Episode 37 - The Despicables Come Unstuck

The constant level of juvenile behaviour is beyond what you can imagine, but at the same time it has to be taken seriously because of the ever present violent undertones that lurk. You may be surprised to hear that vanity plays a significant role in HMP from personal male grooming to touching another man's muscles, or at least admiring them up close and personal. My funniest moment has to be with Big J, who's been shaving his pubic area with an old set of clippers. He's six foot five and still has nearly a year to serve.

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

@talesfromthejailspodcast

@jekyllandpride2023
@theshadowpoettsp

Transcript

0:00

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 37 The Despicables Come Unstuck. It's the end of September, 2016. No two days are ever the same, and yet it can feel like Groundhog Day. The routine dictates that, and surrounded by the same people every day who talk about the same topics and bullshit, which I do my best to avoid, although sadly, most of it is unavoidable in such confined spaces. I'm at the desk, as in a prison desk. I'm writing and catching up with the pen on the page. Our cell isn't big. The 18 inch wide desk is behind the cell door, and I'm sandwiched between the wall and our bunk beds. Big Reeve, who is six foot four,his feet hang over the edge of his bunk and touch the back of my broken chair. He's reading his letter from his partner. She's included some photos. He's quiet and must have read the letter over and over for the last 30 minutes. Beyond the door terrorizing preoccupies the wing. The last few days have been tough. Toenails and the ramshackle posse are on the offensive again, albeit the rest of the lads are fed up with it. They've been quiet during the moody officer's week, and although we've all been on eggshells, their silence made work more bearable for everyone. However, my instincts serve me well and the wretched creatures are once again trying their best to derail me. Young D and P have both said they want to end it and they're in my corner, which I must say feels like progress as much as it is reassuring. I've had to soak up a bit of the unpleasant stuff for days, put on a brave face too, and smile, even though I'm clenching my teeth. However, I take solace in knowing my words and comments last week hurt and embarrass them. It made them look like fools as much as despicables. And they're wounded. They know what I said and how I delivered it resonated with the lads and it made it back to the wing. The good news, and a break from the monotony and treachery is my daughter came in for a visit on Monday after returning from her holiday. If I was disingenuous at all, it was only that I had to put on a brave face, as the pressure has been tough. I listened to every word and every story she had to tell me, just soaking up the love and fun. Almost nine months into all of this and we still felt like a family. She seemed like she was back to her old self and obviously oblivious to the terrible headlines a week ago. Of course, it's surreal, me sat in Walton's visits in an orange tabard, and I'm not coming home when the visit ends. She hugged me at the end and told me she loved me and that she was proud of me. To be honest, I wanted to burst into tears on the spot, but somehow I remain composed. My parting words were, this will soon be over. I can't begin to imagine how it must be impacting on her. Luckily, she'll soon be back in London and away from the constant reminder or reality of this living nightmare. I thought tonight the terrorizing would finally make it to my door and in my direction, but surprise, surprise, it is not I but Flemmo, aka Mr. Blobby, or should I say it's his padmate. I do not gloat at his fate. No, I sense a powder keg is about to explode there. His padmate is on remand, probably for over a year now. He's a cog in one of these big drugs conspiracy cases. 27 of them in total, all awaiting trial, which isn't far off, and the tensions have now reached fever pitch. There's no doubting what has happened, merely by the terrorizing. He's being called a grass. It's the last name or allegation an inmate wants to hear. Listening to the abuse and threats being hurled in his direction, one of the co-accused must have seen the police interview he's done. Defendants obviously on the eve of trial are having to read a lot of legal papers, etc, and it would appear a legal handed over the damning evidence of the betrayal to one of the lads today on a visit. What I can say about Blobby's pad mate is this, it's clear he's struggling with prison. But worse, he's struggling with his missus on the outside. She's already playing away and stopped coming in on visits. To make matters worse, she's informed the prison he's been making threatening and abusive phone calls from his cell. In the space of just a few hours, Blobby has been sucked into it. It's just how it works. And if the lads get to E tomorrow morning, what is Blobby going to do when they burst into the cell? Toenails is not soft. In an indirect way it puts him in an awkward position. Blobby seeks security from Toenails as much as he does approval, and he'll want Toenails to help resolve the tensions. This is how it works. Firstly, regardless of whether E is a grass or not, the attention is on the cell as much as the inmate, ie Blobb y must know something