Episode 50 - Unhappy New Year

Thank you for listening to Tales From The Jails!! We've reached the end of Season One, my first year of incarceration, and are pressing pause on the podcast, but we will be returning in the New Year with Season Two, which turns out to be far worse than year one. 

This final episode ends 2016 showing that even the grim reality of 23 hour bang up doesn't stop the mayhem and madness.

The episode features Into The Darkness, written and performed by The Shadow Poet and produced by Lance Thomas. 

In the break, I'm going to be interviewing a variety of people, asking them such questions as, why is society fascinated with the topic of crime, criminals, and prison? I'm also interested in speaking to former prisoners who didn't re-offend, to find out what path they followed and who they became as a result of their time in prison. These will be on all podcast platforms in the TFJ feed from next month. I'll also be back at the desk turning Season One into a book, and we'll keep you posted on its progress. Once again, thank you for listening. Please stay subscribed and tell your friends about Tales from The Jails.

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 50 Unhappy New Year It's the 28th of the 12th, 2016. The countdown is on. In four days it will be 2017 and good riddance to 2016. Great content, a true test of character and mental and emotional strength, but it's a year I would have not chosen or ever expected. The creative part of my brain exploded again last night, like a supernova of writing hurtling through my mind. I find myself perpetually between thinking and writing. Writing and thinking. Considering nothing in here is simple or straightforward, ironically, it hasn't derailed me from observing as much as being forced to feel that which normally I may choose to avoid. I'm embedded within the most incredible content and circumstances any writer could wish for. I'm lucky in a strange type of way, who has the opportunity to listen to Funeral FM in the epicenter of a prison? Witnessed the worst of people in ways that would shock some and intrigue others. Altogether in one wretched place. One can be caught in sight of one awful event, when another will appear. You can be serving someone their tea in reception whilst opposite in the holding room it's a riot. Expect the unexpected, normally unpleasant and probably violent or aggressive. I think I'm feeling more sensitive since George Michael died and I've had a visit from T and my daughter. Beautiful, but difficult to say goodbye or I'm not coming with you. No, I stay here. I live here. For two hours of fun and love with them between Christmas and New Year, I'm lucky. I've noticed that I just want to listen to everything they've done, every detail, mundane or not, hearing directly of life in the outside world opposed to the monotony of Groundhog Day in here and listening to jail talk and prison bullshit continually. Somehow it sort of keeps me connected. We swerved James Bond last night instead watching a George Michael special with him performing back in 2012. The Garnier Opera House. It's hard to believe that four years after this, he's dead. I think I would've shed a few tears on top bunk at one stage, but the drones put the brakes on that. Was so fine tuned to their sound and manoeuvres that we could tell one of them was having difficulty with delivery, unlike Jeremy Clarkson's Amazon ads. Five minutes later my padmate was giving it ZZZZs. I had no alternative but to Tom Daley off top bunk and take the pen and pad to the en suite. At least I could have the light on in there, but the sound of the drones is louder because of the broken window. Imagine the best place to write is sat on the toilet in a prison cell. George Michael was on in the background singing soulfully, drones whirring, me writing, and Macca snoring. It's nuts. Lights out was 11 o'clock. I hoped to nod off with the sweet thoughts of T, but that was hijacked by the drones and the shenanigans to retrieve them. The lights went on three times through the night. Macca never moved once. The last thing I write is the funniest moment of the day. T passed over a new pair of specs on her visit, not to me, but to one of the officers who shall remain nameless, but he did hand them over to me when I returned to work. My old two pair were taped and made me look like I was old with issues. I was thrilled with them. Macca said one pair made me look like Harry Potter and the other Dame Edna. It's the 29th of the 12th, 2016. For weeks I've been looking forward to saying goodbye to the worst year of my life so far, and looking forward to freedom in 2017. As of Sunday, the 1st of January, I can say that at some point I should be home this year. T is coming to visit me on New Year's Day at 9:00 AM. Mr. C pulled me and said we're the only two booked on. It's the first one in the morning after the New Year celebrations. T is incredible. I cannot wait to see her and say those words, this year I'll be free and home and back in the big bed. She and Marianne are taking my mother to hospital this morning. They've both been amazing like that. By one o'clock, the love call I was expecting to make turned into a bad news bombshell. My mother's cancer is back. The consultant said he advised them not to go on holiday. She and John Boy are off to Tenerife in a couple of weeks. Now that dream is shattered. It's at moments like this, I feel most powerless to help or make a difference. The swell of emotion was hard to hold back on the phone. If ever they needed me most, it is now. They're old and frail and scared. It's Christmas and