Episode 48 - Who Lives In A Cell Like This?

It's the 16th of December, 2016. It's Friday. Today HMP Birmingham has turned into a riot, resulting in a complete meltdown. The official statement as of 5:00 PM is control has been lost. The G4S private prison has between four and 600 prisoners rioting, and the place is on fire. The news is showing meat wagons waiting to ship out prisoners once the officers take back control. Walton is full. In fact, most prisons are full to capacity. Prison officers and their unions have been predicting this for months. The irony is that it needs a crisis before something begins to change or improve.

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 48 Who Lives In A Cell Like This? It's the 10th of December, 2016, and exactly a year since I was found guilty in the kangaroo court. I'd taken my bag with me with what I expected to be my prison gear. My legal team were adamant that I and the rest of my co-defendants would walk free, but I had a bad feeling, having lost all faith and trust in the legal system, and resigned that the judge was not prepared to lose at any cost. The guilty verdict came in record time. It may sound a little bitter, but it is not. From the beginning of the trial I put my faith in the 12 just people. However, I think differently from that now, how they reached that verdict after everything that went on in the courtroom is a mystery that aroused suspicion. The trial lurched from one crisis to another, torn to shreds, undermined and flawed from its inception. The prosecution's witnesses could not have been any worse. The number one witness, the detective, didn't even recognize his own evidence submitted in court stating he'd never seen it before. Later he had a meltdown, after the prosecutor had had a breakdown, shouting out loud to everyone, I'm not going to be the fall guy for this case. It was farcical in the extreme, but deadly serious. One witness with the prosecution, Miss X, said she was left trembling after our accounts departments had rung her to pay her bill. She said she was more terrified of us than when she fought on the battlefield. She was asked which war she fought in and she answered, The Falklands. I remember looking at the judge who looked decidedly uncomfortable, like a sudden case of the sweats had suddenly invaded his ruby red face. He stopped the trial and sent the jury out. We all wondered what the fuck was going on. The judge spoke to the prosecutor and my barrister privately. Then the witness for the prosecution, Miss X, was asked to confirm what she had said, without the jury present. She repeated it as convincingly as the first time. The trial was stopped again. The prosecutor took his witness out of the court. Then my barrister told us what was going on. Apparently, no female served in direct battle during the Falklands war. It was a lie, a fabrication, and completely undermined her as a witness. We never saw her again. The judge instructed the jury to return and, in favourite granddad mode, then instructed them to strike the witness off the record, and without any explanation as to what was really going on. He continued as if nothing significant had happened. I wanted to jump up to my feet and shouts over to the jury, this is what has just taken place. This is the truth. The reality is that during the 13 week trial, the jury was sent home for more than half of it, because the trial was in chaos almost every day. The jury never once saw the chaos of what was really taking place in their absence. Every time a critical moment against the prosecution's case occurred, they were sent out and it was fudged. There was so much fudge by way of the prosecution, that the jury had switched off two weeks into the trial. A year ago I heard those words a person dreads, the haunting, harrowing sound of guilty. However, there was an unexpected twist in the macabre drama. We were given bail until sentencing day, six weeks later. It meant I was home for Christmas with the family. Those six weeks turned out to be and feel like a slow death march. No matter how hard I tried to be positive, upbeat, and tried to get an appeal started, a pervasive doom hung over us that seeped into one's bones and devoured one's spirit. None of it was fair, but it was the reality and the fallout hit with the force of a sunami. All of those years fighting to clear my name and now my name and credibility were trashed worse than ever. That Christmas and those six weeks drained the final drops of spirit from us all. Those weeks were a curse in the end and as I may have said way back, going down the stairs put an end to the death spiral we were experiencing. T is and was amazing, but we were in free fall with an awful sad outcome after years of trying to end the nightmare. She has been a rock, believed in