Episode 21 - Murder, Masturbation + Mayhem

There are two topics that carry their own stigma, both beginning with M. One is murder, criminal in the extreme, socially and legally unacceptable. The other is masturbation, and carries its own uncomfortable unease, but perfectly normal, and a human condition of the unspoken kind in the real world. Whilst in here, it is a creepy, seedy, unpalatable act that seems to be completely acceptable.

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 21 Murder, Masturbation Mayhem. We awoke this morning at 6. 20 to the news that the UK had voted for Brexit, 52 to 48%, and we'll exit the EU. Farage had already made four statements, according to Dimbleby. By 8. 20, Cameron had resigned, and politics, the markets, and the remainers were in turmoil. The political establishment is rocked to the core. What the future holds does not quite matter to my padmate and I. How can Brexit make things any worse here in Walton? It's all a pantomime. Out there and in here. K has become a bit of a prick lately. Ranging from mouthiness with Jay to running around in frillies supplied by Toenails. Seriously. They were dug out of banned property. Apparently, there's quite a collection built up over the years. For as much as it was done in the name of entertainment, to me it seemed weird and unsettling. K is sadly being manipulated, and would not admit he's being intimidated. And antics like this do him no favours. Even worse, his behaviour and attitude is stretched to believing his own hype. Instead of seeing it how it really is, he's drifted to the realms of delusion and stopped listening to common sense. I've been in his corner and backed him since the day he arrived, but he's becoming a loose cannon, and I'm keeping my distance. My instincts sense his days are numbered, although he thinks he's flying and fooling everyone, including Toenails and officers. K is like a puppy with his tail wagging, compared to Toenails. It was pure jail. We're back from work, behind the door and I'm sat on top bunk decompressing from the day's events. The wing has been quiet for the last couple of weeks and terrorizing through the door seems to be a thing of the past. Albeit, a regular thing in the first couple of months. Hallelujah. I have a new mattress, courtesy of reception. The difference working there is the ability to get some things done, especially the longer I'm here. However, the mattress feels like a slab of concrete, although it's made of sponge, and the blue plastic cover makes you realize you're in a terrible place. Like an asylum in despair. One of our neighbours and another inmate up on the Fours, who's off his head, are verbally abusing each other. It's all a bit juvenile. The sort of, your mother this... your mother that... it's horrible. However, in the middle of the verbal diarrhoea, the one up above dropped the line, I'm a shooter on the outside, kid. Before he could finish the line, I remarked to my padmate, OMG, this will take off. And it did. The asylum collided with the zoo, and most of the wings sneered, jeered, and terrorized him for at least the next hour or two. The'N' word was used. Lots of sex with your fucking mother, and, you're getting it. Just a small sample of the chaos beyond the door. Heavyweight threats are flung around the prison like it's catch the parcel. There is a new kid on the wing and whoever he is, he's stirring up chaos and knows how to fuel it. To add to the evening's madness, there is a waft of green under the door. It was a beautiful aroma that reminded me of the Scouse hippies outside. Magical memories that I treasure, and a reminder of how lucky I've been in life, having shared in so much fun. Synaesthesia, I think is the word I'm looking for. It's a message to the brain. Smelling one thing but being reminded of another. A bit like smelling lavender and thinking of granny. It's impossible to follow anything on the TV. It's the size of a computer monitor with the sound at best like a dodgy VHS video from the 80s. Luxury is using the toilet without someone else watching. Anyway, the wing took off in a frenzy and my padmate listened intently with his face and ear glued to the door like it was a fridge magnet. It was the first time since he arrived ten weeks ago that he'd witnessed the asylum as chaotic as this. The place is full of ironies, paradoxes, polarisation, moments of humour wrapped in barbed wire, and times when you are at the brink of despair, when the place suffocates you with its overpowering selfishness. I've been thinking about my daughter a lot, especially since her visit. I'd been looking forward to it for weeks. She travelled all the way up and came with T. I have no doubt of her love for me. But sometimes it's not what a person says, but how they say it. And as such, in my letter to her, I've chosen my words carefully. But I am hurting. I spoke to T earlier. She said this is my peaceful period, and I'm remarkably calm considering the dire situation, i.e. none of us are safe in here at any time. I suppose that comes with age. The last thing I want is trying to be