Episode 40 - Happiness Is Not Welcome

How do you respond or react to someone when they are seemingly happy and you feel lousy? It takes on a whole new meaning in here, manifesting in anger, violence or malicious acts to derail your happiness.

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

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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 40 Happiness Is Not Welcome It's the 26th of October, 2016. I have a theory which is becoming a belief. Life is quite simple and straightforward and seemingly only complicated by ourselves. Is it the case each of us is dysfunctional to some degree, and what is any one of us trying to prove, to whom and why? It is nine months since I descended the stairs from the courtroom and began this incarceration. The harshest life-changing event I've ever experienced, and I'm 51. However, this is surpassed by the daily life bombs we share and endure In here. Nothing is straightforward, from the prison system, to the staff, the inmates, and the conditions we are forced to live in. I'm at the desk back from work an hour or so. It's been a long day. Chaos again, fighting in the holding room, loads of lads on trials. We deal with them returning as they don't need to be reprocessed, but depending on what time of the day they return, they're allowed to shower and can have something to eat, especially if they've missed tea on the wings, etc. And they receive a breakfast pack. There's still no pretend Coco Pops. Most lads returning just take the baby sized carton of milk. On top of the trial lads, there were 22 new arrivals. A mixture of remanded or just sentenced. The prison is at bursting point, vastly overcrowded and equally understaffed. The new arrivals fall into two other categories, those who have been in prison before, and those who are first timers regardless of their crime or status. Reception is the buffer between your old life and the new. Worse is to come though. Once you pass through the gates and the doors and are introduced to the wings, it's intimidating, it's scary, and always intense. I started to write a list of my perks down in reception. Stuff I value and appreciate. Number one is I'm off the wing all day unless there's a lockdown or major incident. More times than not, there's an extra hour on visits. That's a game changer, especially if you're in love. There's regular gym including the over 45s on Sundays and managing four, five, or six workouts a week, but you can never take this for granted. The first time officers get a whiff that we take it for granted, or expect it, they cool off. If Mr. P is on you can expect to cancel gym. He knows we love it, and so he denies it when he's on duty. He's playing with us. He gets off on that. Another big perk is the use of the washing machine and the iron. The iron comes in handy for visits. We can iron our clothes and make an effort. It makes an enormous difference to be showered, have clean clothes, usually a visits outfit. Basically the best of what you have. It makes all the difference. Imagine if your family or your missus turns up and the best you can do is look like Stig of the Dump. That's the only option for many of the lads throughout the prison. On the wings, there's a laundry service, but really it's a washing machine and dryer, two inmates working them, and pot luck if your face fits or if you pay, then you're guaranteed. But even then, it's still basic. They have to leave the dirty washing in a wash bag, zip it, and then it's bundled into the washer with 10 other bags. Afterwards your bag is thrown into the dryer. You might as well expect that everything will come back two sizes smaller as almost everything shrinks In the industrial size dryer. However, working in reception means we can use the showers and toiletries and clean towels. It all makes a big difference to how you feel about yourself, maintaining cleanliness and standards, etc. You may be surprised to hear we don't wash our sheets and pillow slips, etc. No, we can replenish instead with new ones, again a big perk. And although we receive the same food as the wings generally there is more of it. Each day the designated reception officer has to guess or calculate how many arrivals we'll be receiving so that there is enough food for them. That's compulsory. As I say, the food isn't good and I'm still eating porridge twice a day to supplement the lack of choice or quality of the food. Becoming frugal I have managed to increase my prison savings account aka canteen. I earn£23.60 for working all week in reception. One of the best wages in here. Any money sent in from people, friends, I try to spend sparingly. Since February until now, my canteen sheets and savings are£102. Phone credit is£25 to£30 per week, and my greatest indulgence. My purchases off the canteen each week are a packet of digestives, a tin of fake Ambrosia rice and coffee. That's my second greatest indulgence. I budget myself to no more than£10 per week for the treats. Porridge comes from work, so does the milk, although that's always contentious and causes all kinds of problems and grief. I cut hair, but do not charge, averaging now about 10 cuts per week. I love it and it brings me as much satisfaction as writing. I'm a Listener and do not get paid, but I do receive an extra visit, which makes all the difference. I at least have one a week, whereas many of the lads are stuck on two per month. The VP holding room ie, the vulnerable prisoners' holding room, that was busy today, and any inmate segregated in this category and in that room, which is really a cell, well, they'll feel highly anxious for their safety and overwhelmed by the stigma that they in that room attracts. Ironically, it has a prison phone in it, and that's the one that we lads use the most if the room is empty. Thankfully I managed to speak to T just before we left work. She was thrilled to hear from me. Not expecting it to be honest. She thought we were back in lockdown again. I kept it short. 