Episode 49 - Christmas In Prison

It's the 25th of December, 2016. Imagine waking up on Christmas morning with a person you only met a few months ago, not your partner or soulmate, but your pad mate, in HMP. I'm on top bunk and he's down below, two lives colliding. 

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 49 Christmas In Prison It's the 23rd of December, 2016. Less than 48 hours from now and Walton will supposedly have a white Christmas regardless of the weather forecast. However, imagine if you are being released from prison, particularly this grim, violent cesspit. It's the last day a prisoner can be released. If it's not today, then it's Christmas in a cell. The holding room is full with an eclectic bunch of lads. For some, it'll be super exciting whilst for others, the majority by the look of it, it's daunting, scary, and uncertain. Imagine leaving with only 40 pounds or so in your pocket, carrying a bag of unwashed clothes as your only possessions. I suppose the irony here in the bedding stores is Rossini is playing on Funeral FM. It is the William Tell Overture, more commonly known if you're of a certain age as the theme from the Lone Ranger. It has a poetic spirit about it, sweeping one along into adventure in the name of justice. One thing for certain, some of those lads may be terrified of what awaits, but they'll be galloping like William Tell out of here. One gets the sense, by way of listening to them only metres away, that far too many have nowhere to go. No loved one waiting, no family to return to for initial support. Imagine then, if you have nowhere to go. Hostels have a terrible reputation and often lads get into more trouble because of the grim environment. Every one of them must go straight to probation upon release. Miss that, and there's a warrant out for you and a recall. I know how tough it was for me after they burst through the doors and we lost the business and subsequently everything else. Debt consumed us as the fallout took its toll. I was lucky. I had a family, loved ones and friends to lean on for support during the desperate years. Here and now, it looks like no hope or future for most of the lads in the holding room. Within an hour they'll be gone. Meanwhile of we residents remaining here, well, many are showing the signs of the Christmas blues appearing, the pain of the separation from the family or partner. How can those with families not be sat in their cells with a head fuck of regrets and a belly full of powerlessness and hopelessness to do anything about it? Over the next few days, there'll be head fucks and tears behind the steel closed door. There'll be tough men lying on their sad bunk, dwelling on the life lost and what could have been. I'm curious how many of us on Christmas day will drift into quiet contemplation. It really will be surreal waking up in a cell in Walton on Christmas morning, no T wishing me Merry Christmas with love and fun and festive spirit. It could be worse. Lads who are leaving this morning could be waking up under a sheet of cardboard after sleeping rough or in a police cell, and on a one way ticket back to here. Releases went on until after 10 o'clock. Then there was the drama of the transfer. He swallowed a razor blade so he couldn't leave. Other than the insanity of it, you have to ask yourself why was he so desperate to stay here? After the excitement and mayhem of the morning, reception slumped into the moody blues, the lads wished they were not here, forgetting somehow why they are here. The chaplain passed through. He commented on my upbeat spirit compared to what appeared to be his, sombre. He asked me what my favourite Christmas song or carol was and how were the family, especially the parents. He knows they're very ill. I told him The Snowman and definitely anything from a choir. I like listening to King's College, Cambridge at Christmas. He laughed at that, noting how for a man who follows no faith, there's often a connection to it. It's the architecture, I said, the music, the art, and probably the symbolism. I remember thinking, although I didn't say it, hypocrisy too. I like the chaplain, not pushy at all. A good listener and likes a laugh, or has a good sense of humour. His parting words were, I hear you won the Celebrity Jungle sweep. And then he shook my hand, wished me an early Merry Christmas and was gone. Out of the blue and totally unexpected at three o'clock-ish when most of the civvie staff had already left for the Christmas break, who should rock up but careers George with a governor. The place went silent when I was called into the room of doom, but it was the best news I could hear under the circumstances. My Open University course has been confirmed. Hallelujah! I'm officially on it. I think it was April when I first started the application process and a week over the deadline date of the 16th. What a journey to reach this point. T will be thrilled. Governor Hartless was full of smiles and looked as happy and relieved as George, who deserves the most credit. This would never have got across the line without him. What a name too, Governor Hartless, but he's actually okay. Always stops when he is down and chats to me in an inquisitive manner more than an interrogation. In the own days, back in the office, today would be the Christmas party, end of the year award, restaurant, food, drinks, wages, and Christmas bonuses. We had a policy back then, no one went home skint for Christmas. If they needed a sub, then it was given. I don't believe you should work all year