Episode 18 - Prison Gym

If you want to study psychology, then come to prison.

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 18 Prison Gym It's the 9th of May, 2016. I used to say in the office days that nothing and no one was sacred in Liverpool. I believe this phrase is to be taken to a whole new level and meaning sat in HMP. Too many men in here want to humiliate you, undermine you, discredit you, all for their own entertainment or pack kudos. Don't get me wrong, there are funny moments, albeit often tinged with a hint of the caustic, but in a prison full of villains and criminals, and most of them alpha males of one kind or another, all chipping away for the chief pecking order, it creates a constant state of tension, and genuine funny moments are rare, unless you look through the ironic lens. If you are considerate, or caring it is interpreted as being soft or weak or stupid, and a target to be taken advantage of. If you have anything about you, i. e. are more intelligent, wealthier, or speak with a tone that sounds educated and has bypassed the tougher side of society, maybe privileged in some way, then they will snide and sneer until you snap. They thrive on breaking a person and mock in a sickening euphoria if they crack you to tears. The more you have, then the more they want to see you lose it. Too many want to see you suffer, and feel miserable pain. From where I'm sat, it only represents the discontentment of themselves and the darkness that consumes them. Unless you are one of the boys with form or history and carrying notoriety, whose reputations make you want to avoid them. Versus the jackals, the headcases, the loan thugs and foot soldiers, all looking to make a name for themselves. Versus the rogues, the scallies and the smiling opportunists. There is nowhere to hide in here, and if they are really on your case, riding you like a wounded bull, being baited and badgered until you drop. If that's not enough, they continue when you're behind a cell door. They call this piece of nastiness terrorizing. The constant bombardment of the group or pack. Working together and gathering the attention of the rest of the wing. It becomes a vicious asylum that never rests. If you want to study psychology, then come to prison. It's the 11th of May, 2016. One of the guys left today. He was a Welsh guy who lived in London called Peter. He was 62 years old and in here for not paying his POCA. POCA stands for the Proceeds of Crime Act. He says that he did and he can prove the payments. But when he turned up at court, the judge ordered him down the stairs with 12 months to serve. He said that his barrister informed him that POCA is the most penal law ever passed, taking us back to the bleak dark ages of witch hunts and crippling punishments. Peter was a chain smoking, gravel voiced, dry wit. He made the teas and coffees for the officers down in reception. Some called him the screws' bitch, but he was just a gent, doing his time. The line I tend to use when guys leave, one by one, is everyone's day comes around. You just have to keep busy and out of trouble. It's an unusual feeling when one of the guys departs. We're all happy for them to get out of this wretched place, but secretly, we all wish it was us. Maybe the feeling I want to describe is, it's bittersweet. Four months in, and I've witnessed and experienced up close and personal, that these six or seven guys leave with whom I'd formed brief but quite strong relationships with. It's funny, how these relationships formed so quickly and under severe circumstances, and without much choice due to the lack of control. We make the best of a poor, if not very bad situation. I'm an inmate in HMP during historic times. Cut backs to the bone, with staff openly saying it's having a devastating impact. For the past month, there has been no overtime for officers. The place is on the verge of meltdown, possibly even worse. Slashings are almost a daily occurrence and tobacco is not the currency, but violence and intimidation. A letter in Inside Times, on page three to be precise, says everybody has to prove how hard they are or suffer as a victim. I suppose maybe this applies to most in here, albeit I don't believe it does to me. Of course, I'm aware no one is safe as flare ups can manifest out of nothing in the blink of an eye. But I go about my time in a different way to the rest of the lads, avoiding as much of the bullshit and not engaging with the space cadets. H has been slammed with 35 years rec. This means, you serve 35 years before being potentially eligible for parole. He's a young man of 30 who will be a pensioner if and when he is ever released. The more hardened guys in here say he should just end it now. But is that so easy? Does a man give up so easily? There are so many questions I would like to put to him. Is he in denial of what