Episode 14 - Ringside For The Action

As a result of this morning's stabbings and slashings, the inmates are armed to the teeth with blades to protect themselves. Life in here is as fantastical as it is scary.

During the three and a half years I was in prison I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales From The Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive, whilst incarcerated.

Most names have been changed. The events have not.

This is a Jekyll & Pride production.

Producer: Trevessa Newton

Title Music taken from The Confession, on the album Crimes Against Poetry (written and performed by The Shadow Poet, produced by Lance Thomas)

Copyright Jekyll & Pride Ltd 2025

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

0:00

During the three and a half years I was in prison, I wrote over a million words by hand. Tales from the Jails is a contemporaneous account of my life, and attempts to thrive rather than merely survive whilst incarcerated. Most names have been changed, but the events have not. Episode fourteen. Ringside For The Action. I started the Listeners' Course today. It's run by the Samaritans in prisons. Selected inmates are trained to provide emotional support to prisoners who are struggling, maybe self harming, or worse, suicidal. The morning began surprisingly eventful. Firstly, we were informed that the training session was cancelled. As I've stated many times, expect the unexpected at any moment. Every day begins with a bad back and a rubbish night's sleep. But as usual, I'm up at 7. 30, three mugs of strong coffee, half an hour of the news and half an hour of reading. Presently, I'm reading The Power of Now by Tolle, and waiting for the melodious sound of the key in the door and the opportunity to make the morning love call to T. But this morning, there were other plans in store for me. Before I could take three steps forward, I was doorstepped by an officer whom I knew from work and was informed I was to give a urine sample, aka a drugs test. I've already done a couple as part of my role in reception. One of the lads said I'll get them the most because I'm nailed on to pass, and the test is good for figures. I asked Mr. R, could I make a quick two minute call to the missus? He was cool, but my instincts felt as though he was a little edgier than normal. However, I sensed the problem wasn't with me. I had nothing to worry about, and I stuck to my two minute love call. But when I returned to Mr. R, he was stood in the doorway of another pad and waiting for another prisoner. I knew who occupied the cell, and by the look on Mr. R's face, drama was on the way. The lad had a reputation, and he and Mr. R knew he was probably failing a piss test. I was ringside, less than five meters away from the action, and observed the events unfold. The kid, who was on remand for drugs offences and gang wars, had already been caught up in a serious incident a week ago. He was involved in a fracas that was more of a slashing incident in the gym toilets and rumors were flying around that reprisals were already happening outside as a result. The kid was giving Mr. R. grief from inside his cell, reluctant it would appear to do a drugs test. Suddenly, he bolts out of his cell and across the wing and into another pad. Now Mr. R. is a laid back officer, but not stupid. He's been tethered to those keys for at least twenty years. He knew what was coming down the track the moment he was handed our names on the list, such are the years of experience he owns. Next thing, the kid reappears playing with his groin, and there was a wet patch. Mr. R had the look about him that said, really? It looked obvious and ridiculous, even to a blind person. Before you know it, Mr. R is holding a rubber glove that was obviously filled with piss. One of the tricks to avoid detection is to use a sample collected from an inmate who will pass, and carry it in a rubber glove which is pricked open when one has to do the deed. The drama unfolded like a comedy sketch, and the more it did, the more likely it was going to get out of hand. The kid's attempt to outwit a test were calamitous and we were both still being taken for a drugs test. I kept silent, walked a few steps behind. After all, it was great content unravelling before me. I was not to be disappointed. The three of us made our way through the education wing, and then onto the battlefield which is G wing. This is Dali surreal, but painted with only black and bleak on its palette. Suddenly, B Wing didn't seem so bad. This is where and when the kid became agitated, and then bolted away like a greyhound out of the traps. Within seconds, he was up a flight of stairs and attacking another prisoner. Action and mayhem was exploding before me. I found myself ringside as guards flung themselves across landings, stairs and lads, and tried their best to suffocate what was potentially a fatal incident for someone. Thankfully, it was over before it got ugly. But the wing in the prison went into lockdown as a result. Somehow, I ended up looking and feeling like a lost soul, stood there on the wing by myself. When the kid reappeared, he was cuffed and heading down to the block. Ironically, it's another badge of honour, and the lads vocalised their support for him through the cell doors in true Scouse form. Ten minutes later, I found myself in the depths of Walton by myself, contributing a urine sample for the greater cause, on cue too, to my relief. The deed was done in seconds. I've witnessed tough blokes and loud scallies struggle with the contribution and shrink to a silent embarrassment when they couldn't pee