Episode Transcript
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During the three and a halfyears I was in prison, I wrote
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over a million words by hand.
Tales from the Jails is acontemporaneous account of my
life, and attempts to thriverather than merely survive
whilst incarcerated.
Most names have been changed,but the events have not.
Episode 18 Prison Gym It's the9th of May, 2016.
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I used to say in the office daysthat nothing and no one was
sacred in Liverpool.
I believe this phrase is to betaken to a whole new level and
meaning sat in HMP.
Too many men in here want tohumiliate you, undermine you,
discredit you, all for their ownentertainment or pack kudos.
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Don't get me wrong, there arefunny moments, albeit often
tinged with a hint of thecaustic, but in a prison full of
villains and criminals, and mostof them alpha males of one kind
or another, all chipping awayfor the chief pecking order, it
creates a constant state oftension, and genuine funny
moments are rare, unless youlook through the ironic lens.
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If you are considerate, orcaring it is interpreted as
being soft or weak or stupid,and a target to be taken
advantage of.
If you have anything about you,i.
e.
are more intelligent, wealthier,or speak with a tone that sounds
educated and has bypassed thetougher side of society, maybe
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privileged in some way, thenthey will snide and sneer until
you snap.
They thrive on breaking a personand mock in a sickening euphoria
if they crack you to tears.
The more you have, then the morethey want to see you lose it.
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Too many want to see you suffer,and feel miserable pain.
From where I'm sat, it onlyrepresents the discontentment of
themselves and the darkness thatconsumes them.
Unless you are one of the boyswith form or history and
carrying notoriety, whosereputations make you want to
avoid them.
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Versus the jackals, theheadcases, the loan thugs and
foot soldiers, all looking tomake a name for themselves.
Versus the rogues, the scalliesand the smiling opportunists.
There is nowhere to hide inhere, and if they are really on
your case, riding you like awounded bull, being baited and
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badgered until you drop.
If that's not enough, theycontinue when you're behind a
cell door.
They call this piece ofnastiness terrorizing.
The constant bombardment of thegroup or pack.
Working together and gatheringthe attention of the rest of the
wing.
It becomes a vicious asylum thatnever rests.
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If you want to study psychology,then come to prison.
It's the 11th of May, 2016.
One of the guys left today.
He was a Welsh guy who lived inLondon called Peter.
He was 62 years old and in herefor not paying his POCA.
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POCA stands for the Proceeds ofCrime Act.
He says that he did and he canprove the payments.
But when he turned up at court,the judge ordered him down the
stairs with 12 months to serve.
He said that his barristerinformed him that POCA is the
most penal law ever passed,taking us back to the bleak dark
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ages of witch hunts andcrippling punishments.
Peter was a chain smoking,gravel voiced, dry wit.
He made the teas and coffees forthe officers down in reception.
Some called him the screws'bitch, but he was just a gent,
doing his time.
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The line I tend to use when guysleave, one by one, is everyone's
day comes around.
You just have to keep busy andout of trouble.
It's an unusual feeling when oneof the guys departs.
We're all happy for them to getout of this wretched place, but
secretly, we all wish it was us.
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Maybe the feeling I want todescribe is, it's bittersweet.
Four months in, and I'vewitnessed and experienced up
close and personal, that thesesix or seven guys leave with
whom I'd formed brief but quitestrong relationships with.
It's funny, how theserelationships formed so quickly
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and under severe circumstances,and without much choice due to
the lack of control.
We make the best of a poor, ifnot very bad situation.
I'm an inmate in HMP duringhistoric times.
Cut backs to the bone, withstaff openly saying it's having
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a devastating impact.
For the past month, there hasbeen no overtime for officers.
The place is on the verge ofmeltdown, possibly even worse.
Slashings are almost a dailyoccurrence and tobacco is not
the currency, but violence andintimidation.
A letter in Inside Times, onpage three to be precise, says
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everybody has to prove how hardthey are or suffer as a victim.
I suppose maybe this applies tomost in here, albeit I don't
believe it does to me.
Of course, I'm aware no one issafe as flare ups can manifest
out of nothing in the blink ofan eye.
But I go about my time in adifferent way to the rest of the
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lads, avoiding as much of thebullshit and not engaging with
the space cadets.
H has been slammed with 35 yearsrec.
This means, you serve 35 yearsbefore being potentially
eligible for parole.
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He's a young man of 30 who willbe a pensioner if and when he is
ever released.
The more hardened guys in heresay he should just end it now.
But is that so easy?
Does a man give up so easily?