already. The pair of them are close. Secondly, officers are aware E has been using a mobile phone in the cell, so Blobby must know. It doesn't matter if he doesn't use it, he hasn't reported it, or asked for a transfer of cell and pad mate. So he's in on that. People already have doubts about him and he'll be sucked into this by morning. My thoughts are, right now Toenails has already decided to cut him loose. Finally, stuff like this is a ticking time bomb and officers know it. If there's any doubts about Blobby, he won't be in reception for much longer, no. I've seen these moments a few times now, and how they tend to unravel. Blobby and his pad mate, they're toast. I expect to see E shipped out voluntarily tomorrow for his own safety, but now he's got a target on his back that will travel with him everywhere he goes. Ironically, as the night has gone on, I've relaxed. I won't be getting any grief tomorrow. Toenails and Blobby will not say a word. They're not provoking me for fear of what I'll say back and in front of the lads. It's time to sign off and time for the News at Ten. Not that we'll hear much of that this evening, with the terrorizing and death threats going on beyond the door. Friday in prison is known, believe it or not, as Fish Friday, although I've renamed it Cat D Friday because that is the obsession and number one topic that seemingly reaches a crescendo every Friday. However, this week I did call it Feel the Love Friday because there's too much moodiness circulating through the reception band of brothers. Toenails and Co. are like a cancer, although I prefer to call them the Mood Hoovers. The gimp's head has fallen off. His pad mate hasn't been shipped out, but moved to another wing and there's tensions back on B wing now. Toenails has gone cold on his number one. It's chaos amongst the wretched cohort and the atmosphere has been suffocating for days. They've now got the wrong type of attention on them. Love takes on a desperate, or should I say disparate, form in here under this roof of madness. The constant level of juvenile behaviour is beyond what you can imagine. But at the same time, it has to be taken seriously because of the ever present violent undertones that lurk. You may be surprised then to hear that vanity plays a significant role in HMP from personal male grooming to touching another man's muscles, or at least admiring them up close and personal. My funniest moment so far has to be with Big J, who's been shaving his pubic area with an old set of clippers. He's six feet five and still has nearly a year to serve. But this is a shard of the craziness of life in HMP. I'm pleased to say the lads down here are moisturizing regularly nowadays. I'd like to think I've been a positive influence and continue to lead from the front on that. We pick up stuff for free when it's confiscated on entry. The officers let us use toiletries, etc, down here, but we cannot take them back onto the wing. If you're found with what is considered contraband, even the moisturizer, if it's in your pad, you're sacked. I've noticed, now that it's on my radar, at how often the lads hog the mirror. Honestly, some of them are doing poses and they're not like Mr. Universe, no, but more like Ben Stiller and Zoolander. Thankfully no one is dying their hair. But hilariously, some have managed to put their hands on tan towels or wipes. Ridiculous I know. The Glumster uses tweezers for his eyebrows and looks like a James Bond villain with hands the size of coal shovels. Another weird and strange observation is the lads have taken to watching each other on the toilet. I kid you not. How can a grown up man be fascinated by watching another sat on the throne? The mind boggles, but even worse is when they have a conversation like it's a chat over a cup of coffee. My challenge daily is remaining dialled down or diluted, but the guys, the officers, all know I'm out of sync with the prison culture, and it leaves me wide open to be prodded or provoked. That aside, being comfortable in my own skin and true to myself, regardless of what vortex is around me constantly, is the only way I feel I can progress. I'm doing my time the way I feel is conducive to me coming through the other side as unscathed as possible. I have a plan and I'm sticking to it. Fish Friday. It's a comedy sketch. Inmates are starving most of the time and most of the food is not fit for purpose. Imagine the battered fish that is served with soggy cold chips, has never seen water in its life and the second irony, another comedy sketch is the Cat D fever. Cat D is open prison ie, no cells as such, no bars, less security, walking around grounds like it's a community residence or an old people's home and a barracks. Lovely gardens, rabbits, and ducks. It's the gateway to freedom. However, for as tempting as it sounds lads who you never want to spend two minutes with on the outside, fill the place, and those with issues here, sadly, don't lose those issues there. T wrote in her letter, the loss of autonomy and control once a person is caught up with the system is something that most people would expect from a communist state rather than the UK. The sense of helplessness and powerlessness when there is a complete erosion of human rights, would also probably surprise people who love the British legal justice system. It is like throwing martyrs to the lions in Roman times. That's what she wrote.