Episode 44 - Rambo On Acid

Scouse Rambo is the first to admit that his drink and drug use is way beyond that of recreational. He tells the lads that he once collapsed in a field at Glastonbury, doesn't remember how he got there but when he came to, security was there and a band of Hare Krishnas. He believed he'd been kidnapped by ISIS  and they were about to behead him. The cocktail of drugs he'd been on had finally taken their toll.

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 44 Rambo On Acid December is a week away. What a month November has been, and it's only day 24. The birthday cards have been read many times by these eyes, and these eyes only. Once Mr. R let the cat out of the bag with the postal delivery, it was gags and windups for two days. All in good fun. One of the lads asked me at the table, how had I managed to get Botox in? I've said many times before that a day in the life of an inmate can range from sublime to crazy, from heart wrenching sad to side splitting funny. Today was no exception. Since the industrial action last week, a new regime has been implemented due to the extreme shortage of staff. We're being opened up of a morning at staggered times. We're on the threes, as in landing 3. Ours is 8 to 8.30, for what is called association, a comical title in itself, and then banged up again. During this time, we're allowed to walk on the prison yard, something I still haven't done, take a shower or use the phone. Then it's bang up again. I'm lucky, I've got work to go to, but for the rest of the lads, it's behind the door until let out for 10 minutes to pick up lunch, and then the same for tea. Out of the blue, the shyest, most timid and vulnerable prisoner on our wing approached me. He's a small fella, alot like a hobbit. Not blessed with height or looks. He asked me would I cut his hair, a clear sign my haircuts were receiving positive reviews. That, and I'm approachable. These quieter guys are always terrified of putting themselves in situations where they'll be bullied or ridiculed. I've said many times of my own experience that one just wants to blend in unnoticed. Hobbit had a visit. His first since imprisoned. He's been here four months and this was his first. I'll be honest. I just wanted to cry just for that. How sad it is for many of the lads. Before I could confirm Saturday when I'm back from work, my two finest barnets appeared, JC and Neil. I said to little Paul the Hobbit, you don't have to pay for sex when you have a haircut like that, my friend. What are you looking for? I swear I nearly choked when he asked me timidly, could you leave it long? Leave it long I thought? How? I've seen thicker mops on a newborn baby. I knew he liked a bet, or at least following the racing on the TV. Only one thing for it. I could have you looking like Frankie Dettori if you fancy? It'll be a little different from what you're thinking, but Frankie Dettori... you'll be wanting to leap off the landing like you've just won the Derby or the 3.30 at Cheltenham. Grooming wasn't on the shy little fellow's radar. My padmate was laughing like he was on gas when I told him The Hobbit had approached me. Not Quasimodo, he said. Then I told him, I said I could have him looking like Frankie Dettori. The salon is going well. I cut three heads yesterday. J, very thick hair. Not a hint of thinning, but an invasion of grey. He loves a number 1 now on the sides, and a tough blend from the 1 to the top. I must admit, the pressure is on with every cut. Young Dan and The Glumster too. He hasn't been talking to me for a week, but buckled for a haircut. He was on a visit today. Give him credit where it's due, he's always pleased and always genuinely grateful when I cut his hair. My pad mate is getting plenty of shoutouts as to the training and improved body shape, and without hesitation, he always says, all thanks to G-Dubz. And then cracks a gag about my ways. Pleasant surprises are always welcome, but nothing prepared us by way of fun with Carl's story of Glastonbury. Even Mr. H and Mr. D were laughing like naughty schoolboys listening. We were all sat around in the kitchen waiting for lunch to arrive, ie, the lads with the food trolley. The two minute walk from here to the cooking kitchens is four locked steel gates or doors one way. It can take 15 minutes or 40,so congregating and waiting is a regular thing. Lads are bored, hungry, and you never know what the topic of banter may be. Glastonbury started off quite tame, the usual stuff from Scousers, bunking in, all Scousers do it, it's the norm. There's hardly any mention of the bands or artists. It's drugs, drinks and partying. However, it changed direction when Carl said he was dressed in a Rambo outfit. His pals were Harry Potter characters. He had a toy machine gun, Rambo headband and vest