There are so many questions Iwould like to put to him.
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Is he in denial of whathappened?
Or is it clear now as to thegravity of what took place?
How does one survive day to day?
What hope is there left of afuture?
Do you try to justify whathappened?
Or do you regret it and now feelremorse, but a helpless type of
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remorse?
What does a man think when heputs his head on the pillow?
What does he dream?
What is now normal in anabnormal place?
H is a young, good looking lad,and probably on the outside was
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a sorted type of guy andsuccessful criminal.
Trendy, with a cool swaggerabout him.
But now, he's a shadow of hisformer self.
The irony is comparing him withMichael, who seems to be
handling his time much better.
Spookingly well, in fact.
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T says that there is a realfascination with the subject of
murder and murderers.
Piers Morgan is presently on TVinterviewing.
He's on some programme to dowith cold killer women.
He asked the female prisoner,what do you take responsibility
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for?
His interviewee doesn't answerin the way that he expects, and
a four foot nine little womanstarts singing.
Peter will be back in London,maybe in the casino, but at some
point, he'll be back in his ownbed.
I can only dream of the thoughtof being back in the big bed
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with the woman I love.
My day will come, and I'll getmy turn to walk free out of the
gates but not for a while yet.
Peter probably thinks of us allin here and the same routine as
he savours his freedom.
Gone are the days when he lookedlike he struggled.
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The truth is, I look at mostguys in here and watch them
struggle.
One of the biggest perks withreception is getting to the gym.
It's not a given, but I'maveraging four to five times a
week.
And the over 40s on a Sunday, ifit's on.
That's a bit hit and miss at themoment, due to staff shortages
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and officers, including the gymstaff, being called out and used
as backup when the alarms gooff.
That's happening as many as tentimes a day.
When an officer presses thealarm call, it's across the open
channel.
Whoever is nearest to theincident piles in.
It's mayhem.
And everything taking place inthe vicinity is over.
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Lads stuck on the wings orbehind the door might be lucky
to get a couple of gym sessionsa week.
The gym is good for everyone'smental health.
And for just under an hour,there's relatively little
trouble as we all focus ontraining.
The equipment is old, battered,and it looks like they could
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have filmed Rocky 1 here.
That aside, there's a handful oftreadmills and cross trainers, a
couple of bench pressing setups, a leg press too, and a
couple of racks of steeldumbbells.
Most of the benches are torn, orthe sponges disappeared, and
gaffer tape appears more thanvinyl leather.
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There's usually about 40 to 50lads in the space that can
accommodate half of that, andthe testosterone levels are
always on show.
The toilet has half a door onit, so if one of the lads needs
to go, then the rest of us haveto endure it.
There are plenty of fatties whouse the prison opportunity to
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shed stones, not pounds.
There is a lad who spends thewhole session on the cross
trainer, and who has lost over10 stone in less than a year on
remand.
He told me his one wish is tohave surgery to remove the rolls
of excess stretched skin.
That's now getting him down,apparently.
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I've been training with BigReeve, my new padmate.
He's into his training and so amI.
The prick, Toenails, watcheseverything I do.
All of the time.
Even after four months, he'sstill trying everything to upset
my day.
His favourite is to try andderail my gym.
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Colluding and conspiringconstantly.
One of his favourite tricks isto volunteer me for something
that clashes with the gym.
But I've called him out on thatnow, pulled him in front of the
lads.
I said, why are you obsessedwith me?
And why do you have a gimp posseto do your dirty work?
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His head fell off.
It was in front of officers too,just to make it hurt even more.
There's one thing I've learned.
Lads, even if they're not fussedon you, respect you in the gym
if you train hard, especially ifyou're mature.
It hasn't gone unnoticed withthe reception lads.
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I'm very fit and Toenailsfucking hates it.
Anyway, I know it was petty, ora bit mischievous.
Where's my head at?
But at the end of each session,when we're stood hanging around
to be escorted back to thewings, or work, normally I do
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some extra pull ups on the bars.
Otherwise it's prison bullshittalk for ten minutes.
This time, I pulled something abit special out.
And instead of doing fifty pullups, I did fifty wipers.
No warning, upside down on thebars and go.
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The place fell silent.
I mean, you don't know if it'sadmiration, or if they're about
to fill you in.
Luckily, Big Reeve was superimpressed, joking he thought he
had a free ticket to Cirque duSoleil.
Rat Face laughed uncomfortablywith, what the fuck are you
doing?
You're in your 50s! I told himstraight, that my friend, is the
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magic.