only to have a miserable Christmas due to no money, no matter what the reasons. Champagne would flow like it was never going to run out and I would leave first, not a drink in me. It was their time to celebrate and have fun, and those years were behind me. Nothing worse than a sober boss at an office Christmas party with a cash kitty to blow. We finished work early today, so back in the cell and locked behind the door by 6.30. The lads on the wing were already singing Bing Crosby's I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas. My padmate said, how do they think that's clever? Do they think officers don't know? The whole fucking prison knows. Guarantee we'll be drug tested in the next few days G, no way they want positive results of coke for the figures. Looks terrible for the prison. It's the 25th of December, 2016. Imagine waking up on Christmas morning with a person you only met a few months ago, not your partner or soulmate, but your pad mate, in HMP. I'm on top bunk and he's down below, two lives colliding. And here we are in cell 3.17 on Christmas morning in Walton. Nothing prepares you for this, not unless you've experienced it before. I was awake early, but my sleepy pad mate was motionless until nearly seven. Then I leapt off top bunk the moment he murmured, kettle on, news on and Merry Christmas Macca. This is for real, and not just a nightmare we're going to wake up out of. I wondered whether the white Christmas would begin before we're unlocked, or would it be saved until later, maybe until after lunch or after the Queen's speech? I think they call that a Christmas message now. There's prison hooch about. J told me that yesterday. He tasted it. They used fruit from the kitchens apparently. Mr. R opened us up at two minutes past eight. Merry Christmas lads, hope you're not doing a Bing Crosby on us today. That was our greeting. It was always going to be a queue for the phone. I had to wait 20 minutes and then only 10 minutes at best to ring three people. T, my daughter and Margie and John Boy, the parents. T's at her mother's. That was surreal, saying Merry Christmas to everyone at 8.20 in the morning. I had to because it may be the only chance I get. Luckily, they were all in the kitchen making breakfast, surreal. I'm acting and T is acting as though everything is just normal when the reality is we've had an atom bomb go off in our lives and relationship. I woke my daughter up and told her, I'm sorry I'm not around. T sent her a present on behalf of both of us, and my mother was sad. I told her I'd be cooking Christmas lunch again next year. I must be honest, I was nearly in tears, because I'm not sure either of them will make it that far. I'm surrounded by hundreds of testosterone fuelled alpha males on Christmas Day. Some angry, some down, and some somehow hoping that today will be better than yesterday. Banged up by 9:00 AM. Christmas lunch starts at 11:30, so it's behind the door until then. It's nice to have the carols on in the background. Macca said he's going to try and sleep most of Christmas away. We laughed that the lads are having proper fallouts over the TV schedule and we don't give a fuck. He's sleeping and I'm writing. He's feeling it. Two teenage lads and his parents old. His way of coping with it all is to sleep it off. I can't help but think of the lads who were crying at the phone earlier. Speaking to their young kids. It starts off as jovial, and two minutes in when the missus must pass the phone to the kids, they bubble in front of the lads all queuing. It's awkward, it's sad, and it's real. Many of these lads have got five to 10 years ahead of them like this. I noticed at the time, for most of us, it's the first time. Having to make a call like this. Christmas in Walton, separated from your loved ones. However, there were two fallouts too. Dickheads giving their girlfriends or partners grief about going out last night, and then today. They're young, and these guys are insane with jealousy and toxic feelings. One of them actually said, fuck off then, that's your Christmas fucking present. Not a fucking watch. Slag! Then he apologized to us all as he slammed down the phone hoping he hadn't broke it. I saw ex-Number One. He's a broken man. Sheepish. He ignored me. Not that I was bothered. And Kenco, yes, Kenco. On Christmas Eve we were expecting to be on cleaning duties and done by lunch. I was on a visit with T in the afternoon and my head was preoccupied with that. Midmorning, a ship out from Kirkham Prison appeared on the board. An hour later who should turn up, perky but dishevelled, but Kenco, shipped out from Kirkham, one of the cat D nirvanas, and here an hour later. He stunk of booze, but a couple of stripes as he called them, perked him back up. He'd been in the Hilton Hotel in Manchester the day before on what they call a town visit, out from 8.30 in the morning until seven or eight at night. See if you can be trusted and return. Kenco obviously failed the test. Apparently he'd had a few cocktails too many and still wanted to party back in the billet. They raided his pad at 6:00 AM the morning of Christmas Eve. He was drunk, on the phone and coke on the table. In the old days when he worked here, he was popular with a lot of the officers. They put a cloak of protection around him, Mr. C in particular. He had a soft spot for him. He and all the other officers, they threw him in the VP room. He's let them down, although at the time I don't think he could see it, maybe later in the cell when he's sobered up properly, it