I'm here. There is no quiet space. Nowhere to cry alone. I felt awful for T. She had to deliver the dreaded news. It's the 31st of the 12th, 2016. The last remaining hours of an incredible year ticked by. It's New Year's Eve 2016. The music blaring throughout the wing is more reminiscent of Ibiza, not HMP Liverpool in the middle of winter. This evening anything goes behind the steel doors. Lemo, aka cocaine is still the number one poison of choice, followed by green. Spice has been conspicuous in its absence. By that I mean there have been zero zombie episodes. Regardless of the party atmosphere that verges on another rave for men only, I'm sure plenty of guys feel like I do right now. Tomorrow we can wake with the thought I'll be home this year. It really is a shot of adrenaline. Simple words, but a powerful mantra that carries a person through the worst of times. One likes to think that the worst of times are behind, although I'm cautious about falling into that trap. I've learned from personal experience things can always get far worse. It's a little after 8:00 PM and the prison is now bouncing. The music is so loud that it's difficult to hear the TV on full volume. The tunes are punctuated with vile immaturity, cockiness and false confidence. It's nuts. We're surrounded by men who one can see are clearly struggling to cope, and yet we can hear many of them with their bullshit bravado. Roger Sanchez is playing, Another Chance. Makes me want to leave up top bunk and strut a few moves, and yet how ironic the words seem. It's Saturday night in the heart of Liverpool, but we 1200 inhabitants are separated from the celebrations. Everyone I love is beyond these high walls, closer than you can imagine but in truth, they might as well be on the other side of the world. There will be bust ups behind the door tonight. Vicious disagreements, men with pent up anger and jealousy exploding. There'll be panic attacks and whities. Statistically, someone will have a serious health issue, and if you press the buzzer for help, then don't expect any to arrive. The night watchman is a female, an OSG officer, a woman who loves to engage with her favourite lads. Her cutting Scouse screech has already been heard as well as the shouts of, Vinegar Tits is on lads. The truth is, the filth in her direction is far too X-rated, and I feel uncomfortable repeating it. Suddenly the music stopped. The power went off on the other side of the wing. Tonight, there are as many mobile phones behind cell doors than there are behind the counter in the Carphone Warehouse. One of the lads can be heard sweet talking Vinegar Tits to go and turn the trip switch back on. It was a lazy start this morning. I was lying on top bunk for hours. Eyes closed, but mind awake. The wing was still quiet at eight and we were not being opened up until nine. I'd decided before my first move off top bunk that it would be a porridge day. I started my sentence way back in January on it, and every day since it's formed the basis of my staple diet. Honestly, for me, prison would've been much harder without it. I decided after breakfast I would swerve lunch. Normally on a Saturday, we're working and we eat down there. The wing is a different world though, and lunchtime is guaranteed to be more like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I used the time we were unlocked to make a love call to T. I'd put an extra 20 pounds on my phone credit for over the Christmas and New Year. The drones were early last night, before the News at Ten. Parcels the size of a KFC family bucket. The miniature UFOs hovered outside our window, close as touching distance. We could hear our neighbour on his phone saying, not that one, next door to the left. I've got the'ook out of the winda. Can't you see it? Clear as Dolby Surround Sound. He pops into the toilet to use the phone and we can hear every word through the wall. How it hasn't come on top is a mystery, but three parcels have been delivered by drones since Christmas Eve and not even one early morning spin. It's an extremely lucrative business, but if it comes on top, that's years on your sentence, not weeks or a loss of privileges like losing your TV for a month. Tonight, my daughter is in Valencia, my mother at home. First time in 30 years they've not gone to the social club, and T, the woman I love is at home with the cat, Tiger. She's my hero. Today, she cycled the Wirral Way, alone. I'm here on top bunk going no further than using the toilet or to make another bowl of porridge. Our 9:00 AM visit for tomorrow has been moved to our usual 2:00 PM slot. Mr. R approached me, asked me could I move it as we were the only two booked. What a year it has been. 11 months in prison. Most of them in this cell. I can't quite remember this time last year other than we did the usual walk, West Kirby Marina. regardless of the weather, It seems strange and ironic that a year on, I have more to look forward to next year than I did this. For now, I'm hoping the rave for men only plus Vinegar Tit's laughing screech fades enough to be able to watch Jules Holland's Hootenanny. ABC are on, Seasick Steve and John Cooper Clark. It's been a bit of a tradition for the last 20 years or so. I wonder whether he'll mention George Michael's death Be a dead giveaway it's prerecorded if he does not mention, fireworks have kicked off outside. We can hear cars beeping horns as they do drive-bys of Walton. I kid you not, there will be a lad in here on a phone speaking to another pal who drives by. The dickhead in here will be saying We're all raving in Walton. Beep your horn fella? Here y'are, I'll