me, loved me throughout everything unconditionally. Who gets that? And now, a year on from that day and those dark times, I'm loved as much and in love. However, for all of the sadness born out of the injustice, I'm not the victim type. That consumes and debilitates a person. My, our only hope is to win the appeal. From those first few hours after the guilty verdict until now, I've worked tirelessly to secure a legal team to appeal. Almost a year, and against all odds. I've made progress, but it's slow, constantly delayed and derailed by the judge, but Jeremy keeps me focused. When we get into court, we'll win. Of that he and the barrister are certain. Both of them say that there are more grounds for appeal than in any other case either of them have seen. He reminds me of this every time I see him. It's a little ironic or that's how it feels. I'm writing now like I did in the past. I used to write everything down, journals everywhere, plans, ideas, thoughts, meetings, what took place in meetings. Scores of books with hundreds of thousands of words. Then there were all my computer records, all my emails, my phone records, my digital footprint, as they say. So much so that the detective in charge could tell me what my Monday morning meetings with the company every week were all about, and yet out of every written word, email, text, every instruction, there wasn't a single word that suggested a crime. There was no conspiracy. There are not two words between two people that ever conspired to defraud, but more importantly, not one word or piece of evidence against me. In fact, my footprints were all positive solutions to problems or issues. Now I'm in HMP Liverpool, aka Walton, and I'm still writing, no different than before. What I experience, what I observe. How I feel and my plans, thoughts and ideas. That never stops. It's part of who I am, like it was in my DNA. For now though, writing has become more of a conscious stream of thinking, born out of experiencing and observing the anarchy of prison. It's Wednesday, the 14th of December. Number One was escorted out of reception unceremoniously by two officers after a very public and excruciating sacking. Oh, how the mighty fall, was my first thought, and karma works in mysterious ways, my second. I do not gloat. Neither do I wish him any ill feeling even if he has conducted himself woefully and despicably at times. He made his own choices and wielded his own brand of misery on plenty of lads in here. His biggest mistake was believing he was invincible down here in reception. Toenails too, but he managed to slither out of here to Cat D last week, or I think he would be suffering the same fate. Great mystery surrounds the sudden and surprising departure. He's in for a shock back on the wings as he's got enemies there. As the hours pass, rumours gather momentum. He's had his security risk heightened too. The lads on reception are not mourning his departure. No. Their main concern is, are there more of us for the chop? Is this a reception purge? Interestingly, I'd highlighted to him my own canteen sheet was down and so was his. He made a fuss about it to an officer down here, and when the officer checked, it appeared he should have been sacked three weeks ago. That would've meant Toenails too. I have my own thoughts about who may be behind all of this, but I'm keeping tight lipped. That will only guarantee me an exit, whether I'm right or whether I'm wrong. Ex Number One is now thrust back into the lion's den of wing life. They've started terrorizing him through the doors an hour ago. Mr. D told us that. In one swift moment he vacated the number one spot, top of the shit pile, as JC puts it. He was a gloater against many of the lads, a swagger about him because of his position. Lads will now be keen to repay him some of his put downs, that's for sure. As the big jail news consumed the whole of reception from one theory to another as to what was going on, B pulled me. Only young, late twenties, losing his hair, and it's hurting him. He's facing a very big sentence for distribution of large quantities of Class A drugs. He asked me would I help him compose a letter to the judge on his case. He wanted it to show remorse and explain the truth about who he really is and why he did it. Not a list of excuses but the truth, that's what I suggested. We sat down to compose the letter of a lifetime. I suggested to B the best way to approach this is to speak honestly and from the heart. I'll do the rest. The second irony in one day was much bigger than the first, Number One's exit. I asked B out of curiosity, who was the judge? I never thought for one moment, it's quite surreal, but here I was composing the letter that may determine a good or bad sentence to the man, the same judge, who was trying to bury me. I know him