will hit him, that he blew it. His opportunity to progress, blown. He was on B-wing when I returned from my visit. He called me from behind his cell door as I walked by. Can you believe it G-Dubz, Hilton yesterday and Walton tonight. Holding T and saying goodbye at the end of the visit was tough, but listening to kids cry when they were leaving was harder than what we were going through. Imagine the impact it's having on children. I'm lucky. My daughter is older, in her early twenties, and able to live her life independently away from it all. I cannot imagine, but there must be shame and stigma. It's the ripple effect from these events. It goes with the territory I'm afraid. She's home at her mother's for Christmas, off to see her nan just about now, mid-morning, without me. TV is grim today. The big movies are The Lion King and Frozen, and later Gavin and Stacey. No idea what that is, or the Bake Off. I'm hoping that on the other six Z channels we have, there'll be Only Fools and Horses. The bad news is the traditional Bond movie has been moved to Tuesday. Skyfall. We saw that together in 2012. Still got the tickets. T used to keep all the movie tickets. There's a box full of them somewhere. Friday night at the movies. T, me and my daughter, we must have done at least one every other week. We'd stopped going to the Trafford Centre and went through a new phase at FACT, in Liverpool. A bit more arthouse feel back then, not as rowdy. We'd discuss and review the movie on the journey back home. I remember we all thought Bardem was a terrible Bond villain, a ridiculous plot, even so, if it was on today, I'd watch it again. Wow. Christmas lunch was a treat, a hairy leg of chicken or a slice of turkey. The traditional route, although we all agreed the slice had never seen a turkey. Surprisingly, ex Number One was serving, a sign not only of his fall from the dizzy heights of the shit pile, but also life behind the door for 23 hours every day. He was on gravy duty, something I cannot stand, but I did have a dollop of stuffing along with three roast potatoes and a scoop of mixed veg straight out of the freezer and boiled to mush at 9:30 this morning. Luckily, I squeezed in another love call to T. She was by herself this time. We laughed and nearly cried, but I told her, I dare not as I'm off to the servery for Christmas lunch. It was straight after bang up from lunch that we smelled the first waft of green. Half an hour later, the tunes went on. One of the cleaners on the floor below. That was a line and a sign. By the time the Queen's speech came on at three o'clock, the place was a cross between Amsterdam and Creamfields. I found myself comparing Christmas trees. The Queen's, positioned over her left shoulder and mine downstairs in Reception in prime position. The Walton one is sadly not in the same league, but the one I do at home, that's better than the Queen's. I spend hours on that. We always buy a real tree, eight or nine foot, no overkill, classy, glistening. It's noticeable that Charles' photograph with her is sat beside her. The old Duke demoted to a table almost off screen. The changing of the guard is already at play it seems. Planting seeds, all choreographed. She said about inspiring people and the word inspire originally means to breathe in. I never knew that. By the end, I was laughing with Macca about the statement a few weeks back during the strike. The one that said something about it's easier to obtain drugs in most prisons than toilet rolls and clean clothes. By the time I'd laughed with him and succumbed to Christmas songs on Top of the Pops, the place had become livelier and my pad mate was back under his blanket snoring and oblivious. Our tea was in a paper bag, a turkey sandwich, cheese and crackers believe it or not, like they were from 1980, there was a banana and a Marathon, which is now a Snickers, a bottle of water and a baby size milk for tomorrow morning. That's usually gone in two cups of coffee. But we were offered the Christmas pudding, which was missing at lunch, apparently it hadn't defrosted in time. It's strange. It's only 6:00 PM but you can hear the madness as much as the sadness beyond our door. Macca said, at least we don't have to go shopping, looking for sofas tomorrow. Then he used the bathroom and then retired for the night. It wasn't even 6.20. I ate two tins of rice pudding during Space Cowboys. Ridiculous but funny and worth a watch if you're stuck in a cell. I mix some raisins and sultanas in too, as a treat. Cold in a plastic blue bowl, but a treat and a guilty pleasure, all the same. There's no gym today or tomorrow, although we are in work. Thankfully. The courts are open for those in cells in custody. Work will be a relief from the monotony here in the cell on the wing. What's worse is it's a skeleton staff for days. Prison staff have their own families and loved ones at Christmas. OSGs pick up a lot of the shifts. They're support staff and not real officers. At least half a dozen of them work down in reception. Most, they're all right. They work in the prop room with the gear coming in, whether direct from the lads when they land, usually the stuff that's confiscated or, the stuff sent in from loved ones, items on the list. Mr. W. He's horrible, talks shite when he's trying to be one of the guys, but power has gone to his head. Mr. P refers to them as opens and shuts gates. That's what OSGs are. You get the impression that Mr. W was in the Army Reserves at some point. He's a job's worth and horrible. I read my book for a