10 of the lads from work were only four feet away from the phone. It's been quite a frenetic type of day and my new pad mate and I Macca are back in our Walton oasis decompressing from the day's madness. He's reading a letter from his lad and has a legal one waiting, and I'm writing. We've left the TV on, but just for the noise, which dampens our conversations. I'm not being paranoid but the walls do have ears as they say. The reality is, my voice carries. You can hear the lads talking through the pipes, and an officer can hear quite clearly on the other side of the door when there is no noise to dampen the sound. Things are going well. We're training together. Get on really well. He's super funny and really laid back, not violent and not crazy. Well, not so far. It's now six months since I first tried to enroll for Open University. My pad mate was laughing earlier how I've kept all the copies of the applications and paperwork. He was impressed that I'd managed to get the university application photocopied. I told him that if the prison had its act together or they believed it served a meaningful and purposeful outcome, or they believe education is a worthwhile path whilst in prison, then I'd have started back in September. Without giving the person away, I've already been told why, which to some degree is the prison hierarchy and purse string holders wishing to bat me down the line for when I move to a new prison and there is no appetite for this sort of thing. Also, I'm running an appeal and the system does not like that, especially the hierarchy. I filled out two applications this time, one to the Governor and the other to OMU, the Offender Management Unit. We're all supposed to be allocated a personal officer to set out and implement what they call a sentence plan. Nothing and no one so far, but I'm undeterred. I've composed an app that brings them into it, whoever it is I'm supposed to be assigned to. The prison, and everything it promises to offer on its posters and its rules and regulations is preventing me from making progress. The other app, to the Governor, explains why I'm in No Man's Land waiting, and I have still heard nothing back from a previous app. They don't like that either, although I do choose my words and tone carefully. It's the 27th of the tenth, 2016. All I can say is happiness. What's wrong with it, or the problems and issues with happiness and being happy. How do you respond or react to someone when they are seemingly happy and you feel lousy? It takes on a whole new meaning in here, manifesting in anger, violence, or malicious acts to derail your happiness. I've said it many times, in prison most officers and most inmates loathe happiness. It breeds envy, jealousy, and arouses suspicion. It's often interpreted that the happy person has probably won some favour or perk, and that person is happy because of this. I'd like to think I'm a bit different to that model. It has been noticed and often raised that I'm usually happy or positive, but I'd like to think I'm only positive by way of making the best from a very bad situation. I get on with stuff, soak up the unpleasantries, and don't react by shouting and screaming or throwing strops, nor do I get too down, or worse, remain parked in moodiness or depression. All the above pisses guys and staff off. Many of the other guys were just fucked up or struggling to cope, even though they're acting like they're tough. The reality is that most people under this toxic roof don't feel pretty good about themselves or the situation. This perpetuates the moodiness and slyness, and so any form of getting on with it or happiness is frowned upon in the extreme. I'm an advocate for being yourself. But the problem with that approach in here is too many people are broken to the point they cannot or do not wish to change. Everything, or most things in here, are met with resistance, which turns into undermining, humiliating, or direct bullying. Happiness arouses suspicion, is despised and crushed if possible. The cards is a daily ritual I enjoy with JC. He usually bounces in larger than life after fulfilling his Listeners work. He's a Red, season ticket holder or was until this. I make us a cup of coffee and he sits down at the table, which is really more of grabbing the cards and shuffling them. We're not in Vegas, no, we're in Walton. However, we have got casino chips we use, another perk. We play cards, ramble on about prison life, put the world to right and wait for tea or to be disturbed, whichever comes first. I was moaning earlier. Nothing is running smoothly, I've had the Governors down over my OU application, and Mr. P has been a twat. He was as happy as Toenails that I was on the ship out bus and then moody with me because I've managed to stay. I found myself saying, J, I'm no trouble, none, the straightest least hassle prisoner in here. So why do I receive an unhealthy amount of attention, hassle and prodding? He said to me, listen G, you're different...I mean, what do you say to that other than, is that a bad thing? Then he dropped an ace high flush on me, all spades, and I suddenly realized any thoughts or rants about feeling sorry for myself were over. I needed to up my game. That was three in a row and my chips pile looked as sparse as a prison meal. It's worth me noting, lads and staff are noticing me writing more and more, and I've had a number of comments about T writing into me, especially the love cards. No prisoner in here has ever received this much love according to Mr. R and my pad mate, he said that too. T is sending me an average of three pounds' worth of stamps per week. 64 pence for a first class stamp presently, that's over a hundred pounds so far this year, and you can double that with T because she's writing and sending in cards every other day. It all adds up financially and the commitment and the time and effort it takes. This is our love and our love story and I'm very lucky that being stuck in Walton hasn't dismayed or extinguished our love for each other, especially hers for me. In an ironic type of way, T's commitment to me and us is envied by many as much as it's loathed by others. I spoke to my mother earlier. A full eight minutes and 45 seconds. She and John Boy are on the merry-go-round of hospital appointments. He's struggling with a number of conditions such as diabetes, amputations, poor circulation, and has no immune system and is struggling to recover. My mother, ironically, is doing better, but that's only better than bad, not better than good. She's had major cancer surgery, although she's made a good recovery. And that's extended her life, but she's on borrowed time as much as John Boy. She asked me when I was coming home. She asked me when I was coming down.