Episode 33 - The Meat Wagon

Crime is bigger than both the Beatles and Liverpool Football Club in this city, and I am nestled in the epicentre of one of the most criminally minded group of men in Europe, and it's chaos of a different kind.

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 33 T he Meat Wagon. It is the 15th of the ninth, 2016. Incarceration never ceases to deliver surprises, most of them not very pleasant. What a 48 hours it has been. I'm on the eve of a POCA hearing, which I was only made aware of yesterday. Of all the people to deliver the news, it was the person who hated me more than the judge, Toenails. I cannot help with smile at how similar they are. Like siblings sharing the same malevolent DNA and as such, both consumed with trying to destroy me. It must have killed Toenails to hold back his delight, but he was holding back a second bout of bad news too that he was savouring on. Neil and I were due to be shipped out to Haverigg 100 miles away on the west coast of Cumbia, and he knew it. He'd seen it on the list by chance and kept it quiet. I remained composed as he delivered the news from the corner of his mouth. My stomach turned like a wash on full spin, but I found myself saying, wow, that's a relief. I've been wondering what was going on with this POCA stuff. It's a day out, isn't it, away from here? I'll be able to catch up with my legals properly. Toenails was gloating, although his dodgy eye didn't give him away, his silence did. Just when I thought my world was once again collapsing, all my efforts to survive to this point, Mr. H appeared like a guardian angel and asked me had I put in for a transfer. Absolutely fucking not, was my first response and what's going on, my second. Thankfully he took both Neil and I off the ship out list and back onto hold. That means we can stay at Walton and continue working in reception. I'm sure it must sound crazy. Preferring to remain here than to leave to a Cat C prison. But ironically, it is not. Visits for T and my family would be a nightmare. Things aren't great here, but trekking every week for two and a half hours one way and cancelled when the weather is bad was not a consideration. I'd be back at the beginning in a place that is having its own horror stories leaking out. Reception is the best job in the prison, and the perks in here are far outweigh taking chances that a lower category prison is going to be any better. I'm strangely settled here, making the best of a very bad situation. I've written before, we can wake up in our beds and by the end of the day, be sleeping in another without any choice or notice. No, for the foreseeable future, unless I'm shipped out, I'm staying. I didn't announce I was staying to the lads straightaway. No. Instead I waited. I knew Toenails and his gimp Flemmo would be desperate to wind me up POCA one day and shipped out the next. True to form they couldn't help themselves. I stayed out of the way, kept busy and was last at the lunch table. I wanted Toenails to have already begun with the gloating, with the rest of the lads. He had everything he could have wished for. My head fucked, being shipped out and 48 hours to wind me up and probably be instigating one last time to have me terrorized through the doors. For the first time in nearly eight months, I wanted Toenails and the gimp to be as sly and as horrible as possible. Here's the wounded soldier. What happened to you? Don't you feel like eating your lunch? Here y'are Flemmo will have your jacket potato. Flemmo laughed like canned laughter right on cue. Yes, lads. It's true. I'm on the list for the ship out along with Neil. Gutted for you G, came from Dan. That was nice. It's true lads. Poor Neil and I are booked on the ship out bus. Mr. H has just pulled me to confirm it. Told ya, came from Toenails. But lads, Mr. H then asked me would I like to stay. You made it clear I'm better off here and I and my fellow friend Neil can stay as long as we wish. Something about really good lads are hard to come by down here. Something else about you can't trust people. I was in dramatic thespian mode. Toenails went silent, Flemmo choked on his fat meal, and I continued. Speaking of trust, especially amongst us lads, you know, the prison code stuff, all together down here. Well, lads, what it flushed out was our prison oracle knew Neil and I were on the bus. And he didn't tip us off early. Imagine, he hates me that much he was prepared to throw you under the bus, Neil. The reality is lads, we just cannot trust him or Flemmo. That's not what fucking happens, was about as far as Toenails got. this time, he was sliced and savoured slowly by me. Regardless of what comes next with him, I'm outing him in front of the rest of the lads. Worse for you, my friend, is you know you should not have informed me. It's privileged information, but you could not help yourself. You were