Episode 17 - Badder Than Bad + Madder Than Mad

There is a war, a battlefield, a frenzy. And someone horrible, never further than a few feet from where you stand, at any one time.

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 17 Badder Than Bad Madder Than Mad. I encounter an interesting eclectic palette of people day by day as kitchen orderly, cleaner, and multi purpose reception worker. I'm starting to make more conversation with more of the lads between my daily job and trips to the gym. I find I'm nodding and saying, alright, to more people as I move around the prison. Two trips to the cooking kitchens a day is a cross between match day and an abattoir. The friendlier encounters are handshakes. I'm old school, and it's no bro or high fives or the clutch. That probably has a different name but I'm not up to speed with that. I'm learning bits of the crime and prison language too. My padmate helps me with that. Ghosty is when your visitor does not turn up. On a personal level, my heart goes out to that person. But the lads are far more cutting and cruel. ROTLs. I'm still a bit unsure, but I think it concerns days out or home leaves. Scooby doos equals screws Although I still refer to them as guards or officers, and I have never called one of them boss, that prison trait I will not be adopting. The Unpleasant One now has a new name, and not christened by myself, which I feel makes it more powerful and more fun. Toenails is who he shall be written as from now on. He is the type who thrills in sickening behaviour, who mocks those who struggle and who thrives on their misery. A vulnerable prisoner died yesterday. At first, it was rumoured as suicide, and he was in his element. It was later confirmed as natural causes. Although suicide can be seen as desperation, it can also be interpreted as a person who has reached hopelessness and powerlessness, and parked in a dark place. But in here, and by him, it is a weakness. He's been gnawing away at the K Kid, forever making fun of him or trying to bully and intimidate him. The Kid, if I haven't mentioned before, is a dead ringer for Alan Harper in Two and a Half Men. He loves Hugo Boss. He's goofy at times, stupid at others, but equally, not as soft as he pretends and not averse to hanging out or sniffing around the names and the villains on the wing. Personally, I think he does himself no favours and they're only entertaining him for their own motives and officers aren't stupid. They spend more time watching camera screens than out on the wing. He's either willingly taking part or he's being bullied and manipulated. That's how it will be perceived. It sounds ridiculous in the outside world but the role as reception worker is seen as a trusted position. Do something stupid, and you're out of reception and not long after, shipped out too. K has been after a music system for weeks, and after falling in love with mine when we were padded up for a couple of nights, I tipped him off that there was an old battered one downstairs. But the unsavory one had grabbed it. He'd done it when I was on the lookout for one, but when I didn't rise to the occasion and didn't take the bait, it was discarded. I let the K Kid know that it had been lying there for a month, but I also advised running it by The Creature first. After all, it's prison rules and prison pettiness. K's first mistake was not taking my advice and the second was thinking that he might be able to go via a different route. Today, Toenails was in typical grumpy mood, rude, asking where it was. I knew he'd heard K must have it merely by asking around. He now had the perfect opportunity to confront The Kid, bearing in mind this was a worthless piece of junk that hardly worked. And he didn't need it. Well, he fueled a drama and caused a scene and was badmouthing the kid. But what I'd really like to put down on paper is this. It hasn't gone unnoticed. He lives by his jailhouse rules, his pecking orders, and being self promoted as the Oracle of Walton. No matter who you are in here or any other HMP, the number one rule is no grassing or snitching. Not only did he give The Kid a hard time, but he must have lost sight of what he was saying or doing, because he openly went to a guard and told him The Kid was trying to take it for his pad, which is a complete no go. He threw The Kid under the bus. To the normal person, what's the fuss? But in here, it's the number one rule and guys are seriously injured to within an inch of their lives for crossing that line. No one has said anything. Well, not to him. But we all know. The irony is that Toenails shines a light on my quest for what is strong, what is tough, and what is love? I'm not angry, bitter or resentful about him. Why should I be? Sometimes I feel like shaking his hand and saying thank you. He tries to make my life and one or two others' lives as miserable and unpleasant as possible with his sly and devious behaviour, whereas, it's demonstrating my test of character. I told The Kid that I would sort him his own stereo. It was worth it just to see the delight on his face after the rough couple of hours. What a week this is turning out to be. HMP's deteriorating rapidly into the Wild West without law and order. Attacks are daily now, and so are the lockdowns. The place is split between the fear of being caught up in reprisals or not being armed if you're suddenly attacked. Far too many thrive on the entertainment spurting blood brings. This morning, a young guy was brutally slashed down the face. I saw him thirty minutes after the event. He was sat down on the wing waiting to be taken to hospital. If I'm honest, there didn't seem much urgency about it. An unnerving sign that it is becoming the norm. It is like being an actor in a horror movie that spirals out of control, blurring reality. The horror show does sometimes have its amusements though, and the guy with the supposed mobile phone hidden in the plug place was cringe, but weirdly entertaining. K told us how one of the lads stripped himself this morning, covered himself in oil and souped the floor in case officers stormed his cell to ship him out. All a storm in a teacup, but what madness. Imagine the anti climax when they knocked on the door and told him he was only being moved to another wing, not another prison. Which begs the question, why was he so desperate to stay here? The guy in the block has been given a sickening ordeal, and