top, and lived on liquid LSD for the whole event. Five days. As he said, it went from days of being lost in drugs and music to at one point listening to a bunch of lads playing instruments without any sound. The guitars had no strings, but everyone was still dancing and raving. He said he kept grabbing people and telling them he was taking them hostage with his electric machine gun that lit up like a lightsaber. Scouse Rambo is the first to admit that his drink and drugs use is way beyond that of recreational. Apparently, they were pulled a couple of times by security over their wristbands. They told security they work for Bobby's Burgers because one of the lads had seen a burger van with Bob's burgers on it. By day five, security were on the case. Rambo was collapsed in the field. Doesn't remember how he got there, but when he came to, security was there and a band of Hare Krishnas, albeit at that moment, Rambo didn't make the connection. No. Instead, he believed he'd been kidnapped by ISIS and they were about to behead him. He said, he was sobbing and pleading with them not to behead him. The cocktail of drugs they'd been on had finally taken their toll. I was really into the hallucinogenics G, I prefer the white flaky stuff though. As he likes to put it. The security guy said, what are you talking about, mate? We're security. We only want to throw you out. You've had five days for free. Carl said, imagine he's being kicked out of Glasto, feels like he's cold turkeying, and wandering the lanes of the village still wearing his battered, filthy and torn Rambo outfit. If that wasn't crazy enough, as he put it, I ended up back at me Ma's, in my forties. Thankfully she was away at me auntie's. Anyway, I've gone to Glasto to get off the coke, but I end up in my bedroom by myself doing in a grand's worth. And I hadn't even paid for it. JC turned up with a suit of sorts and pulled me away from the side splitting laughter. I've learned by now, it only means one thing. One of the lads is off to a funeral and needs something washed or ironed. Up close, I recognized the jacket and trousers. I'd washed and ironed them months ago for another lad. He wore it with his father's tangerine shirt in memory. The poor lad, whoever he is, had nothing decent to wear, and J had dug this out from the props room. Apparently the young lad's sister has passed away and she was getting buried tomorrow. I got to work straight away. Sadly, the make-believe suit had to go in the washing machine, too smelly. It had been stuck in props and smells as bad as a musty damp jumble sale. I washed and ironed him a shirt too, from one of the murder trial lads. He'd left it here. He said he wouldn't be needing it again. His life was over with 30 years. Now it serves another purpose. I've got to be honest, I was proud of the outfit. It looked and smelled presentable. I waited all afternoon for JC to turn up with the kid to try it on. Whilst waiting, I was chatting to a lad in the holding room. He was on a legal visit at the same time as me yesterday. He'd been to court today. He was trying to stop his two young children from being adopted. His partner, and mother of the children, had gone off the rails, picked the drink back up, and now on the gear. It's an horrendous situation. He's lost, and he's broken. Only 24 hours ago, I'd said keep the faith and don't give up. Now he's locked in the holding room and life is in tatters. The best I could do was make him a coffee and sort him a smoke off one of the lads. By five o'clock JC still hadn't returned, and I was having a deja vu with that sinking feeling. When he finally appeared it was bad news. The Governor had rejected the lad's application to attend the funeral. This is not the first time. Over the last couple of months it has become a trend. I honestly can't imagine how much of a head fuck it must be for the inmate. HMP has sunk to a new low. I've seen a guy dead on the floor, abandoned and failed, and now lads are being denied the right to attend a family funeral. This demonstrates how out of touch the prison system is. The suit never left the hanger. Society has a grim view of how prisoners should be treated and the footage bouncing around on the news and the net only makes the prison population look like a mob of despicables. But surely people out there would not oppose inmates going to funerals. If people out there knew the truth of how we're being treated and, just as bad, where is the money going? And to whom? These high barbed walls and these thick steel doors cannot contain a man's spirit or his love. T said this to me this morning on the love call. How does that not spur you on, when a woman loves and believes in you, when you have lost everything and one's name is trash. I'm a very lucky guy. Somehow, we seem to have lost more, but