so desperate to gloat and fuck with me that in doing so, you put a noose around your own fucking neck. Did you throw me under the bus then, was his first response. No, I did not. I'm not a grass. But you think you are so clever, desperate to see me suffer that you ended up shining a light upon yourself and put a noose around your own neck. Lost your appetite? Here y'are, Flemmo will help you out. You could cut the air with a knife. Of course, I'm fully aware that my response to Dumb and Dumber may provoke a worse backlash. Toenails was not only wounded, worse, the lads knew the facts about the situation. The devious duo was now fully exposed. The lads never said a word and I left the table. It's difficult to describe in words the constant bombardment from Toenails. It's never subtle and always sly. I was obviously curious how Toenails may respond. A wounded animal can be dangerous. However, for now I have far more pressing concerns. By 4:00 PM Jeremy, my solicitor, was informing me in a legal visit that the judge was holding court for my POCA hearing. My arch nemesis, or I his, must once again do battle. Maybe I'm being naive, still on a high from the lunchtime duel, but somehow it didn't feel like a battle right now. I'm feeling stronger again, and although prison has no easy days, somehow I feel like I'm in a good place. The woman of my dreams loves me. I've made it this far against all odds, and in the short term, I'm staying here. Contrary to the judge's damning words that I am a man of no good character, I can enter the courtroom knowing I have more integrity than he. I care, I tell the truth and I love. It's daunting what lays ahead, but I'm ready. I say this without any arrogance. Strange as it may sound, I believe one day the truth will out. The Beatles movie premiere is in Liverpool Today. Hollywood stars and music legends descend on my hometown as I write in my cell only two miles from the action. But it could be on a different planet, such is the void between us. Ron Howard's rocumentary focuses on unseen footage of the Fab Four in the wild days of their youth and the height of their chaotic fame. Paul and Ringo have attended the big night, and the closest I am to the red carpet premiere is watching it on the tiny TV. I cannot help smiling at the irony. Crime is bigger than both the Beatles and Liverpool Football Club in this city, and I am nestled in the epicenter of one of the most criminally minded group of men in Europe, and it's chaos of a different kind. It's the eve of POCA, and I'll be returning to the courtroom in the Queen Elizabeth Courts. A place that holds no good memories. Jeremy said the judge has delayed his retirement to deal with my case. I think that says everything. He cannot rest until he's buried me. Apparently the word amongst the legals in general is no one can believe I managed to secure a legal team for the appeal. I'm actually aware the stakes are high and the judge will be sharpening his blade once again. The reality between the two of us is that if I win my appeal, well, it exposes the judge more than anyone else. And although his retirement is imminent, this will kill his reputation. And the so-called legacy will have to be rewritten. It's the 16th of ninth, 2016. It's the big day. I didn't sleep much through the night. It's not unusual in Hotel Walton with its shocking reviews on TripAdvisor. The guard didn't knock with a polite good morning G, no, he flashed the light and, alright mate, Cour t, see you at seven. AM, that is. In this cramped cell with the toilet attached, not to be confused with an en suite, try getting ready without waking your pad mate. Only one coffee, t he reality being, I didn't want to be desperate for the toilet and being purposely denied. I've danced that tango before. Nothing is made easy. In fact, I'm expecting to be treated worse than ever. Sadly, I could only wash in the sink. There is no sharp suit for the occasion. No, it's black jeans and a plain gray T-shirt that looked like it had been sprayed on. I'm in good shape and can't deny, I wanted the judge and his cronies to see I hadn't fallen apart. I was strong again. The last thing I did when leaving the sleeping wing was post a birthday card to my daughter and a letter to T. I was expecting to be slung straight into the G4S meat wagon, but instead, down in reception, I was allowed to make myself a coffee and relax in the kitchen. The officers on duty were chatty and jovial with me, and this helped me to remain relaxed at a time when usually anyone in my position would be highly anxious. Mr. B put an end to the fun, chomping on toast, stains on his shirt and smelling of BO in full prize prick mode. He told me I could not take my book to read. Mr. S called me at 8. 