, the truth doesn’t count for much. As ‘The Doc’ my perceived higher intellect commands respect. Todays ‘Question Time’ starts in the showers. The topics — the Coalition and the Pope. I don’t think Prime Minister David Cameron knows much about the new Coalition government and how it will work! Gold Tooth tells me his father-in-law, manager of a bed company in Middlesbrough, is next in line to become Pope. At least that’s what his girlfriend has told him, and he just needs me to confirm the probability. This highlights why so many young men and women are incarcerated: poor education inside and outside prison. In HMP X, there are differing types of inmate. As well as those who have been convicted and those still on remand. C Wing inmates are the best type and generally have earned the right to be there because of good behaviour, and tend to conduct themselves in a reasonable and decent fashion. Whereas A Wing prisoners busy themselves protesting on the prison roof in a stand for human rights or more pool tables. The rest of their spare time is spent fighting with the prison guards, or amongst themselves! However, most of us have to start our prison journey on A Wing and, whilst residing there, consider it more beneficial and definitely safer to remain behind the cell doors for even longer than the requisite 22 hours! Residing On C wing means that spending time outside your cell is less onerous than spending time inside it.

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Typical A and C-wing inmates.

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Day 17: A Columbian Cold Her Majesty’s Prison Service specialises in the ridiculous. For example my prison issue sky blue T-shirt has stamped in bold black writing ‘The Property of HMP X’. The T-shirt is torn; bleach stained and has never been touched by a fashion designer. Nevertheless HMPS thinks I may want to steal it and maybe show it off while window shopping on the King’s Road or hanging out at Stringfellows! There’s a new student, I use the term loosely, in Business Studies with a forehead that hangs down to meet his chin and an ugly attitude to match his face. He manages to continuously sniff and snort his way through a two hour lesson. Apparently this snorting and endless sniffing is a tell-tale sign of a Columbian Cold — that of a cocaine user. Visiting day is a good idea that doesn’t quite come off. Groups of four chairs bolted to a Portakabin floor: red chairs for prisoners, blue for the visitors. Lots of emotions and tears and the odd couple trying to perform sexual feats over two stiff plastic chairs. Kitty and I conduct ourselves in a restrained, responsible manner…  much to my disappointment.

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Day 18: The Great Apes Prison is a good way of catching up on all the favourite TV programmes you missed first time around. I never knew how much I could enjoy a series of James Bond movies. Tonight Sea Bass and I are planning to watch a natural history programme about apes. I think Sea Bass is a close relative! They, like Sea Bass, enjoy eating five hours a day, thinking about sex every hour and sleeping the remaining time. Sea Bass jumps up and announces ‘I want to be a gorilla’. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s an evolution behind. Today we had yet another canteen flare up, over the apple crumble and who did or didn’t make it, crumbs and custard everywhere. I’ve never witnessed such highly charged emotions over a dessert!

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39

Day 19: The Naked Butler Well, over the last two weeks I’ve been thinking things could be worse…  and I was right. I phoned Kitty today who informed me that two detectives had searched her house looking for a stolen watch, on a tip off. I’ve brought all this trouble to her door and now the police state seems determined to hound her until she gives up on me and our relationship. I feel so incredibly helpless and today is prison officer training day; therefore we are locked up for 24-hours. I can’t even phone her. I really must start attending church more often and ask for some serious help. David Cameron and his wife have had a Cornish baby, delivered in Truro Hospital. Whilst holidaying in the county, Mrs Cameron began labour, or should that be conservative? So now Cornwall has two claims to fame; the PM’s baby and the pasty. I’m betting my prison teabags on the name Demelza. Sea Bass left me at six am to attend court for his sentencing. ‘The Naked Butler’, who felled a man with a single blow, then left him for dead and faces a two to five year sentence. With so much bad news and misery between us, there won’t be the normal partying in Cell A16 tonight.

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Day 20: The Return of the Great Seabass Writing my journal is becoming increasingly difficult with little material to work with, not to mention the noise, or am I becoming accustomed to all the shouting, screaming and general abuse. I’ve discovered that, with the exception of a couple of Chinese and Albanians, all prisoners come from Liverpool. Sea Lion, so called because he barks like one, must be related to Sea Bass, he’s just as daft. When I told him about my disappointment at being refused Open University education he comforted me by telling me, with great excitement, that when I get to Channings Wood I can take my tractor driving licence. That’ll be useful! I’m bracing myself for Sea Bass’ return. He could get a five year sentence, if he does he’ll be inconsolable and I’ll probably wake up and find him trying to hang himself with the bedsheets! This reminds me of the brutality of Wormwood Scrubs as reported in the newspapers back in the 1990s. It is said prison guards would carry out mock executions on lone prisoners in their cells involving the officers making hanging cords from the bedsheets. The Prison Service had to fork out a fortune in compensation for numerous claims of brutality. Three prison officers were jailed. I’m sure they got a warm reception from their fellow inmates on arrival and the same treatment they so happily dished out.

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Day 21: Sea Bass’ Lucky Day Today Sea Bass got lucky. Although the judge threatened to throw the book at him, he only got 18 months and could be out on tag in four months, in time for Christmas. Lucky world! The day starts with a bust up in the showers over a pair of socks. Gold Tooth informs me ‘Yoh, blood, tell that smackhead I want my socks before I go in his cell and smash him, yoh get me blood?’ Sometimes I wish I hadn’t got up. With no alarm clock, getting up’s not always easy, therefore I’ve adopted the Sioux Indian approach to rising in the morning — using my bladder as an early morning call. The calibration needs tinkering with, but the technique is faultless. Fellow IT student, Ian, was, unbelievably, incarcerated for eight months for clipping a caravan while overtaking — nobody was injured. You’d probably get a shorter sentence for some burglaries. He tells me an amusing little story about cancelling his utility bills. Telesales for EDF tried to persuade him to remain with them as they supply the electricity at both his present address and his new one, therefore he could move his account with him to HMP X. I’m not sure what the Governor would say about that, but it would be useful if we could bring our bills to prison and get HMP to clear our debts.

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Day 22: Mummy’s Boy Every day I think about how boring it is at HMP X, imagine choosing to work here. The prison guards don’t even get TV and their sentence will probably be many years longer than mine. There’s a certain look common to most prisoners; extreme haircuts, missing front teeth and a tattoo of the word ‘Mum’ on the neck. One prisoner has additional tattoos of scar stitches on his forehead and teardrops on his cheeks. Apart from an occasional scuffle and the odd cross-dresser to deal with, a prison guard’s life seems to me to be a dull one. And, for the wages involved you need to be dedicated. For me not worth doing! Tried to get away from it by penning a new song, How Do I feel?: How do I feel after all is said and done? Try and I try but the tears won’t come.

What do I do to keep love on the run?

And why can’t I march to the beat of your drum? Chorus

Maybe I’m lost, maybe I’ve learned Once shy, twice burned.

So I keep my head up in the clouds,

The only place that you can find me now.

How can I be neither shocked nor stunned? Still I try not to ask too much of someone. Chorus

Reprise first verse.

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Day 23: Careless Whisper If the food in prison doesn’t kill you, the bed arrangements will. Every morning I pop off to see the nice nurse in healthcare. We have a pleasant chat about the ins-and-outs of prison life and she gives me medication to help me forget — my back pains, headaches and where I am. The only time I feel I’m not in prison is when I’m asleep. In my dreams I’m free. In the Daily Mail today an article reports that George Michael may end up in prison after sentencing in a month’s time. The good news for Mr Michael is that the same paper reports the prisons minister has decided he’s gay as well. Maybe George will benefit with better cell furniture or an extra sausage for breakfast. As a fellow songwriter I’m hoping we may end up in the same category-D cell and write another Careless Whisper.

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Day 24: The Sabbath — Another Day of Resting Sunday — the day of rest. If there’s one thing you don’t need in prison it’s another day off. We now have two prison window sill diners, a brace of doves who can eat more of the prison food than I can stomach. Two symbols of peace perched on the ledge of a building full of discord and unrest. I used to look forward to going to the gym, but here the PE officer’s offensive behaviour takes the fun out of it. I’m reminded of my schooldays and the playground bullies. Gym involves an endless barrage of pointless shouting, intimidation and crude remarks. Not the ideal role models for impressionable offenders. HMP X, like most prisons in the UK, has a separate wing for ‘nonces’ — sex offenders including paedophiles. Apparently they’re better looked after, with nicer accommodation and single cells. This combined with the nature of their offences explains why nonces along with ex-policemen are given extra protection from fellow inmates. Yesterday I heard this rather unpleasant story about one such nonce. His conviction was for having sex with his sevenyear-old daughter. During the trial it came to light that to enable penetration he cut his daughters vagina with a razor blade. Some people do deserve to be locked up.