send you a photo. Out of the blue the power has gone back on. Vinegar Tits must have flicked the trip switch. Music turned up to 11 again. So loud it woke my pad mate. He asked me, have I missed midnight G? And the ship's horns blowing? No, it was only 9.43. We've been banged up behind the door since ten past four and five minutes later, well, it was like an illegal rave. Macca said loads of the lads were dropping Es. Liverpool won today, beat City one nil. We're hoping we're on first on Match of the Day. Then flip over to Hogmanay. After that, I suppose it's a listen to the ship's horns, then lights out and thoughts of T and plans for our new life once I'm home next year, 2016, has had everything I could never have envisaged only a year ago. Toenails and the posse causing me grief and undue stress every day. And now nothing from them. Navigating the anarchy and treachery and madness that is only ever a few meters away. The tense moments that were close to violent confrontations, but somehow I've managed to surf between surviving and thriving. I've been called out to men in distress as a Listener, seeing the worst of prison the night I went down to the block. There are men I've encountered for only brief moments, desperate and defeated by fear, who I still don't know whether they made it through the night. I've witnessed dead men on the cold, filthy floors being dragged away like they were rotten carcasses. There is no dignity dying in prison. But now in the craziest of bad situations, a rave in prison on New Year's Eve, I count myself lucky. I've got my Open University across the line and begin in the next few weeks. Old school, just pen, paper, and books to read No internet In prison although the posters bang on about rehabilitation, the reality is they make it as difficult as possible to progress. The fuse is lit to a brand new future and a brand new life. I've risen above stuff that I never thought possible, and I've not been afraid to show love or compassion. I've nearly been shipped out just for being myself. Mr. P's personal grudge against me. For some reason, he likes to say to me that my prison is too easy. Between him and Toenails it felt like a relentless barrage of loathing in my direction. The Match of the Day theme tune was as far as we made it with the power. Vinegar Ts was being called the worst of slags within 10 minutes. And the rave for men only felt like a police raid had just killed the action, and we're all sat in the darkness. Lads are calling the Everton fans saying they've done it on purpose. the ravers are turning into delinquents and my pad mate said he's never felt so depressed, even though he slept through most of the day. Again, I've moved to the en suite to try and scribble a few last words. There's just enough moonlight peeping through the broken window. I can see fireworks rising into the sky from the waterfront direction. The colours wash over my page like a rainbow dumbed down. I'll be listening to ship's horns in the dark rather than writing about them. The wing has kicked off. Vinegar Tits has disappeared And we're abandoned to the mercy of darkness and mayhem. It is just 11 o'clock. No Jules' Hogmanay, no ABC. No Entering 2017 on a midnight high. No. Instead, it ends my Tales from the Jails here, and I'm about to climb onto top bunk for a long night in a terrible place. I haven't even got someone to wish Happy New Year two. This is not my darkest hour, but into the darkness I must return. Into the darkness I must return, pulling my courage to face its fears, fighting the swell of lamenting tears. Dragging my feet unwilling to walk, guarding my words, unwilling to talk. One look captures the brutal angst and the stench of dread is buried in the walls as cries for help are beaten til they fall. The pack, the pack, the ravenous pack, they smile inside with gloating pride. I cannot turn and leave but march forthwith on a nervous stride, concealing that which I cannot hide. I wave goodbye to hope and dreams, scarred by regret of what might have been. Sleep arrives to release me, but my dreams depart on a broken cart as I slip away into another day. No window. No moon. No stars. Only a room without a view, lined with bars. What does the new day bring? What does the future hold? Wrapped in this blanket in the freezing cold. They wait beyond the steel door, desperate to begin their tribal wars. My only friend is the long despair, surrounded by words that say they care. I'm a shadow in a corner of crumbling mortar. I'm a bleating lamb that senses the slaughter. Boys don't cry as they say goodbye. Into the darkness I must return. Hi everyone, G-Dubz here in 2025. We've reached the end of Season One, my first year of incarceration, and are pressing pause on the podcast. But we will be returning in the New Year with Season Two, which turns out to be far worse than year one. In the meantime, I'm going to be interviewing a variety of people, asking them such questions as, why is society fascinated with the topic of crime, criminals, and prison? I'm also interested in speaking to former prisoners who didn't re-offend, to find out what path they followed and who they became as a result of their time in prison. We'll be posting these on the podcast platforms in the TFJ feed from next month. I'll also be back at the desk turning Season One into a book, and we'll keep you posted on its progress. I'd like to thank everyone who has taken the time to listen and follow, and if you've connected with any of the episodes or just enjoyed listening to something different, please stay subscribed and tell your friends about Tales from the Jails.