couple of hours, although I was like the nodding dog. Macca woke up about nine and we chatted and had a laugh for an hour listening to the soundscape, which by now had started to fade. We agreed it was probably weak coke. He was surprised we still had power and it hadn't blown. We decided to keep the Jaffa Cakes for the James Bond movie on Tuesday. I used the bathroom before the news at 10 and had a sink shower. By the time I'd cleaned my teeth, Macca had turned the light off and put the TV remote on top bunk. He was back under the covers and facing the wall. He muffled, I'm done. I lay on top bunk, the TV on, but no sound. It was quite hypnotic, the light and reflections bouncing off the walls. I wondered if there'd dare to be drones tonight. Skeleton staff and all, but then who wants to be out in the middle of the night tonight, Christmas night, flying in drugs to Walton dangling from a drone. I switched the silent TV off at 11. The room went to darkness. For a brief moment, I edged our blacked out curtain slightly open, enough for a glimpse of the moon, or not. I imagine I won't sleep much tonight. Thoughts of T and trying to make sense of this crazy situation. I really am in a cell in Walton Prison on Christmas day and night. A week from now it'll almost be midnight on New Year's Eve, Jules fucking Holland and Hogmanay. I laughed out loud and it woke my pad mate up. T had said on the visit yesterday, don't forget to write it all down. Macca asked me what was so funny. I told him, a white Christmas. It was rave for men only. Kids' parties go on longer with soft drinks. And what happened to the famous prison hooch? Boxing Day I woke this morning early. My first thoughts were, yeah, I really am in prison. As soon as Macca gave a waking yawn, I switched on the news and straight off top bunk. Hit the floor to, George Michael is dead. 53 years of age, 12 months older than me. What a voice. What a catalogue of songs. What a legacy. What a tragedy. But sadly, poor Georgie boy was fucked up and still fighting his demons. Last Christmas was only on yesterday during Top of the Pops Christmas special on some B channel. I think they said he was 17 when he wrote it. I've spent the better part of my adult life listening to his soulful voice. Ladies and Gentlemen was an album that formed the backdrop to my early days with T when she lived down south and I up north. Night after night, we'd speak on the phone until late. I would have this album playing in the background. Whenever I hear a track from that album, I always think of T. Jesus to a Child. I Can't Make You Love Me. Praying For Time. One More Try. It's really sad and I must admit, makes me think of my own mortality. I've lived an incredible life, but imagine dying in here, in prison. None of us knows when our time is up. However, this place heightens the odds against me. I've seen up close and personal the indignity of death in prison. Nothing has changed in 500 years. Last night, the rave for men only seemed to fade into the temperament of an old people's home and finished much earlier than we expected. Today, thankfully, we're back in work. Lads who have been arrested over the last couple of days and held in police cells are then shipped in front of a magistrate judge and if remanded, land here. I was writing in the bed stores when an officer shouted for a Listener. All the lads threw my name in the hat. A young lad called Jamie landed. Mr. S told me he's nervous about what to expect behind the door. He was 21, but he looked 16. I chatted to him for half an hour, putting his mind at ease, when Philly bulldozed in and lightened the moment. For fuck's sake, you're better off in here kid. Those police cells are fucking hell. I mean, you're sleeping on the floor, no meds, no tv, no shower. You'll be watching Match of the Day here tonight kid. Fucking hell, is that a cigar you're rolling there? An observations to the young Jamie making a rollie. Jamie burst out laughing, then asked, will he get his backy stolen off him later? Not if you smoke it all first kid, said Philly. Then he rolled himself a smoke. I thought he was going to hand it to young Jamie, a sort of, this is how you do it. Sadly not. Off like Charlie Chaplin to smoke it in the holding room. I took him through with Mr. S to A wing. It's the induction wing where you go first for a couple of nights. It helps lads acclimatize to the place before the bleak, brutal reality of the main wings. I told Derek he was nervous and could he keep an eye on him? He's a top bloke, helped me loads in the early days. Still here and always cheery. Jamie was in a safe pair of hands for the next few days I thought. I indulge myself in an hour long love call to T, in the big holding room that was empty, and so the phone was free. We spoke of George Michael's death and our early love that blossomed and grew into what we have today. We were back behind the door by three o'clock. Wing is alive with the football. Boxing Day football is big in here. Boxing Day football is big everywhere. Then I spent the evening on top bunk, thinking about next week, the 1st of January, 2017. Next year I could or should be out, the appeal won and back in T's arms, back in my daughter's and parents' lives and this nightmare, this life bomb, will be behind us. I started the day on porridge and I'm ending it with two bowls, mixed with raisins, sultanas and a banana. Christmas is done for 2016. It's close my eyes time, wishing T was in my arms, and we were listening to George Michael with only the light of a candle.