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Day 25: Alan Wells I take it all back; gym’s not so bad today. I met the prison’s toughest inmate, ‘Shoey’. Shoey is a lifer and has been incarcerated for 15 years. Before that he once captained a national boxing team in the Olympics. He’s a giant of a man with a look straight out of Braveheart, lots of curly hair on an enormous frame. We chat about athletics and the athletes he rubbed shoulders with in the Olympic village. Eventually we get on to my favourite topic, Alan Wells, one of the very few great white sprinters. A Scotsman who often beat the American sprinters and won gold in the 1980 Olympics. A great champion and I would stake my life on it that he never touched any performance enhancing drugs. A rare opportunity for an intelligent conversation.

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Day 26: James Bond and Decency At present the highlight of my week is the Sunday afternoon James Bond film. Today it’s Moonraker. Sea Bass and I watch together and afterwards I have to explain to him the plot and the previous hour-and-a-half. The prison guards here are better put together than most reference reading would have you believe. On our wing we have more than one decent officer, and they go about their business in a professional and amiable fashion. However, there seems to be a common denominator: the more mature the guard the less the chip on the shoulder. Considering their miserly wage, it’s asking a lot of a person to stand so much abuse and boredom for such little reward. I feel low today. Kitty has gone on a short break to her beloved Ramsgate. I imagine her friends advising her to give up on our relationship. Images of her finding solace in the arms of some old acquaintance. The demons of the mind play evil tricks. The reality is that she’s not interested in anyone else and could never love anybody the way she loves me — because we’re perfect for each other, and by the time this book is published we will be happily married. Another day crawls to an end.

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Day 27: Did Man Invent Peanuts? Sea Bass is fascinated by my bag of peanuts and spends most days studying the list of facts on the packet. When I enquire about his interest, he asks, ‘Are peanuts made in a factory?’ I smile and say, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘all nuts are made in factories aren’t they?’ I try to explain that nuts are a product of nature and not put together by human beings, but he’s having none of it. I’m aware of at least two suicides here in the last nine months. The only survey I’ve been able to read inside was conducted in 2001 when over 1,500 people attempted suicide in prisons nationwide, and 73 succeeded. I would imagine with the prison population doubling in the last decade that these statistics have increased accordingly. I find myself wavering between feeling stable and able to cope, to giving up in the hopelessness and despair of my situation. Apparently after serving half of my sentence I will be able to work outside in the community and earn a semi-proper wage and send some of it home to my beloved. Probably another prison myth…  The reality will be voluntary work.

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Day 28: Smashing! Sea Bass’s term for having sex is ‘smashin’ and it transpires he’ll ‘smash’ anything that shows signs of life. Cheerily, he tells me not to be too downhearted if Kitty doesn’t wait for me as there’s lots more fish on line and most will give you a blow job on the first date. Monday 30th of August and Jonathan Aitken is 68-years-old. It’s been ten years since he pleaded guilty to perjury and received an 18-month-sentence. He now spends his time helping prison reform, such as changes to the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act, which could increase employment opportunities for ex-offenders. Spending time inside the justice system does inspire you to campaign for change. But where do you start? Today I applied for an Open University course again, this time in Science and the Universe. Fingers crossed. Normally it only takes two minutes from education to prison cell, today it took over an hour. A full body search, which you imagine is not such a big deal, but in reality it’s quite dehumanising if you’re not used to having your private parts fondled by another man. Before the full search sniffer dogs have already jumped all over you investigating the same corners and crevices. Apparently this mass search is a regular occurrence as HMPS attempts and fails to eradicate drugs in prisons. Smack (heroin) is easier to get your hands on than your prison category. I should be a D cat. It’s been a month and still nobody can tell me. Until I’m categorised I can’t request a transfer to a training or resettlement prison. Fellow inmate, Leon, fresh from the Jeremy Kyle show, explains how you can make toast by using a toilet paper wick to heat up the metal slats of the bunk bed. As long as the mattress doesn’t catch fire it makes perfect sense. .

Days 1–300

Have You Seen Behind the Screen Have you seen behind the screen

It's a simple understanding

Or do you see the same as me

And hold on to it, too

That severs life from art?

Completeness come apart? And who am I to qualify

The contents of your heart?

Of the way you hand it over With the lightness of a feather It's the web that ties together What is true

It's a simple understanding

See the others flappin'

And hold on to it, too

Tryin' to make it happen, too

Of the way you hand it over With the lightness of a feather It's the web that ties together What is true

Make it happen Make it happen

Create the night anew

It's a hymn to the grace

That's found a place in you Could I look into a book

And find the answer there?

Or do the angels prearrange An eye for what is rare?

And would the prize anaesthetise The ache that makes me share?

With their fingers snappin' It's a hymn to the grace

That's found a place in you.

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What Lessons have I been taught?: ‘If you can’t stand up, you better learn how to fall’.

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Day 29: Appealing ‘The Prison Service has disbanded its Committee on Efficiency and Economy for reasons of Efficiency and Economy’: W Phillips

Good news on the appeal. Kitty tells me that my new solicitor is lodging it. There are good reasons, but it will have to be seen as manifestly wrong to get the sentence overturned. So he’s not overly optimistic, and Kitty seems to be losing faith and sounds fed up in general. It’s going to be hard for Kitty, juggling the running of a business and looking after two kids and a criminal fiancé. I’ve managed to survive a whole month in prison without losing my mind, which is no mean feat. What lessons have I learned? I have been taught that HMP X is a dysfunctional hell-hole that locks up white collar criminals and those claiming to be innocent with murderers and rapists. It is overcrowded, understaffed, cultivates bullying and violence, serves inexplicably bad food, has no toilet rolls, offers little worthwhile education and is unable to communicate… and it can show an indifference to inmates and their human rights.

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Day 30: Better Incarcerated than Stoned! My Business Studies lessons have ground to an abrupt halt. The teacher tells me he’s handicapped by Prison Rules and restrictions preventing him expanding the course to higher levels. Therefore my lesson this morning means reading a newspaper. There’s been an international campaign for Ms Ashtiani, the Iranian woman I mentioned earlier who is accused of adultery and sentenced to stoning to death. While I’ve been experiencing the boredom of the UK prison system she’s been suffering mock executions. Women condemned to stoning are buried above their breasts to preserve their modesty; now that’s real compassion. Men are only buried up to their waists. Those who manage to wriggle free are spared and it’s easier for a man to do so. You’d expect that in Iran men would get a better shake of the stick than women. Today’s main news, however, is the publication of Tony Blair’s autobiography, The Journey. He mentions that the fox-hunting ban was a mistake but they were convinced the foxes did have weapons of mass destruction. Actually he didn’t say that, but it would probably be a better read if he had.

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Day 31: Yet Another Case of Injustice The day starts with a fight on A-Wing over nothing, the result of too much confinement and boredom. The Times appears from underneath my cell door, I read with some interest that ‘The Rugby Scandal Doctor’ has escaped further punishment because she had a depressive disorder. Strangely, the nervous breakdown and depression that affected me and my judgement during my misdemeanours had no influence on my sentence, not even a mention. Now that’s justice for you. Q. Why isn’t justice just? A. Because judges and juries are only human. Q. Why isn’t life fair? A. But no-one ever promised that life would be fair, and perhaps for most of us, its just as well. That’s life !

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Day 32: Hoping for the Best! On the way to the gym, a con says to a prison guard, ‘Go on smile, it may never happen.’ ‘It already has, I’ve worked a 15 hour straight shift,’ the guard retorts. Because of this any question gets short unhelpful answers. The majority of prison guards look as fed up as we feel. Maybe the powers that be need to incentivise the staff and make the job more interesting, interaction between prison guards and inmates would benefit everyone. This is outrageous, but how about improving recruitment, then equipping officers to help and rehabilitate prisoners. Better than just locking human beings up for up to 23 hours a day, then throwing them back into society and hoping for the best. One way to get out of your cell is to manoeuvre your way to the prison’s best job. Like my friend Teaboat this is how to get more time out of your cell, and complimentary hot beverages and cheap chocolate covered digestives for delivering to prison staff (and helping yourself to!).

