Episode 15 - Plugged, Stabbings + Lockdown

Daily, I see graphic scenes as a result of the blade slicing through flesh. It's like a cross between a war zone and a slasher movie.

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

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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 15 Plugged, Stabbings Lockdown. HMP is in lockdown again. The fifth time in as many days. The Northwest Squad are in. They're padbusters in riot gear with a zero tolerance to any and all prisoners. And they've got dogs with them too. Mr. H says it's the worst he's ever seen the prison service in 25 years. The real problem is the blades. Lads have been getting slashed daily for the first week or so and now it's at a level whereby inmates are claiming they are carrying them for protection, such is the anxiety and fear. The other morning, when I was on the drugs test and it went off, that was the catalyst that's been fueling the escalation and why the prison is presently in lockdown. The word is ringleaders are being targeted as a result. The interesting observation worth noting is nothing seems to come of the epidemic of attacks taking place. People end up at best scarred for life or worst case scenario, clinging onto life after suffering horrific wounds. Daily, I see graphic scenes as a result of the blade slicing through flesh. It's like a cross between a war zone and a slasher movie. The safest place, although not guaranteed, is locked behind the door in one's cell, or, if you're lucky, down here in reception working, away from the madness, chaos, and violence that is sweeping through the wings. Once again, the Samaritans course is being cancelled. And to compound the situation, the gym is closed too. The disruption ripples through the prison like a terrorist alert, and lockdown is as much a punishment as it is for our protection. As I write, a sniffer dog enters my snug workspace, the stores room. It's a Springer Spaniel, wagging its tail, but on duty. Some of the lads are playing chess, and I'm listening to Funeral FM and writing. The s prightly Springer does a tour of our space. The lads at the chessboard are nervous but try not to show it. Tensions are high. The dog moves on and takes the moron holding the leash with it. The lads smile at me with that, thank you, Lord look about them. I commented that I'd need counselling if the dog struck gold. Or on second thoughts, maybe it's the dog that needs counselling. Because if it finds what it's looking for, then it's concealed in only one place, and that ain't pretty. In HMP, there is only one place drugs or a mobile phone can be stashed and secure, and that's the plugging place. One way in, and the same way out. I've contemplated countless times what is tough. What is strong? What is love? Now I'm asking, what is normal? Because that's as changing, if not perplexing, as the other questions. A large number of lads will be plugged today, of that I'm certain. Thankfully, I'm away from the wings and dramas taking place. However, I'm not free of the hassle. The tantrums and tiaras, the motives and agendas, the cliques and the pricks and the alpha malisms that percolate in the workplace are reaching boiling point. My fear today is that my sanctuary, my little storeroom, is being hijacked. My peace and tranquility is slowly ebbing away. But as with all things, I've learned to take it in my stride. I'm now in the one place where one's character is tested to its limits. Reaching Zen status in prison will be one of the greatest achievements of my life. I smile at the thought of not why I'm here, but what I choose to do while I'm here. When a person has a life changing moment, then he or she would be a fool not to put it to good use. However, nothing and no one is sacred. The polarization between my life pre HMP and present can be entertaining as much as frustrating. 99 percent of everything I do has to be a compromise. I'm embedded in a culture that is constantly debilitating, grinding, gnawing away at one's patience and tolerance. Even the chaplain's patience is tested. Imagine all of the above, day in and day out. The only switching off or modicum of peace is the dead of night, and then, if you're appreciating it, then you're not asleep and probably something is on your mind. It's worse than Groundhog Day. Often, I sit and wonder, what is the purpose of treating us all so badly? But then I reflect on how badly the lads treat each other. It's a vicious circle. What is worse is that there appears no appetite to change it. I find myself writing about the pain I hide, separated from T, my daughter, my mother and John Boy. In one hand. I'm spoiled with love, yet on the other I'm incarcerated in a loveless place. I try not to feel sorry for myself because I know my loved ones are suffering in ways that are unfair. Privacy in prison is always in front of someone else. There are no quiet corners to sit and reflect or shed a tear or just feel sad for a moment. All perfectly normal and natural human emotions. We can barely use the toilet in private, cannot eat in private and for 99 percent of us, cannot sleep in private. Almost everything you do has to be shared in the company of another inmate. Prison and prisoners will strip you of everything without a shred of mercy if you allow it. Imagine, sitting on the toilet but on display to strangers. I find this tough, but try not to show it. However, I watch the news and the poor people without warning being displaced, becoming migrants and refugees. Ours is tough, but it isn't as tough as theirs. And I try to imagine being in their position, even more helpless, vulnerable, in a country where you don't know another person, in a place with people who don't want you, and not knowing where your next meal might come from. It's bad for us. But worse for them. Maybe life teaches us not to take things for granted. Maybe it's the case of not why me, but why not me? Men become overwhelmed by fears and toxic thoughts in a place such as this. One cannot wander off and go for a walk There is no escape from the relentless unpleasantness. The unpleasantries that men wish to inflict in the name of being notorious. Proving something to themselves by inflicting pain and misery on others. In here, men want to see others suffer. There's no place to scream. And if there was, there is no one to listen.