September 7, 2025 • 25 mins
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
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
During the three and a halfyears I was in prison, I wrote
(00:03):
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 50 Unhappy New Year It'sthe 28th of the 12th, 2016.
(00:44):
The countdown is on.
In four days it will be 2017 andgood riddance to 2016.
Great content, a true test ofcharacter and mental and
emotional strength, but it's ayear I would have not chosen or
ever expected.
The creative part of my brainexploded again last night, like
(01:08):
a supernova of writing hurtlingthrough my mind.
I find myself perpetuallybetween thinking and writing.
Writing and thinking.
Considering nothing in here issimple or straightforward,
ironically, it hasn't derailedme from observing as much as
being forced to feel that whichnormally I may choose to avoid.
(01:32):
I'm embedded within the mostincredible content and
circumstances any writer couldwish for.
I'm lucky in a strange type ofway, who has the opportunity to
listen to Funeral FM in theepicenter of a prison?
Witnessed the worst of people inways that would shock some and
intrigue others.
(01:53):
Altogether in one wretchedplace.
One can be caught in sight ofone awful event, when another
will appear.
You can be serving someone theirtea in reception whilst opposite
in the holding room it's a riot.
Expect the unexpected, normallyunpleasant and probably violent
(02:14):
or aggressive.
I think I'm feeling moresensitive since George Michael
died and I've had a visit from Tand my daughter.
Beautiful, but difficult to saygoodbye or I'm not coming with
you.
No, I stay here.
(02:35):
I live here.
For two hours of fun and lovewith them between Christmas and
New Year, I'm lucky.
I've noticed that I just want tolisten to everything they've
done, every detail, mundane ornot, hearing directly of life in
the outside world opposed to themonotony of Groundhog Day in
(02:57):
here and listening to jail talkand prison bullshit continually.
Somehow it sort of keeps meconnected.
We swerved James Bond last nightinstead watching a George
Michael special with himperforming back in 2012.
The Garnier Opera House.
(03:18):
It's hard to believe that fouryears after this, he's dead.
I think I would've shed a fewtears on top bunk at one stage,
but the drones put the brakes onthat.
Was so fine tuned to their soundand manoeuvres that we could
tell one of them was havingdifficulty with delivery, unlike
(03:39):
Jeremy Clarkson's Amazon ads.
Five minutes later my padmatewas giving it ZZZZs.
I had no alternative but to TomDaley off top bunk and take the
pen and pad to the en suite.
At least I could have the lighton in there, but the sound of
the drones is louder because ofthe broken window.
(04:01):
Imagine the best place to writeis sat on the toilet in a prison
cell.
George Michael was on in thebackground singing soulfully,
drones whirring, me writing, andMacca snoring.
It's nuts.
Lights out was 11 o'clock.
I hoped to nod off with thesweet thoughts of T, but that
(04:22):
was hijacked by the drones andthe shenanigans to retrieve
them.
The lights went on three timesthrough the night.
Macca never moved once.
The last thing I write is thefunniest moment of the day.
T passed over a new pair ofspecs on her visit, not to me,
but to one of the officers whoshall remain nameless, but he
(04:46):
did hand them over to me when Ireturned to work.
My old two pair were taped andmade me look like I was old with
issues.
I was thrilled with them.
Macca said one pair made me looklike Harry Potter and the other
Dame Edna.
(05:10):
It's the 29th of the 12th, 2016.
For weeks I've been lookingforward to saying goodbye to the
worst year of my life so far,and looking forward to freedom
in 2017.
As of Sunday, the 1st ofJanuary, I can say that at some
point I should be home thisyear.
(05:33):
T is coming to visit me on NewYear's Day at 9:00 AM.
Mr.
C pulled me and said we're theonly two booked on.
It's the first one in themorning after the New Year
celebrations.
T is incredible.
I cannot wait to see her and saythose words, this year I'll be
free and home and back in thebig bed.
(05:58):
She and Marianne are taking mymother to hospital this morning.
They've both been amazing likethat.
By one o'clock, the love call Iwas expecting to make turned
into a bad news bombshell.
My mother's cancer is back.
The consultant said he advisedthem not to go on holiday.
(06:20):
She and John Boy are off toTenerife in a couple of weeks.