Teaboat HMP X.

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Day 33: You Take My Breath Away Kieran (kidnapping), who I’ve been acquainted with since induction day, advised me to request a move to C-Wing and thought it helpful if he assisted the process along by talking with a Wing Officer, Mr Greenhough. A week later, and I’m here with all my prison belongings, Sea Bass in tow. Sea Bass wasn’t sure whether to tag along or not and now regrets the move. C-Wing has a reputation for being more civilised for enhanced prisoners. Prisoners occupy basic, standard or enhanced regimes under the incentives and earned privileges scheme. In truth C-Wing just has an extra pool table, smaller cells and grumpier prison guards. I always pace my cell for a good hour before Kitty visits. Today turned out to be more stressful than usual as she was last to arrive, and I had to spend an extra 20 minutes watching the room fill with well-wishers and loved ones. After a while I went to investigate her whereabouts, arousing the interest of two guards who promptly escorted me back to my red plastic bolted to the floor ‘I’m a prisoner’ chair. When she appeared, she looked a vision in a gorgeous, figure hugging, vintage black dress, which literally took my breath away. Although a lot of the visitors could be mistaken for inmates, I wonder if the colour-coded chairs are necessary. How many visitors might turn up in prison issue garb and florescent tunics?

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Day 34: Knives and Prison Don’t Make Good Bedfellows! After leaving A-Wing I found that there was a knife discovered in one of the cells. Its intended use? To stab a fellow inmate probably involved in some deal over burn, drugs or coffee. After the discovery the whole prison was in lock down. Now I’m glad I left that wing — just in the nick of time. The knife turned out to be a pair of scissors. George Michael will spend four weeks in prison for driving and crashing under the influence of drugs. The police officer who battered an elderly, innocent woman in custody received a six month sentence and was released after serving only six days. More examples of Great British justice and how the system makes it up as it goes along. George Michael will spend his time in an open prison as a category-D, low risk prisoner. I won’t be joining him because, despite ticking all the relevant boxes as a first-time, low-risk offender, I’ve been given a C category. I’m now filling in the internal complaint form and I know the answer before it arrives. I was wrong — I won my appeal and was awarded a category-D the following month.

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Day 35: The Bee Gees My new cell is opposite Shoey’s (Captain Olympics), and he’s a huge Bee Gees fan. Every evening the whole wing is treated to the twelve inch extended disco version of You Should be Dancing. I’m thinking I should choreograph a little Saturday Night Fever dance routine for Shoey and the C-Wing inmates and put it on YouTube. Kieran has spent the morning in my cell. He’s inconsolable after the news of his girlfriend’s involvement in a serious car accident. She’s been transferred to an NHS hospital, and is in a critical condition. Prison Rules dictate that he’s not allowed to phone the hospital and he’s going out of his mind with worry. His best hope of regular updates is through the chaplain. I tell Kieran I will add her name to my long list of things to pray for.

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Day 36: The Worst Place on Earth? All the prisoners I’ve surveyed confirm that ours is the worst prison ever. They feel their legal and human rights are ignored and that the facilities are appalling. It’s certainly a battle availing yourself of basic human requirements such as toothpaste, toilet rolls, medical advice, dental care and food fit for human consumption. Chips, rice, potatoes and bread Chips, rice, potatoes and bread That’s all we ever get fed

Rice, potatoes, chips and bread Going to the dining-hall Fills me with dread

I know its going to be

Chips, potatoes, rice and bread Today I’m going to stay in bed

To avoid the chips, rice potatoes and bread.

It’s also a small victory if you manage to get unlocked from your cell to attend education, work or gym. It’s a chore but if you have a stomach for a fight you can overcome things. Everybody should be entitled to witness Sea Bass playing Scrabble. His speciality is two letter words and missing a go, hoping against hope that he might pull some good letters or a new brain out of the bag.

Days 1–300

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Day 37: Suicide is Painless! In 2008/09 the Prison Service reported that 40 per cent of self-inflicted deaths involved first-time prisoners, all bar two per cent occurring in the first three months of incarceration. Is my life in jeopardy? Mostly, I feel frustrated rather than suicidal…  thankfully. Not Myself If I was not myself, I would be somebody else But actually, I am somebody else.

I have been somebody else all my life!

It’s no laughing matter going about the place All the time being somebody else People don’t know me I don’t know myself.

When I do feel low, rather than reaching for the bloodstained bedsheets to hang myself, I remind myself of people who suffer much more, such as the soldiers in Afghanistan. They only get one letter and one phone call a week and live in fear of being shot at or blown up every day of their lives.

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Day 38: Meaningful Employment ‘I’m a spider spinning in the dark

In spite of all the time you’ve torn my web apart’: The Eagles

I think I’ve lost a piece of my mind in here; I’ll have to get it back before I’m released. There aren’t many opportunities to pursue meaningful work, but one of the interests is becoming a Listener. Training is administered by The Samaritans. A Listener’s job is to listen…  to prisoners considerable woes and to stave off attempts at suicide. More interesting and rewarding work and education options could make Listeners redundant, or at least they wouldn’t be quite so busy.

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Day 39: Lord of the Rings and the Keeper of the Argos Catalogue Dave, the Keeper of the Argos catalogue, and Nigeria’s answer to Charles Atlas, is desperate to share a cell with me. Judging by the size of Dave, I don’t think there’s room in his cell for me as well. He wants to share with me because I’m sensible! — I hope that’s all it is! If the size of a prisoners muscles is a gauge of just how long he has been incarcerated, then Dave has been locked up for 100 years! He is bigger than a barge and like all big things, very clumsy. Big, clumsy, daft and dangerous! Spent the afternoon composing Leaving Me This Way: Call yourself my sweetest angel, tell me I’m your man,

Now you’re giving me this final chance to win you back again. You know how much it hurts inside, well that’s what you say, But I’m not blind and I can’t watch you leaving me this way. Call yourself my one true love and say I’m still the one,

You’re giving me this final chance to win you back again. I heard it on a jukebox, all the words I couldn’t say,

But I’m not blind and I can’t watch you leaving me this way. You know how hard it is to cry,

And I know that you know all the lies.

But when you go there’s nowhere left to hide, But I’ve been wrong, I’ve been wrong before!

Got stuck on verse three but I’m going to finish this later and get someone to put it up at my website.

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Showertime with Chad — the prison mastermind.

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Day 40: Ex-wives and Druggies Shoey, the ex-Olympian, doesn’t suffer fools or drug users lightly but does share his newspapers and crossword answers with me. The sort of chap who, if he likes you, you’ve a genuine friend. We’ve got something in common: both divorced while in prison, we share the odd cynical ex-wife joke, and play a card game I don’t understand. In my experience the larger than life characters serving long sentences are far more intelligent, generous and helpful than the ‘yo-yos’ doing time for grievous bodily harm or other assaults with nothing to say but plenty to shout about, or the drug users wandering around in a trance. Chad’s painfully thin frame is a testament to a life spent in the pursuit of the questionable pleasure of drugs. Despite his wealth of knowledge regarding the ins and outs, and numerous ways of beating the prison system, he often finds himself in the detention block. It’s a dreadful underground dungeon for the disruptive and unruly. A scary place of folklore where the ghostly echoes of the whimpering and screams of the disobedient prisoner can be heard after lights out.

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Day 41: The Sun If like me you’re unfortunate enough to get allocated a cell on A-Wing here, brace yourself for a rough ride. It took me a month to get across to C-Wing but the wait was worth it. I now get four nights out-of-cell association, toilet rolls and a better class of inmate. The prison was once again on lock down this morning after an A-Wing prisoner climbed onto the roof to protest against the food (understandable) and demand a Big Mac, which I don’t understand. I’ve got my hands on an old copy of The Sun. There’s a feature on a fellow inmate, a former professional footballer. He currently resides at a prison that is potentially the next stop in my unwanted journey. He crippled a man and killed his two sons in a car accident. the victim’s wife has been outraged by the fact that he’s able to go the gym and exercise! Her emotions have been stirred up by unnecessary photographs in a distasteful game played by the newspaper. This story and so many like it cast a sad reflection on a sorry society. Will life in Italia be like this if and when the footballer gets there? With its infamous paparazzi, I guess it could be worse!