acutely well and the unscrupulous manner in which he works. I did not tell B He was my judge. No, but I did say in my experience, the one thing these judges want to hear at this stage is regret and remorse. That's key. B wasn't running a trial, no., He and his co-defendant pleaded guilty early on, but he was trying to negotiate the amount of drugs against him and salvage mitigation from an early guilty plea and remorse. It took two hours to flush out the final draft. He thanked me genuinely, telling all of the lads it was the best thing he'd ever read. I advised him to copy what was written in his own handwriting and not to submit the version I'd penned. Apparently he wants to hand it into his solicitor tomorrow on a legal visit, a last ditched attempt to gain a reduction on what may be potentially a very heavy sentence. It was only last week the lads were slammed for 60 kilos. This runs into hundreds. It's The 16th of December, 2016. It's Friday. Today HMP Birmingham has turned into a riot, resulting in a complete meltdown. The official statement as of 5:00 PM is control has been lost. The G4S private prison has between four and 600 prisoners rioting, and the place is on fire. The news is showing meat wagons waiting to ship out prisoners once the officers take back control. Walton is full. In fact, most prisons are full to capacity. Prison officers and their unions have been predicting this for months. The irony is that it needs a crisis before something begins to change or improve. I shudder to think how things could get worse for any of us presently. We've been told to expect no work tomorrow, but this changes everything. Last night, there was a drone that looked or appeared to act more like a UFO, carrying a parcel as big as a sack. By all accounts. The lads who it was delivered to struggled for 20 minutes to get it in. I was awake for most of the night, less distracted by the drones, more the racing brain, thinking about my writing. I was bent like a cripple, sunk in the middle of my top bunk facing the grim wall of reality. Normally, deep into the black of night it's pretty quiet and often I'm awake to notice. It's the 22nd of December, 2016. Another sleepless night. The newish mattress is unfortunately sunken in the middle. At one time it was as hard as concrete, but now sadly, it's moulded to the sagging iron frame that holds me up. However, for all of the discomfort, comfortingly there was no shouting, no screaming, no loud music, no banging, no spice frenzies, and after midnight, no drones. I ended up thinking about the TFJs, as in, if they make it to a book. The three Ms is the working title, Murder, Masturbation and Mayhem. I lay thinking for ages about the first of the Ms, M equals murder. There is a song by Space, interestingly, from Liverpool too. They had a hit in the nineties called, Who Lives in a House Like This? Who lives in a house like this, who lives in a house like this... I drifted off in thought and awoke to, who lives in a cell like this, who lives in a cell like this... I had to write it down. Luckily, my pad and pens are under my pillow and the light on my watch is enough to see what I'm writing. Sounds crazy, but try writing on top bunk in the dark without moving. If I turn over on this old iron frame, it rattles like it's been hit with a five on the Richter scale. The song takes us behind the doors of houses in weird and wonderful ways, and it made me think of doing something similar, describing the inmates and characters behind the cell door. For instance, behind cell 123 lives K a lifer, a Scouser, and a dead ringer for Lurch in the Addams family. By day he works in the library and at night he's monged on meds. Serious time for serious crimes, crying in his sleep like Lady Macbeth. I imagine every night someone drowns in those tears. Most mornings, he passes me when I'm on the way to make the love call. He's returning from the meds counter. He's an intimidating figure. Big, ugly, not blessed with any redeeming features. One eye looking at two o'clock even when he is looking straight at you. He's been on the wing since I landed and never once said hello. Thankfully, there hasn't been a disgruntled grunt in my direction and I'm grateful for that. I can say without any doubt that neither the good eye nor the bad have made eye contact with me. My encounter was completely unplanned and unexpected. Weeks ago, the prison was full to capacity again. No work meant no shower down in reception. It was the wing showers or no shower. I put my towel under my arm, shampoo and shower gel rolled up in it, marched off to make the love call, and then bounced into the infamous showers. I thought it would be quiet being so early. I waltzed in high on love and bang, straight into Lurch. The showers are a bleak, filthy, decaying place. Lads