under pressure. Or, as Carl likes to put it, they get stage fright. Mr R dropped me off at work, and the surprises kept coming. The Listeners' Course was back on, and the news of the big event this morning gets spread throughout Walton like a forest fire, and that I was the eyes and ears to it all. I did drop my favorite line to the lads. There is only one truth to be believed, and that is the one that leaves these lips. They loved it, especially the calamitous shout. J. K. and Kinder Egg, all said in harmony at the same time, what does calamitous mean? I don't mind saying it was a beautiful moment having such a laugh. I gave them the full dramatics treatment too. Why waste it if you've got it, I thought. First time I felt like my old self in a long time. The Listeners' Course made me giggle as much as it made me think. The lads with me were a proper motley crew and were probably the best content for a movie screenplay I've ever experienced. From jaw dropping, no, you can't say that, to side splitting, no, you can't say that either. There was a welcomed but surprising peace and calm that we all felt in the chapel. Can you believe that four old people from the Samaritans were the best link we had to the outside world? But authenticity seemed to glow from them like angels, and that was something I craved and appreciated. I witnessed many, if not all, of the lads wanting to do something purposeful. There were genuine moments of kindness and warmth. They asked us for words that we must all abide by. Mine was confidentiality. I wanted an atmosphere whereby we could speak freely and be ourselves without fear of reprisals or mudslinging. No one disagreed. I was the oldest on the course. All the lads knew me or of me one way or another, and more than a couple came over and said I was made for the role. I did enjoy this morning. I felt a strange bonding took place. The harsh reality of prison life resumed at 11. 40, when I returned to work after the Samaritans hour, which did include coffee and biscuits. The talk was still of the morning's drama and events and the wind ups that go with the territory. Light hearted by the good lads, malicious by the prize prick. I think from now on, he will be known as the prize prick but it will be interesting to see how many times that description appears on the page. However, today was a tale of two halves. The second began when the Manchester lads arrived back at about four thirty. I first saw Benji. He's the one who everyone describes as... well, I shan't repeat that. It's of its time and old fashioned. I think it's fair to say he's on the spectrum, possessing qualities that probably make him susceptible to being misguided or manipulated. The type you instantly like. Always polite. Always the friendliest and most laid back. He strolled over to me to tell me the result, although I'd already heard. He and Chappie, one of the co-accused, had hung juries and would have a retrial. The other two received a guilty, as did H on Friday. Nineteen days the jury has been out. At the beginning of the trial, his hair was short. Now he sports a sort of Brillo pad hair style akin to Paul Michael Glazier of Starsky and Hutch fame. And it didn't end there. He also had a pair of Elvis sideburns. He was surprisingly laid back, and as per usual, more interested in what was on offer for tea this evening. I asked him how he felt, and to be honest he was cool. Not happy, but at the same time grateful he hadn't been found guilty like the others. As he left to return to the wing, the guilty lads arrived with the haunted look. What do you do or say? Their lives are now changed forever in some surreal way, just like the victims of the crime. The smallest, size fourteen and a half shirt, looks like a boy, and the hardest looking, who usually has the most cheek and bravado, well, he is now shrunk to a broken man. The nurse called him in. I think they were both offered some form of sedation for the night, and then there's an awkward chat about suicide. I imagined for a moment that if I was a qualified Listener I could be called out to lads just like this. The rumours are they're facing 25 to 30 years. How does each feel sat in their cells right now? The look on their faces was that of men on death row, at the end of their lives. Not men at the beginning. How do you process such devastating news? The fall from hopes and prayers to the brutal reality of what faces them... life as they knew it is over. On a lighter note, and once again overflowing with irony, one of the lads on a drug trial- I ironed his shirt yesterday- he only ended up complaining in court that one of the juries stunk of cannabis, skunk to be precise, and after all, it does have a distinctive smell. This escalated to the whole jury being sent home and warned today as a result. Apparently, the rumours are that jury members were smoking it outside the court building. The mind boggles that a jury has to be warned, although no one was questioned and no one removed, when they are judging on a drugs trial. Makes you wonder. Another alarming and ironic announcement is, it has been said, as a result of this morning's stabbings and slashings, that inmates are armed to the teeth with blades to protect themselves. Life in here is as fantastical as it is scary. I listen to the radio. Raiders of the Lost Ark is playing and I am reminded of T's words. Adventure lies in wait for me around every corner. It's a cross between a zoo and an asylum and surreal verging on mass psychosis. Funeral FM is playing inside our cell, as the lunatics terrorise each other, out on the wing. The content is incredible.