Episode 43 - Happy Birthday

We're full to capacity in Walton. We never went to work on Saturday because we were full. History in the making, again. The news before we left for work this morning was that a prisoner commits suicide every three days in prison. It was quoted as an epidemic. The prison system blamed it on mental health issues, but it's far murkier than that. Morale is low amongst officers and lads are desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.

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 43 Happy Birthday It's the 20th of November, 2016. How could I not pen a few words on reaching 52 years of age from behind the door in Walton Prison? Another first. I could never have imagined life would lead me here, but here I am. Last year I was on trial. Two years ago I was treated to a suite in the Corinthia. Now I'm in suite 3-17 on B wing. Last year still feels raw. We were three quarters of the way through the trial, when I still believed the calamitous prosecution would collapse and be thrown out, 11 of us will be free from the nightmare, and I will finally clear my name and have vindication. What a journey. How does one not reflect on one's old life? T and my daughter came in to visit me and we had a silent party around the table. By that, I mean we had lots of fun, but without the roaring laughter that draws attention. T said my mother has sent 50 pounds into my prison account. Told them none of the cards have arrived yet. Probably be waiting for me under the door when I get back from work later. The two hours passed like two minutes, and although we had a fab time, no tears, the reality was, when it's time to go, it's noticeable. As we did a final family hug, I whispered to them, no tears, we're in Walton visits. We burst out laughing and it broke the emotional moment that was bubbling. Two minutes later, I was in the holding room the size of a cell with 30-odd pissed off prisoners. How can I not reflect at 52, that there is less time ahead than lived so far. Worse, I'm in prison. My freedom hijacked and my name and credibility in tatters. T and my daughter have gone to see my mother and John Boy, cheer them up and tell them I'm fine and not to worry. I'm lucky, we're close as a family and all the women have been really strong throughout this ordeal. Calls and visits help, but nothing replaces or compares to being together on our own terms rather than the prison's. After the visit, it was straight back to work, a cross between feeling high off the visit and the grim reality of my life presently. There's no avoiding that, regardless of my optimistic outlook. I'll be honest. I just don't want to listen to any of the usual prison vomit, friendly enough, but not in the mood. That's how I feel. I stayed in the bedding stores and kept busy, mainly doing nothing, but most certainly not in the market to chat. I was also itching to finish and read my cards. That's where love is, not in here in reception. This love vacuum. You can only imagine my dismay to return to the cell at 6.55 and no mail pushed under the door. At least I've made it to bang up without anybody knowing I'm the birthday boy, not even my pad mate. It's funny how life works, or should I say, how the creative mind works. I found myself writing, not about prison, but about a book I've written prior to coming away. I'd always wanted to be a writer, especially by the time I was 50. And in an ironic way, I had the good fortune to follow that dream as a result of my life being put on pause in 2011. The legals were pursuing the claim against the authorities, trading standards, etc, and I was unable to work as such. I did two things, went fishing every day for two years and wrote 50 Ways To Be A... well, that title's to be revealed further down the line. It's very commercial. Hundreds of thousands of words. And now, sat in a cell in Walton, strange and as random as it sounds, but I'm thinking of bringing back one of the main characters from book one, to book two, Cleo. Stuck in here it's impossible just to pick it up and write without referring to the drafts from book one. However, I will never forget the ending I originally wrote on a writing retreat up in Peebles, in the Scottish Borders. No matter how tough it has been, T has not only loved me unconditionally, but she's believed in me and she actively encouraged me to become a writer. We lost everything, and T has not only held it together with humility and strength, she's worked tirelessly just to pay the bills to survive. She used to book me a week away in a secluded cottage somewhere and let me go and write for a week without distractions, ie, the frustrations of the case. The week in Peebles turned out to be a funny experience. I went there to finish a chapter, but instead managed to grow that chapter significantly to my dismay during the first few days. It was a big old house and its location was