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Day 42: Nothing to Say I wonder how many people have never committed a crime, such as not declaring their full income to the tax man, driving a car over the alcohol limit or fiddling their expenses. It’s those types who turn out to be the biggest hypocrites. The very few truly honest people don’t condemn, and still treat me in the same old way, with unwavering love and affection. Sadly I can count them on half a hand. Kitty and I have always had a lot to say to each other, but I think we’ve communicated even more since I’ve been incarcerated. I’ve never said so much about so little, so often, in so many different ways. I’ve re-discovered the lost art of letter writing, which is so rewarding. I phone her whenever possible to say nothing much at all and every time she visits it is like Christmas Day with knobs on.

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Day 43: Oh Dear, Seabass! In the last month I’ve written half a book, several poems, composed half a dozen songs and passed four exams, the equivalent of four GCSEs (apparently). Therefore it could be argued that prison can be a positive experience, if you’re determined to make the best of a bad lot. At the same time I’ve watched Sea Bass sleep all day, masturbate all night, reject any notion of education and sink into a deep sea of negativity. Although he is rather adept at talking nonsense, he, like most of the younger men in prison, will leave as they arrived — bitter, angry and uneducated. This makes me want to think about Sea Bass’s redeeming points… No, there aren’t any!

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Day 44: No Room for the Truth! There’s been some improvement in my lifestyle with the introduction of music, under the patronising title of ‘Changing Tunes!’ I arrived as a guitarist but Matt, ‘the real musician’, spotted my shortcomings as a strummer and my true potential as a singer — which suits me. I’m now the front man for the prison’s newest rock band boasting five carefully chosen inmates. Next week we start practice on our opening set of covers of Coldplay and Metallica numbers. Of course prison guards don’t need a sense of humour, not when they have the cell door keys, but it would help expedite proceedings a little. Today I made the grave mistake of asking for emergency phone credit. ‘Why?…  Has somebody died?’ growls Mr Gibbons. ‘I’m sure somebody has, somewhere,’ I cheerfully reply. Big mistake! Mr Gibbons has a voice that could scare bark off a tree! I must learn to bite my tongue for 18 months.

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Day 45: Extra Time Dave an outside visitor pops his head around the, unusually, open cell door and enquires for the whereabouts of Sea Bass. Dave lends a listening ear to prisoners’ moans and groans — Sea Bass has plenty. After finishing with my cell mate he chats with me and bemoans this industrial prison and how he’s never met the Governor or any management, and believes it is run by the guards, who make it up as they go along. Just before he makes a run for the prison gates he tells me he’s about to attend a gin party. I tell him to have a couple of dozen pink ones for me. As usual, I offer Shoey my copy of yesterday’s paper, but today he refuses, he tells me that he hasn’t slept with worry. Yesterday he broke up a fight and one of the culprit’s noses, which means time in The Block, and more importantly, potentially, extra jail time.

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Day 50: Fifty Not Out ‘Don’t wait for a light to appear at the end of the tunnel run down there… and light the bloody thing yourself ’: Dara Henderson

I’ve struggled to a half century, 50 days and nights languishing in a Victorian hell hole. I’ve had to resort to writing this diary sporadically rather than daily as living in jail is like living in my home town — nothing ever happens, or nothing new. Last week I managed to make a greetings card, which is quite an achievement without scissors, glue or any materials. It would have been easier to build a spaceship and fly it to the moon! It was with a great sense of pride that I placed the makeshift masterpiece in the post box. Incredibly I’ve managed to survive living with Sea Bass for two months with most of my mind intact; but in a couple of days’ time he’s departing for pastures new. I watch him for the last time having a relationship with his lettuce, warm carrot and ketchup sandwich. The last time the make-do washing line will be filled with nine pairs of stinking socks — Sea Bass wears three pairs a day in a vain attempt to conceal the stench of his fungus infected feet. No longer will the floor have a fine dusting of talcum powder with ape-like foot prints. But the biggest relief will be the silence. No more belching, farting, verbal and anal diarrhoea. I wonder what his replacement will be like, I’ve an inclination it will be more of the same. At home I have a pedigree British Blue cat called Mickey or Fat Cat. After two months I’ve finally met the jail cat, the same make of feline as Fat Cat’. A much skinnier version, so when he pays a visit I call him ‘Fat Cat Slim’. I’m hoping he can show me how he gets in and out of the prison every night. He has a collar, so he has

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a daytime residence as well as prison in the evenings — not a bad arrangement. I’m living in hope of similar conditions for myself soon in an open prison, although I’d prefer my nights at home wrapped in the arms of Kitty and my days in Lyme Regis.

Almost every prisoner has a story that they’ve been bursting to tell.

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Day 51: My Very Own Knockback ‘I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet’: Chinese proverb.

‘I regret to inform you that I do not now consider that there is any real prospect of permission to appeal your case’.

So now I can settle into my prison sentence with no shred of hope of salvation. Yesterday I was offered a choice of two prison jobs: teacher’s assistant or librarian. The euphoria of being head-hunted for the choice English for Speakers of Other Languages (ESOL) course and as librarian has been shrouded in gloom by my solicitor’s letter offering not a glimmer of hope of early release. I am delighted to report the departure of Sea Bass from my life. This morning he packed all his belongings, and most of the prison’s too, placed them in an enormous plastic bag and was gone. It’s like a breath of fresh air — literally. No longer does the cell smell like a rugby changing room after 80 minutes on the pitch. I feel like a horse running in the Grand National. Every fence is as big as Bechers Brook. I can’t see the finishing post but I know eventually I’ll get there. But will the jockey have fallen off along the way? If so, no prize on reaching the end. Paranoia is communicable and I’ve been infected. Almost every prisoner has a story to tell about a wife or girlfriend, all in the past tense. Inevitably most of the men go home to no-one, if indeed there’s even a home to return to. I do occasionally join in the paranoia game, but when normal service resumes I know my girl is heaven sent and importantly we’re genuinely in love… At least I think we are, aren’t we?

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Day 54: Goodbye to Seabass Sea Bass and his stinking feet have departed. So now he’ll be wandering around his new prison with his trademark, daft, wideeyed, open-mouthed look. The cell doesn’t have the customary toothpaste smothered all over the walls and ceiling. Toothpaste is generally used as a glue substitute for sticking up pictures of loved ones or porn, not necessarily in that order. I have a different problem, my new cell mate Stuart, with pencilled in eyebrows, has the ability to talk endlessly about his life and times as a cowboy… in the West Midlands! I feel like a sponge soaking up verbal diarrhoea. Yesterday I started a two day course in Sports Leadership, and received a massive lump on the head for my trouble. During a friendly (I should have known it, there’s nothing friendly in prison) game of basketball. I got rammed against the gym wall by one of my own team. Now I have a lump the size on an Emu’s egg on the side of my forehead. Like a brave little trouper I didn’t let the ordeal and battering deter me, and completed the course today. I’ve returned with the accolade of ‘Best All-rounder in All Sports’, and recognition from my peers as a dark horse. Even the paratrooper from ‘The Devils Guard’ gave me a high five. It’s no easy task turning back the clock 20 years — who am I kidding? Thirty years — but just the mere fact that I returned, competed and stood my ground earned their respect. It was a bonus that I was also better than most of them at most things. Even in prison, brawn isn’t everything.

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Day 57: Useless Lawyers ‘Courage is not the absence of fear; it is the willingness to act, in spite of the fear’: Bruce Wilkinson, The Dream Giver

The boy who rammed my head against the sports hall wall turns out to be the very same boy I’ve replaced as lead singer in the rock band, formed to perform at the Christmas Concert. The music teacher doesn’t handle the situation sympathetically and the relationship between the skinhead and me hits an all-time low. But no need to worry because on returning to my cell I’m handed a slip to be ready for transfer to open prison next Monday, where I’ll be for the festive season. Any solicitor employed since my troubles began has proved to be useless, almost to the point of negligence. My advice to anyone as unfortunate as myself, is to pick up a legal book and teach yourself law as quickly as possible and represent yourself — unless you have unlimited funds to line lawyers’ pockets. Otherwise once the legal aid resources have disappeared so does the solicitor. Mercenaries are less ruthless when it comes to cash. It’s down to my own internal appeal that my initial C categorisation has been overturned and because I’m now a D Cat it’s resulted in a transfer to an open establishment. On reflection, HMP X wasn’t as bad as most people would have you believe. After the initial shock of incarceration the hardest part has been the food. In the end, I achieved good relations with most of the guards, inmates and teachers. I had to fight for it, but eventually I attended gym five times a week, played in a rock band, received diplomas in Information Communications Technology (ICT) and Business Studies, and taught English to deserving students. I would

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find it impossible to achieve so much, so fast, if I were free. Even written a song for all prisoners feeling sorry for themselves! How You Going to See Me Now? Dear darling, surprised to hear from me,

Bet you’re sitting, coffee, yawning sleepily.

