Episode 31 - A Billion Pound Head Fuck At 70

Can you imagine being cooped up in a prison cell without any power? No lights, no TV, no hot water and no radio.

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 31 A Billion Pound Head Fuck At 70 Can you imagine being cooped up in a prison cell without any power? No lights, no TV, no hot water, and no radio. Another fellow inmate almost certainly charging a mobile phone and not giving a fuck about the rest of us. It's happening daily now. For the last two weeks I've been bringing the wind up radio with me from work. Reeve and I take turns on winding it. We thought we were settling down tonight for the opening of the Olympics, but sadly it's not to be and once again on top bunk it's dusk and the remains of the summer evening is struggling to break through the grime glued to the window on the outside. However, inside our pad and window are clean. In 30 minutes, the cell will be as black as the bat cave. T was in for a visit on Tuesday, and we could only have a single hour. A fellow inmate had put in an app to the Governor complaining that reception lads were receiving two hours and not one. For me other than being off the wing daily, it's a treasured perk that hurt the pair of us, robbed of our double love bubble. Time together is so precious and visits are what we look forward to every week. It was love on an egg timer. T was in midweek because she's completed a hundred mile bike ride, bounced back into my arms, thrilled to see me and high on the achievement. I encourage her to still have a life, not just be a prison widow. She said she sent a photo in with a card in the post. She's my hero. Never complains about anything. Not an Ill word to say about anyone really, except how legal case the people involved, of which some of them, she's scathing, but only on a professional level. Never personal. She's the most incredible human being I've ever met or known, and somehow she's ended up madly in love with me. I am a lucky guy. We try to blend in on visits, but that's even more difficult than my attempts back on the wing. We're like teenagers holding hands and laughing. My suspicion is the laughing prompted the complaint. I've said many times, prisoners resent anyone receiving a perk. But worse, they hate with a vengeance, happiness. Thankfully, I'd managed to see the prison dentist. My veneer had fallen off. Luckily, it landed in a bowl of porridge. I'd stopped laughing and smiling since it happened. It's about as unglamorous as it gets, and 100% makes me look pure jail. Thankfully, the dentist bonded it back on, and although I was in the knobhead orange tabard, at least I was back sporting the Hollywood smile. Around us were children that to be frank, were a cross between feral or out of control. They were running wild while mum or dad slurped on the partner's lips. If you've ever heard a carp slurp on the surface of a lake, then you'll have the idea of what I'm saying. There was a sort of family only 10 feet away, a few tables behind me. It was embarrassing, not for us, but the two kids. It was clear the kids, aged between about seven and 10, T reckoned, felt uncomfortable at the behaviour of their mum. The bloke was not their dad, but he had his hand between the mum's legs playing with her fur trapper's hat. It's crazy, humiliating, and super embarrassing for the kids, let alone the rest of us who have loved ones and family visiting. The inmate was a slob. Didn't even look as though he'd been showered. Personally, I felt for the kids. What chance have they got when their mother and a prisoner are prepared to get it on in a Walton visits room. The slurping is a common thing and the sound effects cut through the airwaves the most, but the unavoidable visuals are a cross between simulated sex, heavy petting or groping and fumbling. The lads were gutted when I returned earlier than usual from a love visit. They know that all of my efforts in work are really only to achieve an extra hour and more freedom to use the phone than if stuck on the wing. It didn't help either that my phone credit was now down to£3.62. I felt awful, during and after the visit. It's one of the few opportunities I could speak to T without the system eavesdropping, reading my letters or mail. My most disappointing face was when she confirmed Jeremy was avoiding calls from both her and JB. He's been off the radar for over a week. By Wednesday, the morning Love call had only 67 pence credit. Barely enough to say, hi, I love you. Hopefully my credit will go on later, and it's over. T has a way of bringing calm to my frustration. Shorter visits, legals not progressing, no credit on my phone. It creates unnecessary stress. Ironically, the phone credit went on at 12.30. But the phones went off at 12.31. Anyway, after 48 hours of feeling outta sorts and drained to the point of collapse, suddenly my mojo returned on Thursday. I put the tiredness down to the double workouts I've been doing. Restless sleep for a number of reasons, bad diet, and no sunlight even though it's beautiful outside. T reminded me on the phone that four years ago to the day were in Bath, as in the city, not a tub of water. We watched the 2012 London Olympics between trips to Glastonbury, Stonehenge, and somewhere else that I cannot remember. It is not uncommon to drift into halcyon days of summer happiness when the reality is between the last Olympics and this, it has been four years of drama. Years of trying to clear my name and the end result is worse than one can imagine, penniless, discredited, and kicked around like a worthless piece of trash by the legal system. That aside, the world outside continues. T is off to her parents this weekend, my daughter is having an interview for a new job and my mother told me earlier that my cousin Karen has finally died, of cancer. She was only 53. I never told T. Truth was, I didn't want to ruin her break. It hits home. Ironically, I'm lucky but it confirms how fragile life is. I'd hardly seen my cousin since we were kids, but it's remarkable, sat on top bunk and transported back to youthful memories. I'll miss her funeral and that hurts. Prison is not the place to digest or reflect upon sad feelings. Not for too long anyway. Parked in sadness or melancholy devours a person in here. I can't help think, what happens if one of my parents does not make it until my release? And a fear we all carry in here, what happens to us if we die in here? I've witnessed firsthand how grotesque it is, a dead body that is more of an inconvenience than a sadness. Families are fed bullshit rather than tragic realities. Dying in