say the drains are always blocked and there's no guarantee of hot water, but worse, inmates are attacked viciously in the showers. No cameras and no witnesses. Smurf said, if you don't wear flip flops or keep your socks on, then your feet are going to catch something really bad. Luckily, I've got flip flops. The first surprise was Lurch already in the shower cubicle, and the second, he was singing. The third surprise caught me off guard. He stopped singing and offered me a polite, Alright, George, in a harsh Scouse accent. I'd never heard him speak before. I only knew him as Lurch and what do you say? Alright, big guy, how are you? Are the shower's hot? Then it was stripped off and into the cubicle next but one. The next surprise was really the case of relief. Lurch turned out to be a thoroughly charming and polite guy, especially considering he's done almost 20 years. He still retains his acidic Scouse humour, what brings you to this sorry place this morning? I explained, it was a lockout, no spaces. The next 15 minutes or so were enlightening as much as intriguing. Two blokes in a shower room in prison talking like it was normal. Well, normal for here. He was intelligent, knew a lot about legals. He'd read a lot. Said he had too many years on his hands and the only way to stay sane in the end was to read. interestingly, he was very familiar with the appeals process. He asked me about mine. He seemed to know about that, and that I'd applied to Open Uni. By the time it was time to dry off, he landed another surprise. You write, don't you, George? I smiled when he said that as I don't broadcast it. Then he said, you get the most mail as well, don't you? Have you got a fan club on the outside? That made me laugh. Lurch wasn't bitter, but he was pure jail, institutionalized, surviving on hopes of being out in 18 months. He told me he had been released previously, but explained how difficult probation make it to survive out there. He said, I was lucky to have somebody out there who loved me so much. The love call you call it, don't you? I laughed at that. I told him, yeah, yes I do. He said, I envy that, but I don't envy you, George. Then he said, as we were leaving, you're in great shape for an old fella George. You must train'ard. Then he asked me about my diet. I laughed all day off the back of the surprising encounter. I've spoken to him twice since. One was to ask him a favour, and two, to say thank you and hand over a bag of Maltesers, a small price for such a favour. He asked me what I was presently reading. I told him, Sapiens by Harari, but I'm only on chapter one, An animal of no significance. I knew Lurch had a single cell, but I didn't know he had a big screen TV with an aerial cable through into the bathroom and just peeping out of the broken window. It's sort of discreet. Not in your face, but a pad spin would be a ship out, but there's never a spin. I remarked his pad was like a penthouse suite compared to ours. He said, too many years away and you get to reach the dizzy heights of a single cell and big screen George. I've'erd you're still on the wind up radio George. Yes, it's true. I confirmed that, told him it's true. Less hassle and great when the power goes off. I noticed how by this time in the day, Lurch's meds were kicking in. He was freer, looser, and more relaxed speaking to me. The last thing he asked me was, why do you stay here in Walton, George, when you probably don't need to? In that moment it felt right to be honest, rather than sidestep it or be disingenuous. Family is here, parents are seriously ill. The appeal. Visits are easier, Reception helps. I'm settled in a strange type of way and...and the content is incredible. He loved that and batted me another curve ball. Will I be in your book, George? Well, what do you say to that? I didn't see it coming. I never said I was writing a book, not even to my pad mates or JC. People get very twitchy about these things. I told him I've got to make it beyond the gate first, and then read it and hope it's not just the ramblings of a fool in prison. He loved that. I also told him that at the end of the day, prison is a test of character. He was quick to point out that he'd never heard it described like that before. I left big Lurch with the giggles and tucking into a bag of Maltesers. I'm experienced enough to know he looked like he was enjoying a bout of the munchies. My days and life are entwined with murderers, VPs, drugs barons, violent thugs and gangsters, as well as rapists, thieves, and desperate men. On the short walk back to my cell, I could see and feel the eyes of curiosity hanging over the landings, watching me, wondering why I was leaving Lurch's pad. And laughing too. I told Macca when I got back, we'll have to stop calling him Lurch. It doesn't feel right anymore.