somehow lads got to him and put their own waste into his mouth. I can't think of anything more sickening or degrading. But he hasn't shut up for two nights in the block threatening revenge. If life hasn't thrown enough surprises at me, then finding myself in front of John Mack on a legal visit is on my list of'never in a million years'. More so because I'd sacked him as my solicitor five months ago. Where do you begin? Where do I begin? To be sat in front of him after all of what's happened and in the orange knobhead tabard. The only thing to do was rise above it. He looked nervous when I entered the room and commented he half expected me to go for him. This is the man who said five minutes before the jury's verdict, I don't know what you're worrying about. They cannot find you guilty. There isn't a single piece of evidence or witness against you. You can only imagine the level of irony in the moment. He was here on behalf of my civil case against the authorities that dated back to 2010. Most say it's the reason I'm here now. My legal team advised me 72 hours after bursting through my doors that they believed action, or the action taken by Trading Standards and Merseyside Police, was unlawful and malicious. In real terms, but not official, it's called a Demolition Job. Designed to wipe out your business and your reputation in one go. There were no arrests, no charges, and no stop now injunction to cease trading. Instead they removed everything from the offices including computers, all records, all operating systems, and all evidence that would permit me a defence in the future. They left only desks and chairs and empty cabinets. Over 50 people end up losing their jobs and careers as a result. And no one seemed to care. The legals advised that once the business was lost as a result of the unlawful action that I should seek a claim for damages and losses, etc. Based on legitimate grounds and legal advice, we pursued a multi million pound claim through the civil courts. It was for losses exceeding five million pounds and for two and a half years, we pursued until a judge finally got fed up with the opposition's stalling and delaying tactics. Whereby, he announced in 2012 to the legals on behalf of Trading Standards and Liverpool City Council, it's pay up, or charging time. Merseyside Police were in the firing line too. One hundred days after that instruction, I was interviewed for the first time without a single piece of evidence put before me. The legals said, if had not been found guilty, the claim would have exceeded 10 million pounds. John Mack was here to inform me officially that as a result of the wrong outcome, I cannot pursue the civil action, albeit five months after the verdict. It would be reckless to suggest I know how he must have felt, me here and him having failed, but we left on surreal, polite terms. The lad attacked and slashed this morning, returned from hospital tonight with a wound that stretched from above his eyebrows to below his chin. It was a brutal, sickening sight that made me feel sick and wanting to cry. And still inmates and officers make completely inappropriate comments. It was said he was a grass. The problem is, it's lawless in here. Nothing seems to come from the attacks other than blood, stitches and scars. Imagine the trauma a person must feel after such a vicious attack, and worse, carrying a scar that brands you as a grass. There is no support or counselling available, and the best he can hope for is to be moved, but now he's visibly branded. What can I take things for granted? You're always primed and alert, in here, now. There is a war, a battlefield, a frenzy. And someone horrible, never further than a few feet from where you stand, at any one time. Norris, our resident 75 year old terrorist, looked like a tramp yesterday. A homeless person who had lost his dignity. I gave him a pair of size 11 trainers and extra large jogging bottoms. And the lads cheered as he stepped out of his cell for the first time in days. Hopefully, he gets his tag next week and he'll be gone from this wretched place. So life in here is ridiculous to sublime. Liverpool are playing Villarreal in the UEFA Cup semi finals at Anfield. It's a Thursday night in HMP, and I am on top bunk listening to the match with my padmate. As with all things HMP, it is surreal, if not ironic. A legendary footballing mad city known throughout the world, and here we are behind the steel door in the city's notorious prison. We are 1-0 down from the first leg and the atmosphere is tense on the radio but even worse on the wing. I've been saying since I landed here I think our name is on the cup this year and it's been mocked plenty of times. Fans can be so fickle and people have too little faith as far as I'm concerned. We've already had one of the all time legendary games against Dortmund, when we were 2-0 down at Anfield in the first ten minutes and 3-0 on aggregate. We came back to win 4-3 in the final minutes. Anyway, the doors banged to the point that they could come off the hinges as Firmino scored our first goal. And then early into the second half, the second by Sturridge, which sent the place into pandemonium. The wing rattled in shock like a seven on the Richter scale. The atmosphere is polarised by the shouting mixed with the long, silent, breathless pauses. If they score, then we have another mountain to climb, but, as I say, I believe we have our name on the trophy this year and that valuable Champions League spot. When Liverpool are playing in big games, then reception runs like a production line on speed. The officers process the new prisoners virtually with a cattle prod, and the energy and priority is focusing on getting in front of the TV to watch the game. If new nurses or medics are on to do the box ticking, then there is scowling and cursing in their direction. But thankfully, tonight, we were up and the key turned in the door by 7 pm. The eerie silence is only broken by an Everton fan being a prize prick, only then to be threatened by more serious lads on the wing as the third goal goes in. Sturridge again. Nine minutes to go and Mark Lawrenson is saying the magical line, it's all over now. I wish I was at home watching it, but I'd rather be at home with T and no football if that was the deal. It's great to daydream, but that's all it is for now. I'm still experiencing phantom T moments, when I go to hold her, and she isn't there.