cool, all sorted, or a big voice, because that will only end in tears. Also, how can you write a book about life and love if all you do is end up fighting and falling out? Slow days ironically have turned into months. Finally, I've been granted legal aid and appointed a barrister from London. This is the shortlived good news. However, the less good news is that the chamber's contract has been revoked by the Legal Aid contract woman. She's called Haley. This was a week ago. Now I wait patiently once again. The chambers, to be fair, have written a two page document outlining the reasons why the contract should not be revoked. According to Jeremy, they're being firm. There are regulations and no legitimate reasons to put the brakes on my Legal Aid, other than it's a high value case and they wish to put a further spanner in the works. I try my best to remain composed. I'm professional to all parties, mainly Jeremy. I've learned people in a crisis don't need parties losing their faith. T is a tower of strength. Always has been since the day we started dating, nine and a half years ago. Somehow it feels like we're still in the honeymoon period. Not many couples can say that, especially under the extreme circumstances. She believes in me, and that fills me with strength. The chance of falling out with another inmate exists in almost every breath you take, every step you take, and lying on your bunk can still turn into an escalation with your pad mate. It exists in every casual look at another person, and can easily be misconstrued to a wrong word that is misinterpreted and magnified out of all proportion. Everyone is trying to prove themselves, otherwise they become a victim. Most lads are trying to bully and intimidate someone else so that they're not bullied. The violence is brutal, and very few seem to give a fuck. It's only when you experience this headfuck of a place that you realize it's impossible to imagine it without the experience. There are two topics that carry their own stigma, both beginning with M. One is murder, criminal in the extreme, socially and legally unacceptable. The other is masturbation, and carries its own uncomfortable unease, but perfectly normal, and a human condition of the unspoken kind in the real world. Whilst in here, it is a creepy, seedy, unpalatable act that seems to be completely acceptable. In a male dominated environment all sense of morality, respect or responsibility goes out of the window. One of the lads pulled a sickie this afternoon. Said he was vomiting after lunch to Mr. C, who took him back up to his cell as a precaution. However, it was just to get back and let off a couple of cannons, as he likes to put it, without his padmate around. Last week he didn't return from a legal visit. He preferred to swerve work and return to the pad. That was another session. The lads talk about it like it's football banter. One of the guys is shacked up with a bloke in his 60s. He was apparently tugging away in bottom bunk like he's strangling a ferret most nights. Top bunk has enquired about a move. I'll be honest, I find the toilet situation traumatizing enough, but thankfully, so far, I haven't had a padmate who thrills and obsesses in wanking like it's a badge of honour or rite of passage. Life, and people sink to a depth below that of baseness without the social fabric and framework that keeps us human. There is a depravity in prison that breeds like an infestation. It highlights for me the stabilizing force women play in men's lives, preventing them from sinking into a medieval mindset. Without a mother, without a partner, without family in your life, then I'm afraid men sink quickly. I often wonder why a person would become a prison officer, but more intriguingly, why would a woman take this thankless job? Fear feeds this place. Fear of other prisoners. Fear of not being popular. Not part of the pack or group. Fear that you may be discovered feeling afraid. Fear that you may be targeted at any moment or the butt of a joke that's meant to humiliate you. A person can feel powerless most of the time and how you respond determines everything. Fear and anxiety rule a person's life outside, but in here, they terrorize a man to the point of losing who he is. A person doesn't discover their identity here. They lose it. I speak and chat to murderers like I'm amongst a crowd of friends. Ironically, they are normally the friendliest and most stable. Everything is a drama. Men trying to prove themselves, trying not to lose face. There is an easier acceptance if you are here for violence, drugs or extortion. I fear that if one crosses to the dark side, one never makes it back. It is acceptable to say you are going to spend time playing with yourself, but it is not acceptable to say who is bullying you, who attacked you, or who scarred you for life. Fear and loathing in Walton. Why does no one care? Fear consumes the place. And nothing and no one is sacred. A normal day in an abnormal place. I thought I was in for my best night's sleep since landing here with my new mattress. However, I've slept on softer floors.