prison is about as desperate and sad an ending as it gets. Two of the lads off the Listener's course have been thrown in the block, Cueball and Q-Tip. They're cousins. They had a parcel seized and the rumours are it contained six ounces of Spice and a batch of phones and chargers. One of the medics in reception was strip searched and the sniffer dog used. It's serious and rumours are flying around. I have my own take on this, but it's not for these pages. Content such as this will almost certainly put me in the Block too. Or a ship out if it's seized. I'm lucky to have made it this far with the writing. Time, or should I say, light has beaten me and it's almost time to lay back on my bunk. It's my turn to wind the radio. The zoo beyond the door is in another frenzy. The rumour is, one of the lads is plugged and the sly ones on the wing are throwing him under the bus, with shouts and terrorising through the doors. Best thing the kid could do is flush it down the toilet because tomorrow morning after tonight's outing, he's getting raided. I spoke to Jeremy finally. He explained that the Legal Aid was still slow, they're throwing a spanner in the works. I told him straight, I can handle bad news, but what it cannot handle is people going off the radar and I'm left in the dark. I may be in prison, but I'm still a professional, so don't treat me or my missus like numpties. The lads heard everything. I was in the VP holding room using the phone, and they were next door playing cards. Young Neil said, never heard you talk like that to someone G-Dubz, do you fancy speaking to my brief? I'm being fucked around too. It's the 25th of August, 2016. I've said many times, it's difficult to thrive in an environment where most people want to see you fail. I've never experienced or been in a place whereby everything you do potentially becomes a threat to another person's status amongst their peers. I've said countless times. The vast majority in here do the bare minimum, and those who demonstrate a willingness to do more is targeted, undermined, and not welcome other than to be the butt of someone's joke or worse, to be bullied as a consequence. Try showing any motivation or willingness to get on in jail and you're fucked. Johnny Koch left this morning. Back to Whitemore.. It's a Cat A, high security prison. What a name and what a character. He was featured in the Facebook of crime a few days back, including his missus. It's brutal, the fallout and how it impacts on loved ones. He's been on our wing for the past month or two, brought back for his POCA trial. We were not pals or close, but we chatted when in the same space. Johnny was always polite and respectful towards me. He used to say, you've got class, I like that. I remember him landing a couple of months back. I was on the servery when he appeared. He's 70-ish and he ordered a kosher meal. Back then I thought, are you having a laugh? But certain food is better than the normal pig swill and he was old school and not stupid. Johnny was Dutch, found guilty of importation and distribution of Class A drugs. He had a swimming pool supplies business in Liverpool. Ironically. I'd remembered ringing the place a few years back when we needed a pool guy. Even I was surprised that a pool business existed in Liverpool. What really stands out about JK, however, and his notoriety, is he is now in part two of his conviction, POCA. It's why he was back at Walton for the court appearance at the QE2 courts. To give you an idea of how CPS and the courts perceive Johnny he's been landed, or they're pursuing, a one billion pound POCA. Ridiculous I know. What makes it even more ridiculous is that T says she sees his missus waiting at the bus stop after visits. It's a reminder, don't feel sorry for yourself for too long, someone always has it far worse. I've nearly approached Johnny a few times to mention or plant the seed I can write, or I'm a writer and if he's interested, there could be an amazing book there. You don't receive a billion pound POCA and you're boring,uninteresting. No. But the timing has to be right and now he's gone, albeit his parting words were, I'll be back G. This week I've been busy cutting hair. I call them£50 cuts because that's what I was used to in the real world. Yesterday I finished Kinder Egg's Best Man speech. He's supposed to be at the wedding next weekend, but HMP put an end to that. Instead, one of the other lads is going to read it on his behalf, albeit my words. I find the lads are leaning on me more and more for the writing stuff, especially legal responses and/or prison apps. Sometimes it's a letter, although I try not to write it all, more the case of encouraging or discussing, what is it you're trying or wanting to say? Very personal stuff and you would be surprised who approaches me. Just so that you know, I'm not on some helping journey or crusade or trying to prove I'm more than I am capable of. I'm not a do-gooder. In fact, if the truth be known, I'm a very flawed man, just trying to be a better version of myself each day. But that can be misinterpreted or seized upon, and then disfigured. Toenails has a new fool in his ever decreasing posse, Flemmo. I said outright. He's your new gimp, and you're scraping the barrel if he's the best you can come up with to do your dirty work. I find nowadays, rather than soak it up so much, be out of the blocks first. Flemmo tried to be funny and undermine me in front of the lads, but the more he persisted, the more I noticed the lads disliked him. Instead of having a go at this brainless bald numpty, I chose my moment when Toenails had an audience. What's all this, your new number one, Flemmo? He's still living at home with his mum. He's 48. What's happened to you? Where is your pulling power? Is Flemmo the best gimp you could recruit? Toenails turned red. Flemmo said he wasn't a gimp and looked at his boss for support. It never came. I'll miss Johnny. He was a character. Carried an aura about him, even at 70 plus years of age. Like me, he kept things close to his chest. A billion pound POCA. My instincts are he is receiving the full 14 years because if or probably when he loses, whatever the final figure, he's not in a position to pay it, and no doubt he's doomed to the rest of his life behind bars. He's had an incredible life, but to die in prison, well, it must play on his mind. My fear is, regardless of his optimism, of which I'm privy to, and why the authorities are determined he's spending whatever life he has left in him, well, it will be spent in a high security prison. I can't help thinking, is this the long term plan for me?