30 and I did the walk of shame onto the meat wagon, subjected to cuffed, loaded, then locked into the box. Imagine an aeroplane toilet, then half its size and comfort. Then imagine if you can, that it's never been cleaned. Cuffed and squeezed into a dehumanizing space. A tour but it is not. A window seat of a different kind. I can see out of the porthole, but the outside world cannot see in. If you have claustrophobia, I guarantee you're having an attack. What caught me by surprise were my thoughts and feelings as we exited the security gate and reentered the real world for the first time in eight months. Within seconds, memories of a thousand kind flooded back. I'd travelled up and down these roads hundreds of times in my life. I didn't notice at first, but I'd started to sing to myself In My Life by The Beatles. Ahead was a 20 minute tour of the city. And here I was reflecting through a song. There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places had their moments... How does a person in this surreal position not reflect on one's own life? My life was woven into the bricks and mortar of the city. Most roads have my footprints. I was born here 51 years ago and now I'm resident in its notorious prison. We sat idling at the traffic lights. A white van pulled up alongside. It was a local builders. The window was down and the lads were smoking and joking about the occupants of our bus. Scousers at their worst. Further on, my chariot of doom and discomfort crossed Queens Drive, the artery that links the north of the city to the south. We diverted through Kirkdale. That was another decaying borough. Then we turned onto Vauxhall Road, and I smiled as the canal appeared. Yes. A canal that runs through the city. It winds and wanders its way to the Albert Dock. I thought of the Scouse hippies. They bring their barges through here en route to the River Festival. I never make that trip. Usually I rock up at the Albert Dock and make a guest appearance. I love to give it the old, permission to come aboard, followed by, remember lads, I've got the official skipper's licence. Sadly, the canal seemed more like Walton. It was now a flight tipping paradise, overgrown and unloved. As we passed the Eldonian estate, another modern community born out of inner city housing, I swelled with emotion. We passed the social club, my Uncle Tommy's funeral wake was held there. An ex inmate of Walton broke my halcyon thoughts. I recognized him immediately. He left Walton about a month ago. He was walking along the road in flip flops, although he looked like he'd been out all night. I smiled when he looked directly at the bus, almost into it. He, like all of us who have been in the back of the meat wagon, his look was one of, I've been there before. I fucking hated it. And I feel sorry for the lads stuck in the back. They're probably on the way to court, which was true of course. The van slowed down as we approached the city centre. It was peak time and everyone was in a rush except me. What have I got to rush for? Memory after memory laid on my mind. Over 30 years of my life spent working and socializing in one square mile. The stories, the people, the events, all whispering to me at the same time. Such was the tsunami of nostalgia. We passed the YMCA, although now only reads YM. The CA has disappeared. It did look like a cross between a rehab and a fucked up mecca, and that was only from the outside. Ironically, not next door, but metres further on, is the Mercedes garage with the big AMG letters adorning in its front. It made me think of the raid back in 2010. I drove home to meet the police in one of the best cars Mercedes had made to date, a CL 55 AMG. It drove like it was floating on air, looked amazing, cool, and classy, and luxurious with a proper engine under the bonnet. What a contrast to this meat wagon with someone else's piss running through the cubicle. Reality checks come in all different forms, sizes, and smells. There is no one compares with you and these memories lose their meaning... here I am. An outcast in my own city of birth, and yet thousands of memories, thousands of moments that I've lived and breathed, stare back at me with a haunted look. But of all these friends and lovers, There is no one compares to you... and these memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new. Ironically, I'm now a prisoner, in one of the most notorious landmarks. Not far from anyone and yet a million light years away. I've been in the city centre since I was 16 and first left school and now 51, looking at the shadows I've left behind. Boundary Street. I had such plans for the building. The Waterloo Warehouse, where Richard, my old business partner and best buddy, lived back in the early years of publishing and bands and dreams without limits. The Liver Building looks majestic as much as gothic, as we turned into the Stalag 17 court building. Underground. The last time I was here, I was leaving in one of these wagons after receiving a seven year life bomb. Suddenly