Just to let you know, I’m coming home soon, Kinda awkward and afraid,

That time has changed your point of view. Chorus

How you gonna see me now?

Please don’t see me ugly babe

’Cause I know I’ve let you down, in oh, so many ways. How you gonna see me now

Now you’ve been on your own? Are you gonna love your man, When your man gets home? Feels like the first time

We’ll be strangers again.

You may have grown out of style, In the place you’ve been. Feels like the first time, I’ll be trembling inside.

But when you walk through the door, There’ll be no place to hide! Chorus

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Day 58: Chuwawa In both the real and the prison world there has to be a shepherd for the sheep. Someone for the lost or unknowing to follow. My Vietnamese students are my very own small flock. They tend to follow me around and back to my cell. I still can’t pronounce their names but the younger one I call ‘Chuwawa’, which is as close as I can get and seems to work because he comes running when I call. I’ve done a lesson plan on The Food We Eat, which is nothing like the food they eat — dog, cat and bumblebee! Their occupations in Vietnam: one’s a fisherman and Chuwawa’s a lunatic.

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Day 60: Groundhog Day… Again Last night I switched off the light in my cell for the final time. Today I say goodbye to HMP X forever — I hope! At 9 am I’ll be taken to the Promised Land — of open prison. It’s 11.30 am and I’m still here. Has the transport broken down or been cancelled again? Will I have to wait another three months for the next prison bus out? Then at 11.35 am the familiar bellow, ‘Phillips’. For once a welcome shout, and off I go with my black plastic sack, laden down with prison essentials — sugar and teabags. Some of my neighbours wish me well and congratulate me for escaping my cellmate: the strange and smelly Stuart. A lovely sunny autumnal day greets my exit and the trip up the motorway into the leafy countryside. When we arrived, I thought the driver had mistaken the address and delivered us to a garden centre! The layout is very similar to one, or to a college campus with lots of long, low slung brick buildings set in extensive manicured grounds. A Disney World for convicts. The first night is spent in another induction annexe and tomorrow I’ll have to suffer a further two week induction programme before I can start meaningful education or work. Groundhog Day all over again.

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77

Day 70: Heady Days! I’m sitting under a beech tree, the sun is setting behind the nearby woods, birds are singing and squirrels are running amok on the carefully tended lawns. In my dreams… But wait a minute — it’s reality! Her Majesty’s Prison-cum-Holiday Camp Y is an idyllic and calm place in which to live after the chaotic hell of HMP X. The downside for me is that a significant proportion of the population are ‘kiddie fiddlers’, rapists and murderers nearing the ends of their sentences. They included a notorious and ageing murderer from the 1970s. HMP Y leaves you to your own devices and purposes, a test of your ability to cope with responsibility, which is OK unless the responsibilities are the kind you mastered when you were just ten-years-old. One Day I will be with you, everywhere you go

In gentle breezes that caress your skin

And you will see me in the silent snow

In everything that comes around again. I’ll always be beside you, wherever you may roam With the stars to guide me I’ll find my way home.

The Eagles

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Day 76: Heaven and Hell My new residence is in a wing where many of the lifers live (exist). As most of them arrived in their first prison many years ago their number one single is still Rick Astley’s Never Gonna Give You Up and it welcomes me back from my teaching class each day. The wing is best described as a combination of two of Stanley Kubrick’s greatest movies: One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and The Shining. There’s an air of madness and menace, all that’s missing is Jack Nicholson swinging an axe. My days are getting quite busy with teaching as a peer mentor, and today the introduction of Toe-by-Toe as part of my teaching remit — a one-to-one, step-by-step scheme for poor readers. The benefit is a free T-shirt with Toe-by-Toe and a footprint imaginatively printed on it. The downside is that my face and name are advertised to all the 500 plus prisoners as someone who can help them with Maths and English: the essentials for early release. Potentially I could be up all night, teaching all day for £8 a week.

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Day 77: Cuts and More Cuts ‘Punishment must be exacted even if it does not fall upon the guilty’: Sigmund Freud

Today Kenneth Clarke, the justice secretary, announced the Government’s planned cuts for the Prison Service. IPP — Indefinite Sentences for Public Protection — are the subject of great debate and in line to be abandoned. ‘Wolfy’ was sentenced to an 18 month IPP and is now serving his fourth year in prison. An IPP may only carry a minimum one day tariff but it’s geared towards what the person may do in the future rather than the actual offence committed. Therefore, Wolfy must prove that he won’t commit a crime again in the future before he’ll be eligible for release. In reality he has to be set free to find out, a ‘Catch-22’ situation.

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Day 78: ‘You Can’t be Serious!’ Tonight’s dinner is being served by ‘Kid Curry’, so called because of his unfortunate girlfriend’s fate. He discovered she had been cheating on him with his best friend. Revenge was served up hot and spicy in the form of the girlfriend, chopped up, as the main ingredient. He invited the ‘Judas’ best friend to dinner, fed him the curry and informed him that ‘You’ve been inside her, now she’s inside you,’ and promptly killed him as well. I didn’t bother with dinner and had a bag of crisps and an apple in my cell.

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81

Day 80: Stone Cold and Sober, and the Arrival of Kitty’s Quilt I’ve completed the two week — could be done in a day — induction course. The time wasting introduction to HMP Y, and all it fails to offer, frustrates to the point of distraction. I’m not sure how sensible it can be to push serial killers and rapists to breaking point, testing their anger management skills beyond the necessary, when you already know the results. And with some of the low risk prisoners like myself preparations for release can sometimes be bizarre. The abandonment of giving away a cup of coffee at the chapel will save the Prison Service £1,200 a year. The equivalent of sending a low risk, first-time offender home two weeks early. I wonder if they would consider sending me home next week thereby keeping the chapel in coffee for the next four months! Now I’m in receipt of Kitty’s lovingly made, ever so toasty, warm quilt, they’ve turned the bloody heating on full blast!

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Day 85: Nuts for Lights Until the 1980s HMP Y was little more than a field full of huts with no electricity in the cell. Therefore televisions were battery operated and the story goes that peanuts were sometimes used to provide light. Nuts are an excellent source of oil which burns and produces a flame. Each nut burns for up to five minutes and replicates a night light. You do learn some things in prison.

Suspicious minds. I am accused of hoarding by the local nut baron who thinks I might be treading on his patch.

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Day 90: Daves The most popular Christian name in HMP Y is Dave. Therefore to distinguish them, all Dave’s are prefixed with a nickname. For example, ‘Forklift Dave’ applied for a transfer from his previous jail to come to HMP Y to study for the Forklift Drivers Certificate. A lifelong ambition for Dave. After several months of endless reasoning and application forms, Dave arrived here. The following day the course was abandoned due to lack of funding. ‘Two Birds with One Stone Dave’ murdered a pregnant woman. He arranges the quiz nights in the chapel and shouts out the questions from the altar. ‘Blind Dave’ finds his way around by feel alone, arms outstretched like antennae. Because of his blindness, he mistakenly strangled an innocent bystander instead of his intended victim — his irksome probation officer. Today is Halloween. In the prison kitchen, waiting for my Horlicks to heat up, I observe a topless Blind Dave wandering the dimly lit corridors, complemented by shouts and screams from distant cells and flickering fluorescent lighting. It could be a horror film set. There can be no more appropriate setting for ‘All Hallows' Eve’.

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Frustration: Forklift Dave waiting for an answer.

Days 1–300

85

Day 97: The Right Trousers I didn’t realise how much I missed trouser pockets until I got them back. A major benefit at HMP Y is the opportunity to wear a pair of ordinary trousers. Norman Wisdom died this week. My one and only very small acting part was in his final movie The Crow 2 or was it The Crow 3? The director in his wisdom — excuse the pun — decided that Redruth in Cornwall was the closest he could get to recreating New Orleans as a location. I remember that in truth Redruth was quite unlike the Deep South. It would find it hard doubling for Camborne, the town next door. I attribute this as the main reason the film never made general release.