Now that dream is shattered.
It's at moments like this, Ifeel most powerless to help or
make a difference.
The swell of emotion was hard tohold back on the phone.
If ever they needed me most, itis now.
(06:46):
They're old and frail andscared.
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 dreadednews.
(07:14):
It's the 31st of the 12th, 2016.
The last remaining hours of anincredible year ticked by.
It's New Year's Eve 2016.
The music blaring throughout thewing is more reminiscent of
Ibiza, not HMP Liverpool in themiddle of winter.
(07:35):
This evening anything goesbehind the steel doors.
Lemo, aka cocaine is still thenumber one poison of choice,
followed by green.
Spice has been conspicuous inits absence.
By that I mean there have beenzero zombie episodes.
(07:56):
Regardless of the partyatmosphere that verges on
another rave for men only, I'msure plenty of guys feel like I
do right now.
Tomorrow we can wake with thethought I'll be home this year.
It really is a shot ofadrenaline.
Simple words, but a powerfulmantra that carries a person
(08:18):
through the worst of times.
One likes to think that theworst of times are behind,
although I'm cautious aboutfalling into that trap.
I've learned from personalexperience things can always get
far worse.
It's a little after 8:00 PM andthe prison is now bouncing.
(08:41):
The music is so loud that it'sdifficult to hear the TV on full
volume.
The tunes are punctuated withvile immaturity, cockiness and
false confidence.
It's nuts.
We're surrounded by men who onecan see are clearly struggling
to cope, and yet we can hearmany of them with their bullshit
(09:02):
bravado.
Roger Sanchez is playing,Another Chance.
Makes me want to leave up topbunk and strut a few moves, and
yet how ironic the words seem.
It's Saturday night in the heartof Liverpool, but we 1200
(09:23):
inhabitants are separated fromthe celebrations.
Everyone I love is beyond thesehigh walls, closer than you can
imagine but in truth, they mightas well be on the other side of
the world.
There will be bust ups behindthe door tonight.
(09:44):
Vicious disagreements, men withpent up anger and jealousy
exploding.
There'll be panic attacks andwhities.
Statistically, someone will havea 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
(10:10):
loves to engage with herfavourite lads.
Her cutting Scouse screech hasalready been heard as well as
the shouts of, Vinegar Tits ison lads.
The truth is, the filth in herdirection is far too X-rated,
and I feel uncomfortablerepeating it.
(10:31):
Suddenly the music stopped.
The power went off on the otherside of the wing.
Tonight, there are as manymobile phones behind cell doors
than there are behind thecounter in the Carphone
Warehouse.
One of the lads can be heardsweet talking Vinegar Tits to go
and turn the trip switch backon.
(10:54):
It was a lazy start thismorning.
I was lying on top bunk forhours.
Eyes closed, but mind awake.
The wing was still quiet ateight and we were not being
opened up until nine.
I'd decided before my first moveoff top bunk that it would be a
porridge day.
(11:15):
I started my sentence way backin January on it, and every day
since it's formed the basis ofmy staple diet.
Honestly, for me, prisonwould've been much harder
without it.
I decided after breakfast Iwould swerve lunch.
Normally on a Saturday, we'reworking and we eat down there.
(11:38):
The wing is a different worldthough, and lunchtime is
guaranteed to be more like OneFlew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
I used the time we were unlockedto make a love call to T.
I'd put an extra 20 pounds on myphone credit for over the
Christmas and New Year.
The drones were early lastnight, before the News at Ten.
(12:00):
Parcels the size of a KFC familybucket.
The miniature UFOs hoveredoutside our window, close as
touching distance.
We could hear our neighbour onhis phone saying, not that one,
next door to the left.
I've got the'ook out of thewinda.
(12:22):
Can't you see it?
Clear as Dolby Surround Sound.
He pops into the toilet to usethe phone and we can hear every
word through the wall.
How it hasn't come on top is amystery, but three parcels have
been delivered by drones sinceChristmas Eve and not even one
(12:42):
early morning spin.
It's an extremely lucrativebusiness, but if it comes on
top, that's years on yoursentence, not weeks or a loss of
privileges like losing your TVfor a month.
Tonight, my daughter is inValencia, my mother at home.
