Episode 34 - Lockdown, Ship Outs + Unwanted Headlines

Four lads went in on another inmate. Brutal attack apparently. They tried to cut his ears off because he's supposedly a nonce, aka a paedophile. Worse than the attack itself was the screaming from the lad.

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 34 Lockdown, Ship Outs Unwanted Headlines. It's Sunday and the madness has already kicked off. Not 10 o'clock, and the place is in chaos. We're stuck behind the door once again. My daughter flies away on holiday at noon. Graduation is behind her and this is their treat. Her and her uni friends. I planned to call her when we were opened up. You must know the morning ritual better than I do now. Unlocked, stride along the landing, love call to T, or my daughter or my mother. However, T is at Burghley with her family, over 45 gym is cancelled and worse, no call to my daughter before she disappears for a couple of weeks. She'll know there is an issue at this end and the reason why I haven't called. Last night an officer was swilled, and my neighbour, the Smurf, has informed me through the pipes that already this morning another officer has been swilled with shite. Just writing it makes me squirm in horror. The less graphic version is an inmate has slung his own filth over Mr. W. There will be all kinds of consequences as a result. Help first and then the mental side for the officer. The wing is in lockdown again. No doubting our fellow inmate has crossed the line and once they go in on him, properly, he's down to the block, battered and then shipped out. He'll be treated just as badly at the next place from the moment he lands. It must be a sickening experience to be on the receiving end of it. 11:00 AM. Still parked on top bunk, although I've done a number of gymnastics when relaying to Reeve a few OJ Simpson moments, highlighting the insanity of my own case and torturous appeal. Sadly, we're being penalized for the two incidents involving two prisoners that we don't even know. Punishing everyone when none of us are involved, only turns the place into a zoo, asylum and pressure cooker. No one cares. No one listens. We have no voice or rights. It's a collective punishment. 2:00 PM. We've been served lunch behind the door, a cold hot meal that I handed over to Reeve. The Mufti squad are in, and three more lads have been removed and dealt with. The atmosphere is tense, even though we're all behind the doors. 6:00 PM. The latest news is the broken block is now full. Lads are being pulled out of their cell and straight into the prison van. That's where they'll receive a good hiding and then they'll be transferred. My only satisfaction so far today is I had a chance to watch the F1. Rosberg won at Monza. The chances of being unlocked have faded from possibly to unlikely. Smurf said that an officer told him before that the Governor has ordered the lockdown. The same officer said it was time to fight fire with fire. OMG. It's the case of, what a day, that's turned into, what a night. We've lost count of the Mufti squad ship outs. Monday. Yesterday was tough, long, slow, and that was just stuck in the cell behind the door. Beyond it was chaos. No one was being let out. Some were dragged out screaming and fighting, but overpowered, wired up quickly, battered and shipped out. We'd had enough of the TV after Match of the Day. If I didn't have porridge, it would've felt like I was on hunger strike. The main thing was, I avoided most of the junk stuff such as biscuits and pot noodles, although I did indulge in a tin of rice pudding. You can buy it on the canteen sheet, it's£1.83. It was out of the tin and into my blue plastic bowl, room temperature, and obviously I give the inside a finish off with the spoon. It's a treat as much as it's desperation. The zoo never slept and I lay for hours thinking, this is for real. And I'm powerless to do anything about it other than experience this head fuck and make it to the other side as unscathed as possible. It was a long night and a slow wait to see if we would be opened up this morning and when I walked at love pace along the landing to phone T once unlocked, I was not expecting her to announce that I was once again headlines on The Echo website, aka the Facebook of crime. T saw the funny side better than I did and highlighted the irony, i.e. the unauthorized use of THE photo, me sat on the Bentley, again. I'd half wondered, maybe I should say, hoped, that the POCA hearing, that was not a hearing for me because I was kept in the cells below the courts and purposely left out in away from the court proceedings. The judge could control and dictate proceedings far easier with me out of the way. T heard from my daughter's mother, my ex. In all fairness, she found it hilarious too, i.e. crazy stuff for the whole family, but pure Hollywood. I was relieved. My first thoughts were of my daughter and my parents, but T and my ex are leading from the front in resilience and a sense of humour too. But the headlines out of the blue is a gut wrenching feeling, and the fallout continues to reignite the stigma and shame for my loved ones and family. By 11 o'clock, three officers had pulled me. They'd seen it, and at 1.45, when walking over to visits, an SO pulled me. I cannot control, change or influence any of it and expect at any point to be told that it's a big spread in the evening newspaper. Toenails was all over it at lunch, and then the rest of the lads. I can't deny this was on my mind, but I remain determined for it not to hijack T's visit. The reality is T makes an incredible effort to come and see me and never ceases to amaze me how she can put me and our relationship before herself. She's generous, gentle, caring, thoughtful. At the same time, she's super professional, super intelligent, and multi-talented. But what truly makes T different is her humility. It's in her DNA. She has numerous challenges and money issues through no fault of her own. And yet, every day she's fun and selfless. T books the visits. Patience and tolerance on the next level that, because booking a visit can take hours, and she manages to book time off work, work around me, make a huge effort, and rock up to Walton Prison full of fun and love and only eyes for me. How does one describe T without using superlatives constantly? I've written many times, I'm so lucky that she loves and believes in me, and us. It hurts, in fact, it crushes me to