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Day 99: Prisons be Damned The new Inspector of Prisons has just published a damning report on the Prison Service. After spending four months visiting and inspecting prison conditions, the verdict is the same as my own: ‘Jails are not dustbins, but inmates are treated as rubbish’. The system, as I’ve already chronicled, is flawed with prison staff turning a blind-eye to bullying and violence. The report highlights lack of care and poor attitudes amongst prison officers, and the living conditions for prisoners are deemed filthy and a degradation of their human rights. It made the front page of The Times but in reality unless public opinion changes nothing will happen to improve the living conditions in Her Majesty’s prisons; the general public care little for prisoners’ rights.

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Day 100: Hitting a Century! Now I know how the England cricketer Andrew Strauss must feel. A landmark. A double century will feel even better! ‘The University Funding Cuts Riots’ dominate the headlines. I notice a student protester carrying a banner that reads ‘We are the futre’ . Well with spelling like that, you’re not. The newspapers are full of story after story on spending cuts and how unhappy the public are with the likelihood of reduced public services. They should try living on £10 a week (yes its up two pounds for me since I last mentioned prison wages) and a six month wait to see a dentist. I certainly won’t be doing much complaining when I’m free again.

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Day 136: Christmas Day The Xmas holidays equal extra time off with even less to do with it! I couldn’t find the will to get up for the festive breakfast. An extra sausage isn’t worth the additional hour awake! During Christmas the prison population is cut in half because of the prisoners lucky enough to get home leave. For the ones left behind the celebrations revolve around going to The Chapel to watch Sylvester Stallone’s The Expendables (an ironic choice of title for a movie to entertain prisoners!), and a gift of a Mars Bar. Next year, I too will be entitled to go home for Xmas. Will that home be Kitty’s home? My incarceration has taken away most of my pride and confidence, and that hasn’t made me good relationship material. Time and time again I’ve needlessly doubted her commitment to our relationship. I wish I could have been stronger mentally, not so needy, coped better with my circumstances, but nothing she could do was good enough for me. Every time I thought she was having some fun with friends, a normal life, a better time than me, and something she so deserved, I acted like a thief and tried to steal her little bit of happiness and make it my own. Christmas time is the time of the greatest joy, or unhappiness, depending on your circumstances. For me the lovely times and happy memory of our Christmas together at home has been replaced by this Christmas, and the misery and damage that life in prison has done to me and our relationship. Most of the time I wish we had finished it before prison, so I could have kept those precious happy memories safe. But there have also been a few times whilst in prison our relationship, and her being in my life, has saved my life. I’m not getting up for Boxing Day!

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Day 140: Released Sadly, fiction rather than a fact! ‘Released’ is the title of a short story that I wrote whilst sitting alone in my cell and inspired by a winters storm brewing outside: A north wind is whipping up a storm outside and the chill of the freezing air hits my bedroom window pane. The cold meets the

warmth that radiates from within the room, condensation crawls

down the glass gathering to form a puddle of water on the window

sill. I use an old T-shirt to mop up the water and then clear the glass to regard the gathering storm. A blanket of snow has concealed the gardens, the greens, browns and crimson of the leaves on the trees have been turned a ghostly white.

I draw the curtains on the wintry scene and climb cautiously into

bed, being careful to avoid the deep hollow in the prehistoric mattress and its exposed springs. I toss and turn for what seems like hours,

the demons of my past come back to haunt my thoughts prolonging consciousness, but eventually I doze off to sleep. I’m awoken by a

tapping on the window, reach out for the alarm clock and press the

button to illuminate the time. It’s 12 am. I dismiss the noise and fall back to sleep.

The next rapping on the glass is more incessant and can’t be ignored. Tumbling out of bed, half-awake, I swish open the curtains. I jump back when confronted at the window by a menacing Goliath of

a tree. It looms large at the window, its thorny limbs having been

gathered up by the frigid gusts of wind and slung against the pane

of glass. If only I could leave the building and sever the waving arms

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which continue to hamper my slumber with the persistent thwacking sound of wood on glass.

I’m unsure of the time when Grace comes to bed, but it’s been so long since we last slept together that her touch startles me and I

wake. She’s naked. I’d forgotten just how soft and yielding her skin and flesh is. Then she makes love to me, her fervour arousing and

stimulating like a drug. Repeatedly we make love: her insatiability

exhausts and enfeebles me. Eventually she collapses into my arms and we drift blissfully into slumber.

Next day I wake up contented, but Grace has already left. I am

desperate that she will return tonight and we can be like we used to be. Was I only dreaming?

Opening the curtains I gaze across the gardens and the bare space

where the old birch tree once flourished. All the trees were cut down and removed a year ago, just after I arrived. Now all that remains is

a grass lawn framed with flower borders. The grass has grown a little long and waves in the breeze. Lit up by the early morning summer sun it looks like a luminous, emerald green sea.

My bedroom door swings open to reveal a prison guard who quips, ‘All present and corrupt?’

Now I am allowed to leave the building and join my fellow inmates

in the queue for breakfast. Upon returning to my cell I find the door

ajar. I’ve never left it open before and am annoyed by my carelessness. Tentatively I nudge the door open, half expecting a prison guard to leap out and inflict some kind of punishment on me.

Days 1–300

There is nobody in the cell, but my sheets have been removed

revealing a large blood-stained patch dried onto the mattress. I hadn’t noticed it before and some of my things seem to be missing. Slightly

bewildered I ponder the situation for a moment, but there is no time to investigate. I need to arrive at the prison’s front gate for 8.30 am,

in readiness to exit the jail, and catch the bus that will deliver me to temporary freedom… and Grace.

In Swindon the train leaves the station on time. There is something romantic about travelling by train; I can escape the harsh realities

of my life. I could be travelling on the Orient Express, in an Agatha Christie mystery, where my life is full of nostalgia, excitement and adventure. But I’m not.

The train rolls into my home station, late, and maybe this explains

why Grace isn’t waiting. My heart sinks with the disappointment of her absence. I perch myself on a bench and watch the commuters rushing from platform to platform considering my options. After

20 minutes and no sign of her, I decide that walking is the best way forward.

The sun is shimmering in a cloudless sky making the walk a pleasure; my thoughts roam free in the warm summer breeze. They revolve

around Grace and the next five days we will spend together. On the

way I see my old friend Michael, but, despite my wave he doesn’t see me. Happily I make my way unnoticed, anxious to get home, not

wanting to delay my journey by exchanging pleasantries with old acquaintances.

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The old house looks the same. The camper van still sits on four flat

tyres in the driveway and the garden is just as I left it: the greenness of the lawn hidden by the brown of fallen, dead and shrivelled palm leaves. The front door is open and I can hear a man’s voice. Peering through the dining room window I can see that Grace has painted the room vivid pink and purchased a new dining table. I also spy a tall man standing in the hallway. He towers over Grace and has to

stoop down to kiss her on the lips. My heart pulsates and pounds, so much blood rushing to my head, my face feels like it’s on fire, a knot so tight in my abdomen I fear my stomach might break. I feel like vomiting.

For a short while I consider composing myself and confronting them but instead limp off to the nearest hostelry. I recognise a couple of

the locals but they pretend not to know me and continue their tittletattle. It was never a place where I felt that I belonged, and loathed the residents’ small-minded, parochial outlook on life, and their

endless malicious gossiping. To get away from it all, Grace and I had planned to move to the Jurassic coast of Dorset. I wondered if she had the same plans with her new man.

By late afternoon I’ve mustered up enough Dutch courage to

confront Grace and embark on the slog back to the house. Climbing up the final hill I observe her at the top descending. Quickly I tuck

myself into a side road, wait for her to pass, then, sleuth-like, follow at a safe distance.

Drizzle blankets the air like a spider’s web spun out of rain. Grace is easy to follow, brightened by her red beret and purple Mary Quant

mac. On the outskirts of town she turns left into a gated churchyard.

Days 1–300

The gloomy granite Methodist Church looms large at the height of the hill, keeping watch over the dead. I follow her to the middle of the graveyard and quietly stand beside her.