(13:04):
First time in 30 years they'venot gone to the social club, and
T, the woman I love is at homewith the cat, Tiger.
She's my hero.
Today, she cycled the WirralWay, alone.
I'm here on top bunk going nofurther than using the toilet or
to make another bowl ofporridge.
(13:27):
Our 9:00 AM visit for tomorrowhas been moved to our usual 2:00
PM slot.
Mr.
R approached me, asked me couldI 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 timelast year other than we did the
(13:50):
usual walk, West Kirby Marina.
regardless of the weather, Itseems strange and ironic that a
year on, I have more to lookforward to next year than I did
this.
For now, I'm hoping the rave formen only plus Vinegar Tit's
laughing screech fades enough tobe able to watch Jules Holland's
(14:14):
Hootenanny.
ABC are on, Seasick Steve andJohn Cooper Clark.
It's been a bit of a traditionfor the last 20 years or so.
I wonder whether he'll mentionGeorge Michael's death Be a dead
giveaway it's prerecorded if hedoes not mention, fireworks have
(14:36):
kicked off outside.
We can hear cars beeping hornsas they do drive-bys of Walton.
I kid you not, there will be alad in here on a phone speaking
to another pal who drives by.
The dickhead in here will besaying We're all raving in
Walton.
Beep your horn fella?
(14:57):
Here y'are, I'll send you aphoto.
Out of the blue the power hasgone back on.
Vinegar Tits must have flickedthe trip switch.
Music turned up to 11 again.
So loud it woke my pad mate.
He asked me, have I missedmidnight G?
(15:20):
And the ship's horns blowing?
No, it was only 9.43.
We've been banged up behind thedoor since ten past four and
five minutes later, well, it waslike an illegal rave.
Macca said loads of the ladswere dropping Es.
(15:43):
Liverpool won today, beat Cityone nil.
We're hoping we're on first onMatch of the Day.
Then flip over to Hogmanay.
After that, I suppose it's alisten to the ship's horns, then
lights out and thoughts of T andplans for our new life once I'm
home next year, 2016, has hadeverything I could never have
(16:06):
envisaged only a year ago.
Toenails and the posse causingme grief and undue stress every
day.
And now nothing from them.
Navigating the anarchy andtreachery and madness that is
only ever a few meters away.
The tense moments that wereclose to violent confrontations,
(16:29):
but somehow I've managed to surfbetween surviving and thriving.
I've been called out to men indistress as a Listener, seeing
the worst of prison the night Iwent down to the block.
There are men I've encounteredfor only brief moments,
desperate and defeated by fear,who I still don't know whether
(16:52):
they made it through the night.
I've witnessed dead men on thecold, filthy floors being
dragged away like they wererotten carcasses.
There is no dignity dying inprison.
But now in the craziest of badsituations, a rave in prison on
(17:13):
New Year's Eve, I count myselflucky.
I've got my Open Universityacross the line and begin in the
next few weeks.
Old school, just pen, paper, andbooks to read No internet In
prison although the posters bangon about rehabilitation, the
(17:35):
reality is they make it asdifficult as possible to
progress.
The fuse is lit to a brand newfuture and a brand new life.
I've risen above stuff that Inever thought possible, and I've
not been afraid to show love orcompassion.
I've nearly been shipped outjust for being myself.
(17:57):
Mr.
P's personal grudge against me.
For some reason, he likes to sayto me that my prison is too
easy.
Between him and Toenails it feltlike a relentless barrage of
loathing in my direction.
The Match of the Day theme tunewas as far as we made it with
the power.
(18:18):
Vinegar Ts was being called theworst of slags within 10
minutes.
And the rave for men only feltlike a police raid had just
killed the action, and we're allsat in the darkness.
Lads are calling the Evertonfans saying they've done it on
purpose.
the ravers are turning intodelinquents and my pad mate said
(18:42):
he's never felt so depressed,even though he slept through
most of the day.
Again, I've moved to the ensuite to try and scribble a few
last words.
There's just enough moonlightpeeping through the broken
window.
I can see fireworks rising intothe sky from the waterfront
(19:05):
direction.
The colours wash over my pagelike a rainbow dumbed down.
I'll be listening to ship'shorns in the dark rather than
writing about them.
The wing has kicked off.