perfect. Loads of character, gardens that looked like they could have been in an enchanted fairy tale, but at night, eerie and pitch black outside. There was a babbling brook that ran through it. I remember thinking It would be the perfect place to film The Raven. Each morning I would rise early, coffee, news and train, took my mountain bike with me. I'd pop into the village for some breakfast, and then back to write until late in the night. I remember being frustrated by Thursday that I hadn't made the progress I'd planned for and T laughing on the phone that the chapter was now the length of a book. My frustrations were lighthearted. Writer's grinch I called it, but I was returning on Saturday and feeling the pressure. T parted with, remember, all you have to do is finish the chapter and, I love you. I remember reading the epic chapter. It was now 98 pages long, but the creative process works in mysterious ways. It can be very unpredictable. I've been lucky. I'm still creative. It never seems to have dried up or waned. I've never suffered with writer's block or creative block. No. Instead, I suffer with no off switch. It was as late as Friday after returning from the local shop, which was 10 miles away. Cabin fever can kick in when you're doing long, epic days of writing, although I can be up on my feet reading the dialogue, etc, out loud. I'd rattled around the big old house with six bedrooms, three bathrooms, two lounges, but with a tiny old fashioned kitchen. Ironically, I only used one bedroom, one bathroom, the kitchen and the lounge, with the big bay window and a desk. T laughs that I only use one plate, one cup, and a knife, spoon and fork. She said, I always leave the places like I haven't been there. I remember it being about 6:00 PM and I was sat in this old Queen Ann chair covered in well worn ox-blood coloured leather. I remember thinking, decades of people must have sat in this chair, all with interesting stories. And here I was, a Scouser on bail with ambitions to be a writer, writing a book called 50 Ways to Be A... laughable really. The creative tsunami hit without any notice and I responded accordingly. Action. I've learned when these moments appear, seize them before the moment is lost. Write I did. It was flowing. Like I didn't even have to think about it. Channelling would be a better way to describe it. Cleo was the topic of Chapter 10. I was nearing the end of the book, as in the first draft. I'd already felt the writer's attachment to characters when I killed off Serge. I'd felt emotional for days after that however, Cleo was on a whole new level. For four hours, I typed, paced the room and rambled words, and typed and typed and typed again. The dump down is the key, letting the words pour out. Everything can be altered, changed, or edited later. That's the crafting and polishing stages. But here and now is where the best material is. It's when the genesis appears. No limits, no boundaries, no laws or rules, unafraid, blank pages waiting for something original. The stuff you are most afraid to write, I believe, is where your best material thrives. Why am I writing this now? Probably'cause I'm being reflective on my birthday and thinking about something I very much enjoy doing. People connect with characters and even if my prison journal makes it to the outside, then characters will play an important part in capturing the events and experiences of life in this prison purgatory, this oppressive breaker of men's spirits. I can't stop laughing as I write this, but I was lying on top bunk when an officer opened the door, Mr. R, to be precise. Happy birthday, G! Your missus still loves ya, as he handed me my mail, all opened of course, and he'd obviously read the happy birthday cards, especially the one from T. Macca was up on his feet. You kept that quiet Snake Hips, and then proceeded to tell The Smurf through the pipes and the gags followed from there. Jane, one of my old friends, said in my birthday card, this is preparing you for something greater, babe. Honestly, I don't know whether I should laugh or cry. Thursday. Thankfully, my birthday's behind me. It's been a busy morning. Luckily we managed to get to the gym. Back from there and then cut two heads, Macca's and Neil's, both on visits tomorrow. I've extended the service to beard trimming too. After lunch I helped do a letter, or a COMP 1 app, as they call them. Philly's legals too, as in digest them, and then explain them. That are 27 lads just finished a mega trial. Now all waiting for sentencing. That's topical with everyone you speak to. Thankfully, Toenails and Number One are keeping me at arm's length. They're still treading on eggshells and have diverted their attentions to Blobby. The two Despicables have been terrorising him through the door at night for over a week, just gone eight o'clock every night. His head is fucked, and they're being seen for who they really