happened? Or is it clear now as to the gravity of what took place? How does one survive day to day? What hope is there left of a future? Do you try to justify what happened? Or do you regret it and now feel remorse, but a helpless type of remorse? What does a man think when he puts his head on the pillow? What does he dream? What is now normal in an abnormal place? H is a young, good looking lad, and probably on the outside was a sorted type of guy and successful criminal. Trendy, with a cool swagger about him. But now, he's a shadow of his former self. The irony is comparing him with Michael, who seems to be handling his time much better. Spookingly well, in fact. T says that there is a real fascination with the subject of murder and murderers. Piers Morgan is presently on TV interviewing. He's on some programme to do with cold killer women. He asked the female prisoner, what do you take responsibility for? His interviewee doesn't answer in the way that he expects, and a four foot nine little woman starts singing. Peter will be back in London, maybe in the casino, but at some point, he'll be back in his own bed. I can only dream of the thought of being back in the big bed with the woman I love. My day will come, and I'll get my turn to walk free out of the gates but not for a while yet. Peter probably thinks of us all in here and the same routine as he savours his freedom. Gone are the days when he looked like he struggled. The truth is, I look at most guys in here and watch them struggle. One of the biggest perks with reception is getting to the gym. It's not a given, but I'm averaging four to five times a week. And the over 40s on a Sunday, if it's on. That's a bit hit and miss at the moment, due to staff shortages and officers, including the gym staff, being called out and used as backup when the alarms go off. That's happening as many as ten times a day. When an officer presses the alarm call, it's across the open channel. Whoever is nearest to the incident piles in. It's mayhem. And everything taking place in the vicinity is over. Lads stuck on the wings or behind the door might be lucky to get a couple of gym sessions a week. The gym is good for everyone's mental health. And for just under an hour, there's relatively little trouble as we all focus on training. The equipment is old, battered, and it looks like they could have filmed Rocky 1 here. That aside, there's a handful of treadmills and cross trainers, a couple of bench pressing set ups, a leg press too, and a couple of racks of steel dumbbells. Most of the benches are torn, or the sponges disappeared, and gaffer tape appears more than vinyl leather. There's usually about 40 to 50 lads in the space that can accommodate half of that, and the testosterone levels are always on show. The toilet has half a door on it, so if one of the lads needs to go, then the rest of us have to endure it. There are plenty of fatties who use the prison opportunity to shed stones, not pounds. There is a lad who spends the whole session on the cross trainer, and who has lost over 10 stone in less than a year on remand. He told me his one wish is to have surgery to remove the rolls of excess stretched skin. That's now getting him down, apparently. I've been training with Big Reeve, my new padmate. He's into his training and so am I. The prick, Toenails, watches everything I do. All of the time. Even after four months, he's still trying everything to upset my day. His favourite is to try and derail my gym. Colluding and conspiring constantly. One of his favourite tricks is to volunteer me for something that clashes with the gym. But I've called him out on that now, pulled him in front of the lads. I said, why are you obsessed with me? And why do you have a gimp posse to do your dirty work? His head fell off. It was in front of officers too, just to make it hurt even more. There's one thing I've learned. Lads, even if they're not fussed on you, respect you in the gym if you train hard, especially if you're mature. It hasn't gone unnoticed with the reception lads. I'm very fit and Toenails fucking hates it. Anyway, I know it was petty, or a bit mischievous. Where's my head at? But at the end of each session, when we're stood hanging around to be escorted back to the wings, or work, normally I do some extra pull ups on the bars. Otherwise it's prison bullshit talk for ten minutes. This time, I pulled something a bit special out. And instead of doing fifty pull ups, I did fifty wipers. No warning, upside down on the bars and go. The place fell silent. I mean, you don't know if it's admiration, or if they're about to fill you in. Luckily, Big Reeve was super impressed, joking he thought he had a free ticket to Cirque du Soleil. Rat Face laughed uncomfortably with, what the fuck are you doing? You're in your 50s! I told him straight, that my friend, is the magic.