I’m close enough to regard my beloved. Her form is dainty and waifish: her face angelic with a waxen complexion, eyes black-

rimmed, hazel and piercing, lips so perfect and bright, all framed by

auburn bobbed hair. A vision of nostalgia and loveliness from another time, one when dalliance and intrigue ruled the world. Her eyes are red from crying, her face soaked with tears and rain.

She is standing by a grave. I look away from her beauty to regard the writing on the gravestone:

‘They couldn’t keep you a prisoner any longer, My Love, now you’re

free, You took your own life, before I could become your wife. But I forgive you, and one day we’ll be together forever.’ Grace.

Above these words is written, ‘RIP my name, date of birth and death.’

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Day 141: George and Georgina In prison it pays to be in the minority. It didn’t take George long to see the light, and realise his dream of becoming the biggest minority of all in a mens prison! As Georgina, George could avail himself of all kinds of perks including special accommodation, day release for compassionate reasons and hormone treatments, etc., etc. ... and best of all — parcels containing ladies underwear and tights! Georgina also provided perks for her fellow, sex-starved, inmates. A blow job could be afforded in exchange for a Mars Bar and some burn (Apparently!) One blow job too many resulted in Georgina’s transfer to a more secure facility! Whilst serving his time, George continued in his pursuit of Georgina, and government funding provided him with a new body and sex. He put the taxpayers’ coffers to further good use by selling his story to a glossy gossip magazine.

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Day 177: Schindler’s List Tonight six other inmates and myself watched Schindler’s List as part of Leyhill’s attempt to commemorate the anniversary of the liberation of the Jews from Auschwitz and The Holocaust generally. After watching the film there are some obvious comparisons to make between Nazi concentration camps and HMP Y. An analogy is that both white-collar criminals and the Jews persecuted during the war come over to those who have been watching as generally more intelligent, better educated and have — in their days of freedom — enjoyed and experienced far more of life’s rewards and riches than the prison guards or that of the Governor charged with their care. Therefore, because of the resentment this causes, retribution rather than rehabilitation is in the forefront of most custodians’ minds. The main differences are that in HMP X no one gets to shoot us, and there is no Schindler to watch over us and defend our human rights either.

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Day 180: Anyone for Scrabble? Today I made an attempt at having one of my short stories published in the prison rag. My writing had been scrutinised and applauded by teachers, fellow inmates and David, the part-time editor and regular adviser to a member of the royal family (according to prison gossip). However, the head of education governor deemed the literature to be inappropriate. My story does mention a couple sleeping together, which I thought unlikely to shock the magazine’s hardcore audience. Interestingly, he spelt inappropriate ‘INNAPPROPRIATE’, which seems to me to underline one of the problems with prison education. It also sums up the inherent, incoherent mind-set conditioning of the prison system. The people in charge have neither the qualifications nor the skills to manage a complex institution such as a human jail, with the supposed aspiration of rehabilitating over 500 men at any one time. If they did, they would be able to reason that a paragraph of sensual literature is nowhere near as bad as allowing inmates to order and read pornographic magazines which during my time at HMP Y were also readily available from the prison library. A fellow inmate proudly showed me his copy of a Paul Raymond magazine which, I’m sorry to admit, I viewed with some interest (I had been locked up for six months). One reader’s poor wife had supposedly supplied four photographs of herself in various poses together with provocative comments. Just the thing to help rehabilitate sex-offenders! Now you tell me, and I’ll let you be the judge, whether this kind of thing or my rejected story is more inappropriate…

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Day 199: Home For the Elderly Sidney was free to leave this or any other prison sometime ago, but why go? Full board, a comfortable bed, doctor, dentist, optician and entertainment, all available on site! If not for the never-ending boredom and the monotonous diet, I would ask to stay myself! His reticence to leave, however, does benefit the general and free public, as Sidney, despite his age, is the subject of some rather nasty and violent turns. Quite often, Sidney can be seen, and heard, shouting abuse and waving his walking-stick at one of his unsuspecting and ever changing cell-mates. The story that his rather long sentence was given for killing his next door neighbour may well be true.

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Day 200: Prison Life Goes On A double-century, which I thought would feel much better. The reality is the sad realisation that nothing has changed in the last 100 days, and all hope has drifted off on the breeze. My appeal still hasn’t been lodged, there’s no sign of my distance learning law course but the never-ending routine of HMP Y continues. I need to conjure up something to keep me going. Magic Call me a liar

Call me a cheat

I got a clear conscience ready You got your theories You got your beliefs

How can I live without any Chorus

There’s no magic to it

There’s nothing that two bad years can erase There’s no magic to it

The memories just fade away I’ve been arrested and I’ve been abused

But I’ve found my way and I’ve walked a straight line So where is my loved one Where is my truth

How can I be taken and leave you behind Chorus

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There’s no magic to it.

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Day 219: Love Doesn’t Hurt, Expectations Do Prison is killing Kitty’s love for me. Prison and me is killing it! There isn’t any way that I can find to like myself whilst living behind bars. And if I can’t like myself, how can I expect her to like, or love me. And I do love her. But I try to possess and control her every move— everyday, which only serves to push her further and further away. God help me to stop this jealous and insecure behaviour! And where God fails, freedom may succeed. But will it arrive too late to save our love! Open to Love A rose dreamed day and night about bees but no bees landed on her petals. The flower, however, continued to dream: during the

long nights, she imagines a heaven full of bees who flew down and

bestowed fond kisses on her. By doing this she was able to last until the next day when she opened again to the light of the sun.

One night, the moon, who knew of the rose’s loneliness, asked: ‘Aren’t you tired of waiting?’

Possibly, but I have to keep trying.’ ‘Why’

‘Because if I don’t remain open, I will simply fade away.’

At times when loneliness seems to crush all beauty, the only way

to resist is to remain open.

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Day 233: The Wrong Trousers After serving half their sentence well-behaved prisoners in an open prison are offered home leave and town visits. Something for me to look forward to in 132 days time! Town visits are just that, an accompanied visit to a nearby town. Not very exciting you may think, but after 365 days inside it’ll be like going to Disney World with knobs on! Home leave last a few days longer and can prove too much of a good thing for some folk, who never come back — voluntarily ! Since my arrival, two chaps, one from Cuba and one from Poland, didn’t just take leave to go home, but took their leave of the UK all together! If you do come back, you are subjected to a breathalyser test (no alcohol is allowed on home leave or town visits. Needless to say, everybody drinks alcohol on home leave and most on town visits too!). In fact most prisoners don’t bother waiting for a home leave to take a drink and enjoy a bevy or two and drugs a plenty whilst in the prison itself. You must also return in the same clothes that you left in and only bring back what you took out. Too much to remember for many who loose their privileges because they return wearing the wrong trousers!

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Day 234: Fabulous Baker Bros. The much lauded and fabulous Baker Brothers, of Hobbs House Bakery and television fame, paid us a visit today. Why? To demonstrate how to make a nice sourdough loaf of bread from ingredients we can only dream about. Afterwards, I returned to my cell to enjoy an apple and a Mothers Pride processed bread sandwich!

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Day 242: Wasted Time ‘It is often in the darkest skies that you see the brightest stars’.

Persevere and you can benefit from the time spent in prison. This is not the rule. For most, the time is wasted by loitering, scowling and complaining. Short sentences are a waste of everybody’s time and state monies. By the time the necessary paperwork is filled in, doctors and dentist appointments are made, and the induction process complete, its time to go home again. But, this time and money wasting process seems to win the popular and ill-informed vote. Surely, some kind of productive and/or hard labour community service would serve all much better. There is a much better way. Watch out for my next book on prison reform!

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Day 255: Live in Concert In addition to writing and recording a couple of my own songs, I’ve also found the time to play in the prison rock band, and tonight is my big chance to show off my talent and perform in front of a packed house. The house is a chapel with a small crowd! I’m only lead singing on three songs — a little known Mike and The Mechanics number, The Kinks Sunny Afternoon (ironic for some of the audience!) and Jace Everett I Want to Do Bad Things With You (a lot of empathy in the room for this one!). The irony and well-known melody of Sunny Afternoon, goes down a storm. My rendition of the not so well-known love ballad by Mike and The Mechanics proves to be a bridge too far, and receives vacant expressions and deafening silence! Whilst here, I’ve had the privilege to learn from, and work with, an extremely dedicated and talented young music teacher. Unexpected, and soon to be lost in the recently announced moneysaving government cutbacks.

