Episode 19 - Violence Is A Badge Of Honour

No one in their right mind would want to stay here longer than one night in this cockroach infested sewer.

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 19 Violence Is A Badge Of Honour. It is four months since I descended the stairs from the court and subsequently, my last day of freedom. Hours later, I arrived here in the back of a G4S meat wagon. Time cannot pass any quicker than each second, each minute, consistent as the last. And yet I've come to understand that time can appear to pass more quickly, more slowly, depending on circumstances. T said this morning during the love call that I haven't complained once. It sounds flattering, but I find it hard to believe. Maybe love is blind. She said I should write a survival guide to prison. I couldn't help suggesting it might be a good idea to make it through to the other end first, as we're only at the pocket sized version presently. The words I'm repeating the most to myself are patience and tolerance, rise above it, be true to yourself, and maybe it isn't going really wrong, but going really right. And don't rant, but write. I try to find peace and serenity amongst the madness and chaos. Referring to Kipling, I try to keep my head while all those around me are losing theirs. I practice humility, or should I say, I experience it. A spark here ignites into a raging inferno such is the combustible tension. One has to wise up quickly to the notion of expect the unexpected. And there are no guarantees. Such as the bed that you wake up in will be the one that you later sleep in. There are no rules or boundaries between inmates. It's lawless and out of control. It feels near impossible to trust anyone. I wonder if this is really true, or is it as a result of the traumatic experience I've endured? In prison, one has to consider carefully almost every word one says. Every action has the potential to create an unexpected reaction, minute by minute. The atmosphere is intense and here between the walls, the place is wired on a frequency that society is not in tune with. Somehow, by becoming a number instead of a person, a father or a son, a partner to a loved one, we become faceless and meaningless to the system and society. What does a person do when violence is a badge of honour? Somehow, I'm managing to navigate the treachery, egos and intimidation. Toenails was high on jail talk at the table tonight. Classic corner of his mouth prison stereotype. Informing the lads about Walton quoted as Europe's toughest prison, or one of them. I smiled at the irony as I downed my curry and fruit rice. I could have left after three weeks, and if the truth be known, I can leave at any time to a Cat C prison if I put my request in. But if you wish to test your character, then I believe only tough over a long period of time to be a true measure. However, I retain one caveat. Surviving in a notorious prison is one thing, but making it through to the other side, not bitter, angry, or resentful, or worse, deeply affected by the trauma, is another thing altogether. Last week, there were 17 incidents in one day. It was a Thursday. Officers say that they are as vulnerable as the inmates, and their morale is at an all time low. A young female officer. She's twenty one. Well. It's noticeable how immune she has become to the reality of this wretched place. A young woman, the same age as my daughter, who already displays the signs of crossing to the dark side. I wonder, what does a young woman see in a place like this, and for not much more than twenty thousand pounds a year? The mind boggles. Does she enjoy the power? Does she enjoy the attention, especially the worst of what men shout in her direction, and of which I am not repeating, such is the graphic baseness. It's hard to make sense what she sees as a career or purposeful employment. For certain, her parents would be shocked and terrified for her safety if they saw five minutes of what I experience and observe. It may sound cliched, but it does feel like the walls have ears and the bars have eyes, and loose lips certainly carry severe consequences. It's easy to see how lads are filled with paranoia. The easiest option is not being caught up in toxic chats, and think twice before you answer, what do you think? I try to keep myself busy. It's the easiest way to avoid being drawn into the relentless prison talk, consisting of crime, trials, sentences, bullshit, and bullying of one kind or another. No one In their right mind would want to stay here longer than one night in this cockroach infested sewer. I'm lucky. For a terrible situation in a horrendous place, I have a good job that to a large extent protects me and affords me the perks that I value and appreciate, and of which I never take for granted. The food isn't great, but it's far better than the wings. Officers have it better too. They're not on the wings anymore. Although reception, the processing hub of prison, carries an air of cushiness in general, it is still a combustible space that can have serious incidents of its own. It can go off in the holding room at least a couple of times per week. Lads come back from trials or have just been sentenced, and they land here like a tornado, anger and violence exploding in every direction. Ship outs, they're always trouble, lads who are being shipped out are often surprised without any notice. That's happening almost daily at the moment. Lads, if they're not violent with each other, tend to direct their anger and rage in the toilet's direction. Either smashing them up or pulling them off the wall, to leaving their business everywhere as a final protest. Ironically, it is us fellow inmates, reception workers, that have to clean it all. But they don't give a fuck. I'm lucky because I have T. For without her, this really would be tough. The love calls, the letters that we write continually to each other. The single visit per week that I earn as a result of work. Otherwise, that would only be two a month, and only for an hour. Life in most parts of the prison is far grimmer than my situation. T not only loves me, but she believes in me, and that's what drives me on, and prevents me from lapsing into feeling lost or worthless. If one has no meaning or purpose in their lives, then one is left with only the disease of dissatisfaction. I miss my daughter as much as I miss T. I'm not in her life, and she's not in mine. It's the final term of university, and that's down in London. A world away from here. She's making a new life for herself, and I'm thrilled. She's been away from the terrible headlines the media have been printing and broadcasting. She's had to deal with a lot, and yet kept her composure and maintained her results. It makes me think of all the families and loved ones, how their lives are impacted needlessly and unnecessarily. If there are 84, 000 prisoners in the UK, then imagine the pain, heartache, struggle, and sense of loss families and loved ones are feeling. The numbers become quite staggering very quickly. Imagine. How many more families and loved ones are victims? Especially murder, or life changing attacks and rape, or child abuse? And all the devastation and fallout that consumes and overwhelms their lives as a result. In the end, it's horrible to contemplate that loved ones connected to any of us suffer in ways that are as difficult, if not worse, than any of us inside here. It's a mess of some magnitude, to which there are few happy outcomes. Sadly, we only often truly value and appreciate anyone or anything when it is gone. Tensions exist everywhere in prison. It's unavoidable. I try to remain impartial and stay in my own lane as often as I can for as long as I can. Outside, T is by herself, working harder than anyone I know just to survive, drowning in debt and the fallout from the past five years. How can I possibly take anyone else seriously, when I have a woman in my life such as her? When someone believes in you, it helps you to believe in yourself. No matter how hard, bad or tough the situation.