have to suggest lowering her voice in visits and some of the laughter. She's way too posh for Walton's visits hall and she has class. That and too much fun, I'm afraid it only attracts the wrong kind of attention. Not everyone is so in love on visits, and between the groping, the attempted passovers, that's the visitors passing something onto the inmates, and seething jealousy that combusts in visits when an inmate kicks off on his missus, and not forgetting inmates going at each other or vendetta attacks, very few visits runs smoothly. My next door neighbour is a dead ringer for Jack Nicholson. By that I mean a cross between One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and two, The Shining, is on the pipes the moment we land back from work with the news of the day. Firstly, four lads went in on another inmate. Brutal attack apparently. They tried to cut his ears off because he's supposedly a nonce, aka a paedophile. Worse than the attack itself was the screaming from the lad. Horrific was the word he used. I did wonder how we didn't know, considering everyone in and out normally passes through reception. I assumed he would've gone to hospital for medical attention. The other big news, I already knew, my headlines in The Echo, although thankfully it did not make the papers. It is strange, but of late, night after night, my neighbour's chat through the pipes has been entertaining as much as it has been a transformation. My neighbour, landed with severe mental health issues, wild behaviour and head fucked, to calming down considerably, and displaying a crazy, fun sense of humour. He thrills in my lack of slang knowledge in jail talk, or should I say gallows talk? The lads think there is a bromance developing between us and impersonations are a regular thing, or albeit, all in the best of humour. Slowly over time, I've reached the point where it's easier to be myself than not. Toenails and the posse are mood hoovers, sucking the life out of the room or conversation from the moment they enter. He thrilled and dined out for weeks on his one pound POCA and the prospect of me getting slammed. I kept my gun powder dry and had to listen to plenty of digs and snipes intended to grind me down and fuck with my head. That was, until I returned from court. In a strange type of way, relaying to the lads what went on or what didn't go on, and back to, what have you really done G? Why has this judge and his pals got a super hard on for you, a term that implies, excited. Toenails gloated at the table, the one pound POCA shout again. I put it on him, reframed it. I can't speak for the lads, but from an outsider looking in, the one pound POCA makes you a nobody, not a fucking mastermind and mine weirdly elevates me into a somebody, even though it will really hurt if I lose. Strange how people perceive things, isn't it? One of us is Poundland and the other is Harvey Nicks. My neighbour loved that line so much when he heard it from the other lads he repeats it in full impersonation of myself at least three times per night through the pipes. Have I mentioned the fist bump with Brio in the gym. Seriously, a real black dude fist bumped 51-year-old me in the gym. Of course, everyone spotted it. I swear, it was like Will Ferrell in Get Hard. The lads loved it. Another string of impersonations followed and fun for the day. The other thing I must raise is the lads touching me as in the muscles, and toning, and even more noticeable in the shower. Arr ay, G, you're not shy are you fella, is a regular shout. You know, when I'm in the shower. Toenails hates it. My favorite trick Is to pick up a smaller T-shirt and put it on in front of the lads and then say or ask, do you think this looks too big? Well, you can imagine how they light up and the banter. The lads in general are far more relaxed with me nowadays. For all that has been thrown at me in my direction, I've survived it. I haven't bitten or lost my cool and so far, I haven't been crushed. I don't hide or disguise my love for T. No. I don't broadcast it either or try to prove it, but they know this. I make love calls to T. I'd rather speak and be with her than anyone inside. No disrespect but, shouldn't we all feel like that? And respect. If you don't have respect, then why are you together? Love is not enough. Ironically, and thankfully, no one has ever crossed the line in here, not even Toenails, and I'm always grateful for that. My heart aches at the cruel separation. But I do not get down, no. Instead, I pursue being positive and optimistic and hold onto that all of this has a purpose and positive outcome. I want to be able to demonstrate with actions rather than just words of love that I'm working on being worth the wait. However, Walton visits is not the best place for a date. It's Wednesday. I'll keep it short. The intensity hangs like fumes of petrol sticking to the inside of your nose and throat. The place is a mix of agitators and the agitated. No matter where you stand, or every corner you turn it feels ominous. Officers have gone moody on everyone. Definitely a stronger sense of us and them divide. Lads are on eggshells. The place is a powder keg. It's impossible to switch off or relax due to the constant threat of violence. If I did not work in reception, my prison time could be very, very different. The swilling attacks on officers have made a terrible situation far worse. Any compassion, leniency or fairness directed to any inmate has suddenly stopped. Rigby is still in the block and wrecking every cell that they put him in. Day by day, night by night, my fellow inmates destroy what's left of this crumbling cesspit. As I walk around, i.e. trips to the stores or kitchen, the rubbish, filth and carnage is everywhere. An outsider would probably conclude that the Governor doesn't give a fuck. And the officers have as much as given up. It makes me think of how can officers go home at night with any sense of pride in their work? It's not a career, it's a curse. What's interesting is I've never seen the police brought in once. No one is ever questioned or charged. But it is like the wild west of violence. If all of this isn't bad enough, there's no gym, another punishment that creates untold tensions. The only good news is that the days of madness and ship outs and tensions have distracted Toenails and the posse from focusing on me. When this blows over, unfortunately, trouble of the constant kind returns.