Vinegar Tits has disappeared Andwe're abandoned to the mercy of
(19:25):
darkness and mayhem.
It is just 11 o'clock.
No Jules' Hogmanay, no ABC.
No Entering 2017 on a midnighthigh.
No.
Instead, it ends my Tales fromthe Jails here, and I'm about to
(19:45):
climb onto top bunk for a longnight in a terrible place.
I haven't even got someone towish Happy New Year two.
This is not my darkest hour, butinto the darkness I must return.
(20:14):
Into the darkness I must return,pulling my courage to face its
fears, fighting the swell oflamenting tears.
Dragging my feet unwilling towalk, guarding my words,
(20:41):
unwilling to talk.
One look captures the brutalangst and the stench of dread is
buried in the walls as cries forhelp are beaten til they fall.
(21:06):
The pack, the pack, the ravenouspack, they smile inside with
gloating pride.
I cannot turn and leave butmarch forthwith on a nervous
stride, concealing that which Icannot hide.
(21:31):
I wave goodbye to hope anddreams, scarred by regret of
what might have been.
Sleep arrives to release me, butmy dreams depart on a broken
(22:00):
cart as I slip away into anotherday.
No window.
No moon.
No stars.
Only a room without a view,lined with bars.
(22:31):
What does the new day bring?
What does the future hold?
Wrapped in this blanket in thefreezing cold.
They wait beyond the steel door,desperate to begin their tribal
(22:53):
wars.
My only friend is the longdespair, surrounded by words
that say they care.
I'm a shadow in a corner ofcrumbling mortar.
(23:20):
I'm a bleating lamb that sensesthe slaughter.
Boys don't cry as they saygoodbye.
Into the darkness I must return.
(24:07):
Hi everyone, G-Dubz here in2025.
We've reached the end of SeasonOne, my first year of
incarceration, and are pressingpause on the podcast.
But we will be returning in theNew Year with Season Two, which
turns out to be far worse thanyear one.
(24:29):
In the meantime, I'm going to beinterviewing a variety of
people, asking them suchquestions as, why is society
fascinated with the topic ofcrime, criminals, and prison?
I'm also interested in speakingto former prisoners who didn't
re-offend, to find out what paththey followed and who they
(24:50):
became as a result of their timein prison.
We'll be posting these on thepodcast platforms in the TFJ
feed from next month.
I'll also be back at the deskturning Season One into a book,
and we'll keep you posted on itsprogress.
I'd like to thank everyone whohas taken the time to listen and
(25:10):
follow, and if you've connectedwith any of the episodes or just
enjoyed listening to somethingdifferent, please stay
subscribed and tell your friendsabout Tales from the Jails.
During the three and a halfyears I was in prison, I wrote
(00:03):
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 50 Unhappy New Year It'sthe 28th of the 12th, 2016.
(00:44):
The countdown is on.
In four days it will be 2017 andgood riddance to 2016.
Great content, a true test ofcharacter and mental and
emotional strength, but it's ayear I would have not chosen or
ever expected.
The creative part of my brainexploded again last night, like
(01:08):
a supernova of writing hurtlingthrough my mind.
I find myself perpetuallybetween thinking and writing.
Writing and thinking.
Considering nothing in here issimple or straightforward,
ironically, it hasn't derailedme from observing as much as
being forced to feel that whichnormally I may choose to avoid.
(01:32):
I'm embedded within the mostincredible content and
circumstances any writer couldwish for.
I'm lucky in a strange type ofway, who has the opportunity to
listen to Funeral FM in theepicenter of a prison?
Witnessed the worst of people inways that would shock some and
intrigue others.
(01:53):
Altogether in one wretchedplace.
One can be caught in sight ofone awful event, when another
will appear.
You can be serving someone theirtea in reception whilst opposite
in the holding room it's a riot.
Expect the unexpected, normallyunpleasant and probably violent
(02:14):
or aggressive.
I think I'm feeling moresensitive since George Michael
died and I've had a visit from Tand my daughter.
Beautiful, but difficult to saygoodbye or I'm not coming with
you.
No, I stay here.
(02:35):
I live here.
For two hours of fun and lovewith them between Christmas and
New Year, I'm lucky.