Days 1–300

Day 256: My Song Sorry for Myself You got me feeling sorry for myself,

Now you know that’s not where its at. I know perfectly well I’m free, To be who I want to be,

And there’s no turning back! You got me feeling sorry for myself, Never thought I’d be such a drag!

Now I’d give up my heart and soul, To people I don’t even know, Just to get it back.

You got me feeling sorry for myself,

Had me eating right out of your hands. And you probably feel some pain,

Now I’m stuck here bound and chained, And I’m no longer in your plans.

105

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Day 260: Learn the Rules Learn the rules then play better! Prison life comes with a set of rules, several sets! Some set by Her Majesty, some by the Governor and interpreted by the guards, and the rest made up by the population. The game of prison is a tricky one for the new and uninitiated. But, even the novice, such as myself, can learn to play it better! My Prison Rules: Neither a bully or bullied be. Perseverance is priceless. With experience comes knowledge, and prison life does get easier with time and knowledge.

Keep your own counsel, and your own company — most of the time. Be respectful and expect respect in return. Be helpful and get help. The prison staff aren’t always the enemy.

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Day 280: Time Spent Crawling ‘You need to spend time crawling through the darkness to appreciate standing in the sun’. And that sunlight, I can only imagine, will feel so good for the rest of my life. I hope that I never forget these dark days, and always remember to appreciate the simple pleasures that we all take for granted, the simple pleasures that every day serves us up. But, forget, and take for granted, I will. In 450 days from now, I will.

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300 Days: Giorno Trecento Three hundred days with nothing better to do than learn another language. When on bail and having to report to the police station every so often, a duty solicitor advised me not to worry too much because even if I was sent to jail I could spend my time positively, just as a colleague of his had done. Without the normal day-to-day time consuming worries and commitments, his colleague spent his time writing and learning another language. I took his advice. Whilst in an open prison, I’ve also been given the opportunity to benefit myself (and the prison!), by organizing a community project planning and teaching a cookery course for widowers. This has meant that I go out through the prison gates to work in a nearby community centre and benefit from working in the real world, eating real food. The old chaps were so appreciative, and this is one of the best and most rewarding things I’ve done whilst in prison. This of course showed the Prison Service in a good light and promoted it as a progressive, forward-thinking and caring institution for all concerned. Living in a prison is no different than being free in so many ways. The old adage — You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours — is the most obvious. If you learn to play the prison game, life inside can be far more bearable. I would advise anybody about to go inside to take a skill and a pleasant attitude with them. Most in demand are inmates with general construction, teaching or cookery qualifications. The downside to working in the kitchens is long and unsociable hours. The upside is long and unsociable hours — long hours are filled with something to do, and unsociable hours are a

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plus in a place where there aren’t many people that you care to be sociable with! It’s not hard to make a good impression as most of the people, inmates and officers, with little to do become lazy and unhelpful. Everyone in prison could be more gainfully employed. Prisons could do so much better, but just like all industries and businesses are dependent on good staff and leadership. The business is only as good as it’s weakest link. And what a difficult business to run successfully. I’ve failed more than once to manage a small pub, or restaurant business, so who am I to judge. Who are any of us to judge! But there’s a lot more at stake with a failing prison system than a poorly run pub serving a dodgy pie with soggy chips. There is plenty of evidence that suggests that the prison system needs a new agenda that should be based on productivity and rehabilitation rather than fruitless restraint and boredom. There are some decent and goodly people working and residing in prisons. These folk make most of my days almost bearable. The kindly prison officer Mr R, who always finds the time for humanity with humour in-between his remorseless fag breaks. Principal officer Ms H, whose willingness to help and care for the inmates’ concerns with decency and a smile. My kindly fellow inmate Carl, so concerned about his (and my) appearance always with a jar of hair gel on hand. As if a bevy of blondes may stroll through the prison block at any given moment. Now that’s a positive attitude… and wishful thinking! Only 65 days to go! How did I do it! When I kept my mind busy and adopted a positive can do attitude, it’s was easy enough. When I allowed myself to drown in negativity, it would have been easier to give up, and I have an empathy with the 57 that committed suicide in prisons last year.

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My stay inside has been helped by the comradeship of a few good men and women. The genuine goodness and good humour of most of the prison education teaching staff, that I was privileged to work alongside, has been a blessing. My true friends that have stood by me and some who have travelled a hundred miles for a brief visit that meant so much to me. My mother who only sees the good in me, and my daughter who once saw me as her hero, but now knows the truth and still loves me anyway. And of course Kitty, who tried so hard to support and love me despite my unreasonable controlling ways fuelled by jealousy and a fear of losing her, and lack of sympathy and understanding for the sentence she chose to serve on my behalf. She is still with me today however. Our relationship is very different now, and we no longer speak of romance and marriage. That is my greatest sadness. ‘It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything’: Chuck Palahnuik, Fight Club

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Epilogue You have probably noted that my writing has gradually dissipated. The longer I spent in prison the more disenchanted and less motivated I became. Life in prison has destroyed any inspiration I arrived with. I feel like a hamster on a wheel, running as fast as I can, but going nowhere. The loss of my freedom taught me how to get up every morning with no reason to do so, and how to live without will or belief. I also learnt that ‘The State’ creates prisons not to cure, educate, or reform, but to control and dominate human beings. A major benefit and revelation has been my ability to survive the prison food and become fitter despite it. In the year that London hosts the Olympics, I wonder if the Government could make better use of the abundant super-fit prison population and win more medals by promoting a prison squad. Nobody in the free world has as much spare time and energy to spend on fitness regimes as stringent as my incarcerated colleagues. However, I have also witnessed many a short inmate obsessing over the gym in the belief that lifting big weights will add feet and inches to his height. Alas, they only grow wider and look shorter; akin to a squat beer barrel on matchstick legs. Another benefit of prison — no full length mirrors!

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Leaving HMP X.

The Little Book of Prison: A Beginners Guide by Frankie Owens Koestler Platinum Award Winner: An easy-to-read prison survival guide of do's and don'ts. Perfect for anyone facing trial for an offence that may lead to imprisonment, their families and friends, and backed by prisoner support organizations. Packed with humour as well as more serious items —straightforward and highly entertaining. 'By the end of the book, I felt like Frankie Owens was my cell-mate. His style and execution is either perversely skilful or an absolute fluke, but whatever it is, it is certainly good': Prison Service Journal. 'Packed full of witty and wry observations and some extremely pertinent advice': Koestler Award Judges Paperback & ebook | ISBN 978-1-904380-83-2 | 2012 | 112 pages | www.WatersidePress.co.uk

Her Majesty's Philosophers by Alan Smith Informative, entertaining, against the grain, Her Majesty's Philosophers highlights the artificiality of prison life. Building on his Guardian pieces about teaching philosophy in prison this is Alan Smith’s account in extenso. From introducing Plato to ever-changing groups of hard-nosed prisoners to them wrestling with Bentham, Larkin and Shakespeare, it is packed with insights and unexpected turns. 'Both hilarious and devastating… a fascinating picture… we were delighted’: Prisoners Education Trust Newsletter Paperback & ebook | ISBN 978-1-904380-95-5 | 2013 | 216 pages | www.WatersidePress.co.uk

Will Phillips

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Captures the essence of the sudden incarceration of a previously respectable white collar offender whose reputation and comfortable life have been turned upside down. Not only from self-interest, does he try to explain the futility of locking up people like himself making the book of interest to prison reformers as well as general readers.

Leaving HMP X

‘A fascinating insight into prison life’

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

Will Phillips

Will Phillips is a singer-songwriter and performer whose on-stage experiences include as lead singer in bands and working in musicals. Having also worked as a chef and catering events consultant and organizer, in 2010 he was shocked to find himself in prison.

A Good Man Inside

Diary of a White Collar Prisoner

The diary of one man’s experiences of his time in prison written over 300 days as he reels from and makes sense of being under lock and key. A white collar criminal he sees himself as someone who should not really be in prison — as ‘a good man’ for whom his incarceration is doubly punitive, not practically necessary or achieving much other than the degradation and powerlessness of being in prison. But as time passes he accepts his fate and settles down to the regime, helping others and using the experience to best advantage.

A GOOD MAN INSIDE

A Good Man Inside

Illustrated by the author. www.WatersidePress.co.uk

Will Phillips

WATERSIDE PRESS

Putting justice into words

WATERSIDE PRESS