gained even more. Although most of this experience is horrendous. Sadly, once the phone is back on the receiver, reality comes sharply into focus. I'm never far away from an idiot or angry head, and The Despicables' caustic comments often feel like a jagged blade tearing through my flesh, whilst the person delivering with the cutting remark smiles, or sniggers. As awful as it sounds, I often think in these moments, you need to see a good dentist with those tombstone teeth. The best option, and how I've survived to this point, is to rise above it, remain composed and choose the right moments to show one's teeth. There are no guarantees on any given day that the bunk that you wake up in will be the bunk that you sleep in. Working in reception is like having a security blanket wrapped around me, but it only offers limited protection. It's prison, and in any one place at any given time, flareups explode into mayhem and certainly violence. Low moments appear in different guises. From things said, to frustration, fuelled by powerlessness and helplessness, or fear and jealousy. However, I remain rooted to Jeremy's words, we'll have you out in 18 months. And T's love. Don't get me wrong. There are nights I lay on top bunk with a flock of head fucks that hijack any sleep. I suppose it's not nightmares we suffer with, but realities, which feel far worse. It's Tuesday. I fear worse than Groundhog Day, it's going to be another deja vu day. The BBC prison news at 7:00 AM summed up the prison crisis in a nutshell. It focused on Hindley, where the Inspector of prisons said it's easier to get drugs than clean clothes and bedding. That's true, and I thought it was going to set the tone for the day. Definitely the conversation. However, that line was surpassed by Rambo as we waited to be picked up for work. He broke the ice with, me cock will be that hard when I get out of here that a cat wouldn't be able to scratch its claws on it. For all of his madness and mushy brain, courtesy of the white powder, he's a sensitive soul. He asked me to help him write a letter to an old friend who's serving 20 years. It's quite surreal. Sat in prison writing a letter with a guy who went to school with you. He took one path, and I another. Ironically, 30 years since last seeing him, we meet here. I suggested in his letter he write, it's madness in here, but I have found salvation. He loved that and spoke of it frequently to the lads. His daughter was released from Styal this morning. Honestly, dad and daughter in prison at the same time. You couldn't write it, but it's great content. But there are moments, gems that glisten in the quagmire. I found myself chatting with young D today after lunch. A dodgy chicken salsa, sounds almost exotic and nutritious, but the chicken was in name only and the salsa had no sizzle. I helped him clear the table and wash up just to keep busy. You know what it's like, chatting questions, stories. He's in for growing, cannabis that is. Nothing large scale, no, but enough to land him 20 months. He asked me, did you really lose everything G? I told him I didn't lose T, or my daughter or my parents, but everything else was lost within months of them coming through the doors. The fallout was catastrophic. The financial side was ruinous. He asked me, how will I make a comeback? I told him that was easy. Win the appeal. Tonight, when I returned from work, there were two letters for me under the door, one from T and the other an emailaprisoner.com from my daughter. T's letter in a card had a photo of a lighthouse perched on a rock. It's my favourite straightaway and I long for days when I can escape to write in such a place. My daughter's letter made me swell with emotion. She's struggling with her best friend from school. They've taken different paths in life, and the growing pains into adulthood can hurt at times. I find it difficult not being there for her and hope that the unconditional love, support and encouragement we provided give her the foundation to understand and learn from these life lessons. In here I'm pretty powerless, and a visit here and there, and a phone call a week, is not the same as being there in person, being her dad for real. Another day is nearly done. Tonight we're watching Rillington Place at 9:00 PM. It's been a busy day. Love calls times three, work, gym, letter for Rambo, I've read, haircut for Neil, read again, and then busy with the end of day arrivals. We finished at seven tonight, so not late. Treats and relaxation are coffee, three digestives, read my mail and then writing for an hour. It's less than a month to Christmas and less than two and I'll have been here for a year. Day by day, I'm edging closer to it being over, although I still turn over every morning looking for T and then realise I'm in a prison cell, on top bunk.