me, led me to the block and locked me up. I wasn’t too happy!
The Governor came into my cell with half-a-dozen screws to tell me that I was staying in the block on good order and discipline and would remain so all of the time I was there. When I asked why, he told me the Home Office wanted me isolated as they felt I was a danger. This was a fucking joke to me. Wakefield Jail housed over 500 cons, 450 of them lifers. I made it clear that I was not happy with this decision, but the Governor just smiled and walked out. I was now trapped, my reputation had preceded me. I felt hostility towards me – the screws were tense, ready to jump me at any time. Within hours of being there I blew. I went out to collect my tea. A good dozen screws were staring at me. One said, ‘You! Back to your cell and put a shirt on.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because that’s the rules; you wear a shirt.’
‘Fuck the rules.’ With this I spat in his face and walked back to my cell. I just felt my head pounding and I blew up. I began tearing my cell apart.
They were in like a shot and dragged me out. I was put in the box, and all the psychological games began. They banged my doors, gave me cold food, half a cup of tea, no slop-outs, no toilet roll, no soap. They were spying on me every 15 minutes, waking me up with the bolts. All mental games – but what they fail torealise is, it just makes a man worse. It breeds contempt and distrust. It also breeds violence. If not right now, then later. It scars a man, it turns him nasty. If you keep poking a dog with a stick, eventually the dog will bite. They were loving every minute of it.
I was eventually allowed to exercise on my own. I had to walk around a little yard by some workshops. I could see the other cons looking at me. It was a cold, wet day. My feet were bad owing to the tightness of the shoes that they had given me. I took them off, and my socks, and slung them over the fence. The screws pretended they never saw it, but what I saw upset me. A con was at the workshop window talking to the screws and passing them cups of tea. He totally blanked me. I shouted at the rat, ‘Where’s mine then?’ He still blanked me and went back to work. This really upset me a lot. I just couldn’t work it out, couldn’t understand it. I never locked his door at night, yet he gives the screws a cup of tea and ignores me. It just didn’t make sense to me.
My next week was a tough one, very tense. They never gave up – but neither did I.
I was so close to hurting someone. Every time I came out of the box, I searched for a tool, a needle, a nail, a piece of glass … anything to hurt someone with. Punching them on the jaw isn’t enough in situations like this. You’ve got to hurt them badly to show them you won’t be messed about. I felt I was at war. My back was up against the wall.
I’d lost all track of time. I didn’t realise I’d been in the box for ten whole days – it seemed like 100. On the tenth day of arriving in this piss-hole, they all piled in. Something was up.
‘You’re on the move now.’
I asked them where and they said I’d find out soon enough.
A row broke out, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the next thing I knew I was secured in a body-belt with my ankles strapped. They carried me out to the waiting van but there was actually a smile on my face! I was glad to be leaving.
The journey was a long one, trussed up and lying on the floor of the van. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone! Yorkshire to London is a fucking long way. I didn’t know where the hell I was when I arrived.
The van stopped outside the punishment block. Then I was told where I was – Wandsworth, a tough jail with 1,000 cons. The only jail left in the country with working, if unused, gallows. Still, it felt better than Wakefield. In this place, everyone knew where they stood. Step out of line here and they knock you back (or try to). There are no psychological games. It’s pure prison; it smells
The Governor came into my cell with half-a-dozen screws to tell me that I was staying in the block on good order and discipline and would remain so all of the time I was there. When I asked why, he told me the Home Office wanted me isolated as they felt I was a danger. This was a fucking joke to me. Wakefield Jail housed over 500 cons, 450 of them lifers. I made it clear that I was not happy with this decision, but the Governor just smiled and walked out. I was now trapped, my reputation had preceded me. I felt hostility towards me – the screws were tense, ready to jump me at any time. Within hours of being there I blew. I went out to collect my tea. A good dozen screws were staring at me. One said, ‘You! Back to your cell and put a shirt on.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because that’s the rules; you wear a shirt.’
‘Fuck the rules.’ With this I spat in his face and walked back to my cell. I just felt my head pounding and I blew up. I began tearing my cell apart.
They were in like a shot and dragged me out. I was put in the box, and all the psychological games began. They banged my doors, gave me cold food, half a cup of tea, no slop-outs, no toilet roll, no soap. They were spying on me every 15 minutes, waking me up with the bolts. All mental games – but what they fail torealise is, it just makes a man worse. It breeds contempt and distrust. It also breeds violence. If not right now, then later. It scars a man, it turns him nasty. If you keep poking a dog with a stick, eventually the dog will bite. They were loving every minute of it.
I was eventually allowed to exercise on my own. I had to walk around a little yard by some workshops. I could see the other cons looking at me. It was a cold, wet day. My feet were bad owing to the tightness of the shoes that they had given me. I took them off, and my socks, and slung them over the fence. The screws pretended they never saw it, but what I saw upset me. A con was at the workshop window talking to the screws and passing them cups of tea. He totally blanked me. I shouted at the rat, ‘Where’s mine then?’ He still blanked me and went back to work. This really upset me a lot. I just couldn’t work it out, couldn’t understand it. I never locked his door at night, yet he gives the screws a cup of tea and ignores me. It just didn’t make sense to me.
My next week was a tough one, very tense. They never gave up – but neither did I.
I was so close to hurting someone. Every time I came out of the box, I searched for a tool, a needle, a nail, a piece of glass … anything to hurt someone with. Punching them on the jaw isn’t enough in situations like this. You’ve got to hurt them badly to show them you won’t be messed about. I felt I was at war. My back was up against the wall.
I’d lost all track of time. I didn’t realise I’d been in the box for ten whole days – it seemed like 100. On the tenth day of arriving in this piss-hole, they all piled in. Something was up.
‘You’re on the move now.’
I asked them where and they said I’d find out soon enough.
A row broke out, there was a bit of a scuffle, and the next thing I knew I was secured in a body-belt with my ankles strapped. They carried me out to the waiting van but there was actually a smile on my face! I was glad to be leaving.
The journey was a long one, trussed up and lying on the floor of the van. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone! Yorkshire to London is a fucking long way. I didn’t know where the hell I was when I arrived.
The van stopped outside the punishment block. Then I was told where I was – Wandsworth, a tough jail with 1,000 cons. The only jail left in the country with working, if unused, gallows. Still, it felt better than Wakefield. In this place, everyone knew where they stood. Step out of line here and they knock you back (or try to). There are no psychological games. It’s pure prison; it smells
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