are. The more they do it, the worse it makes them look. But ironically, they're not onto it. I've noticed how things have changed or evolved for me over the past 10 months. Lads come over far more frequently to chat or open up. Some officers call me George, and although there's always grief not far away or lads sticking pins in GW dolls, I've come a long way. Lads often throw my own phrases and lines back at me, and I see that as a good sign, especially the, soak it up, and, rise above it. And they always challenge me on, there are no shortcuts. Out of the blue the big news landed. One of the Manchester murder lads received a not guilty on a retrial. That does not happen often. Chappy walked free with a not guilty. I saw Troy later on the wing. He looked crestfallen. I thought he might be thrilled at the news for Chappy, but maybe he wishes it was him escaping life behind bars. It's a strange feeling for me, I cannot help feel thrilled for Chappy, and compassion and sadness for Troy, and I'm glad I still have that in me. To people in the outside world, especially the victims' loved ones, sympathy or compassion will sound wrong towards any of these lads. I would expect that to be normal. But in here, sharing these trials and moments together, somehow it's not about what they've done, but more who I see and meet at this junction in life. As for Chappy, I imagine he's drunk already and celebrating like he's won the lottery. If he lost, he was receiving 30 years plus, just like the rest of the lads, and the rest of his life would've been behind bars. Truss has been on the news again, defending herself and the prisons. Ironically, 10 minutes after listening to her nonsense, news has broken that a prison down south, inmates were managing to have fast food dropped off, and lads are drunk inside on hooch. Again, all filmed and released on phones from inside. Truss has said, prisoners are not living like they're partying. Really? Jeremy is in tomorrow, so long as there isn't another lockdown. I remain quietly optimistic that at some point in the next 12 months I'll have cleared my name and be back amongst my loved ones. The judge has done everything to disrupt and derail my legal aid application. He's fully aware we're gearing up for an appeal. Jeremy believes he's trying to bury me with the POCA, and then retire victorious. Thankfully, I managed to speak on the phone to JB. He's trying to raise the£4,200 for the court transcripts or a segment of them. They're expensive. They're key to the appeal, they're the moment the judge crosses the line. I'm back in suite 3-17 on a very cold November evening when it dawns on me. Four weeks from now, Christmas will be upon us, a new year a week after that. We're back early from work again. there are no spaces or beds. We're full to capacity in Walton. We never went to work on Saturday because we were full. History in the making, again. The news before we left for work this morning was that a prisoner commits suicide every three days in prison. It was quoted as an epidemic. The prison system blamed it on mental health issues, but it's far murkier than that. Morale is low amongst officers and lads are desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. The funding promised is quick fix stuff and beyond the crumbling Victorian mortar, bricks, steel, and barbed wire, there are far worse crises taking place. It's akin to being stuck in a broken lift on the top floor and below, everything is on fire. Why no one puts this place under the microscope is beyond me. It's clearly broken, and not fit for purpose, covering up cracks and hiding the true level of chaos, violence, abuse, and deprivation. This is prison in 21st Century Britain. We're on the world stage telling everyone else how they should be living their lives, and this is how we treat people really. If things could not get any more surreal or ironic we arrived at work in time this morning to see a cherry picker with a security officer in it, rising up and towards another tangled drone with its swinging parcel still attached. It's entertainment for 10 minutes. Lads on the wing hurling abuse, and one cell gutted that their parcel didn't make it. Over the past few weeks, it's been swarms of drones, the unmistakable humming, whirring sound. I've said before, it's entertaining if it's early, and a pain after midnight. 150 cells now condemned and not fit for purpose, and this is the fourth day the prison has been almost on lockout. Absolutely no room at HMP Walton. Mr. P was on, so no gym. He's part of the problem when he's working. He acts like a Voldemort character. Mr. P loves to upset the equilibrium. He made a point of landing in the kitchen when we were brewing up. He was gloating at the suicide data. Weak. Can't cope. Don't do the crime lads if you can't do the time. Weak, that's what they are. He's horrible and represents the worst of the prison service.