life, the day ahead and how things change rapidly and never in your favour, well, they come sharply into focus. I wasn't blocking out what took place here, the trauma. No, somehow it feels almost like my mind has put up automatic defences. One thing is for certain, when your confidence begins to drain, you know powerless is returning like a Christian being thrown to the lions. The bus descends from daylight into an underground car park. It's dark, oppressive, and one doesn't feel like a VIP. No, we all feel fucked. I have more freedom working in reception than here in the bowels of the Queen Elizabeth Courts. It's a kaleidoscope of thoughts colliding with a sick in the pit of your stomach feeling, the optimism that left Walton lost in Beatles songs was lost in less than a breath the moment the darkness arrived. I asked the guard who escorted me, could I have a non-smoking cell? A tip from the lads in reception. There's less chance of being caught up with the real scallies, aka, the cutting crew that fill cells. Angry, abusive, and super dickheads and not my idea of a fun day out. Luckily, a five foot by 10 foot one was available. The best I could do while waiting without having a clue what lay ahead was half meditate and half hope my legals turn up. If I open my eyes, then I had a choice of facing waste splattered across the walls, or read the graffiti buried below it. There's blood too, just to add some colour. It was two hours before the door was unlocked. I was handcuffed and taken off to an interview room, the size of a telephone box. More waiting and more anxiety. I remember thinking, I wish I was back in Walton. The first surprise was De Niro's barrister appearing, looking more disheveled than he did during the trial. He was nervous, but he was that in the trial too, and looked more afraid than JMC did a few weeks back. I'm a pro, so I made him feel welcome, relaxed the atmosphere, told him he looked well. Are you here with good news or bad news? What's happening to my legal team? The good news was that my absent barrister Lennon is, in his words, as good as it gets. He explained that as I probably knew, not much would happen today. Apparently, De Niro and Johnny were upstairs and to expect a new hearing day to be set. But the best thing he said were his parting words. You look really well, George. Are you working out much? I couldn't help laughing and I think the T-shirt must be working. The last time we'd seen each other was sentencing day. And to be honest, for all my woes, ironically, I looked healthier and happier. For not so good news and not such a good start, suddenly I felt re-energized and didn't really care about the rest of the day. It was another two hours, sat with thoughts and boredom, then the key unlocked the door. It was the same script, handcuffed and marched to an interview room, somewhat filthier than before. The barrister reappeared looking more nervous than earlier. He explained that the judge, whilst he was stuttering and spluttering, had decided to deal with the hearing and matters without me. Honestly, it made me laugh and him smile. He leaned over and said nervously, but wanting to, if I may speak candidly, George, I think what has just gone on and then proceeded to confide his thoughts out loud. It's not for this page, that would be unfair and I was grateful, but I can say this, apparently the judge is trying to firstly smooth and oil the POCA through so that I and my legal team don't or can't challenge it. Secondly, it would appear that the judge is acutely aware of the pedigree of my barrister Lennon, but there's more. The judge is very keen in keeping hold of the POCA case, but at the same time, he wanted to drive it through quickly so that he can retire. Me, his final victory, crushed. Again, his parting words were the ones that resonated the most. You'll bounce back from this, George, honestly. You will. I told my client, and Johnny, you're looking good. I mean, who gets that during the worst of times? Ironically, I sensed the despicable Machiavellian system was nervous. The judge left me down in the cells below the courts while he coerced the proceedings. His treatment of me speaks volumes as to his contempt for me, but more, he wants me out of the way. In the courtroom, I may have to be silent, but I can take notes of what is really taking place and that terrifies them. You know, what comes next. Another two hours in a cell. They're just playing with me, to fuck with my head, and play with my emotions and grind me down. The rest of the day passed quickly, and most of it a blur. Back on top bunk, I'm smiling as I write. Is it possible that the judge kept me in the cells all day because he couldn't face me? He's in for a restless night and too many whiskies, not a great combination. Me, I'm not bothered. Tonight, I'll sleep better than last. The woman of my dreams is on a visit tomorrow.