I've noticed that I just want tolisten to everything they've
done, every detail, mundane ornot, hearing directly of life in
the outside world opposed to themonotony of Groundhog Day in
(02:57):
here and listening to jail talkand prison bullshit continually.
Somehow it sort of keeps meconnected.
We swerved James Bond last nightinstead watching a George
Michael special with himperforming back in 2012.
The Garnier Opera House.
(03:18):
It's hard to believe that fouryears after this, he's dead.
I think I would've shed a fewtears on top bunk at one stage,
but the drones put the brakes onthat.
Was so fine tuned to their soundand manoeuvres that we could
tell one of them was havingdifficulty with delivery, unlike
(03:39):
Jeremy Clarkson's Amazon ads.
Five minutes later my padmatewas giving it ZZZZs.
I had no alternative but to TomDaley off top bunk and take the
pen and pad to the en suite.
At least I could have the lighton in there, but the sound of
the drones is louder because ofthe broken window.
(04:01):
Imagine the best place to writeis sat on the toilet in a prison
cell.
George Michael was on in thebackground singing soulfully,
drones whirring, me writing, andMacca snoring.
It's nuts.
Lights out was 11 o'clock.
I hoped to nod off with thesweet thoughts of T, but that
(04:22):
was hijacked by the drones andthe shenanigans to retrieve
them.
The lights went on three timesthrough the night.
Macca never moved once.
The last thing I write is thefunniest moment of the day.
T passed over a new pair ofspecs on her visit, not to me,
but to one of the officers whoshall remain nameless, but he
(04:46):
did hand them over to me when Ireturned to work.
My old two pair were taped andmade me look like I was old with
issues.
I was thrilled with them.
Macca said one pair made me looklike Harry Potter and the other
Dame Edna.
(05:10):
It's the 29th of the 12th, 2016.
For weeks I've been lookingforward to saying goodbye to the
worst year of my life so far,and looking forward to freedom
in 2017.
As of Sunday, the 1st ofJanuary, I can say that at some
point I should be home thisyear.
(05:33):
T is coming to visit me on NewYear's Day at 9:00 AM.
Mr.
C pulled me and said we're theonly two booked on.
It's the first one in themorning after the New Year
celebrations.
T is incredible.
I cannot wait to see her and saythose words, this year I'll be
free and home and back in thebig bed.
(05:58):
She and Marianne are taking mymother to hospital this morning.
They've both been amazing likethat.
By one o'clock, the love call Iwas expecting to make turned
into a bad news bombshell.
My mother's cancer is back.
The consultant said he advisedthem not to go on holiday.
(06:20):
She and John Boy are off toTenerife in a couple of weeks.
Now that dream is shattered.
It's at moments like this, Ifeel most powerless to help or
make a difference.
The swell of emotion was hard tohold back on the phone.
If ever they needed me most, itis now.
(06:46):
They're old and frail andscared.
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 dreadednews.
(07:14):
It's the 31st of the 12th, 2016.
The last remaining hours of anincredible year ticked by.
It's New Year's Eve 2016.
The music blaring throughout thewing is more reminiscent of
Ibiza, not HMP Liverpool in themiddle of winter.
(07:35):
This evening anything goesbehind the steel doors.
Lemo, aka cocaine is still thenumber one poison of choice,
followed by green.
Spice has been conspicuous inits absence.
By that I mean there have beenzero zombie episodes.
(07:56):
Regardless of the partyatmosphere that verges on
another rave for men only, I'msure plenty of guys feel like I
do right now.
Tomorrow we can wake with thethought I'll be home this year.
It really is a shot ofadrenaline.
Simple words, but a powerfulmantra that carries a person
(08:18):
through the worst of times.
One likes to think that theworst of times are behind,
although I'm cautious aboutfalling into that trap.
I've learned from personalexperience things can always get
far worse.
It's a little after 8:00 PM andthe prison is now bouncing.
(08:41):
The music is so loud that it'sdifficult to hear the TV on full
volume.
The tunes are punctuated withvile immaturity, cockiness and
false confidence.
It's nuts.
We're surrounded by men who onecan see are clearly struggling
to cope, and yet we can hearmany of them with their bullshit
(09:02):
bravado.
Roger Sanchez is playing,Another Chance.
Makes me want to leave up topbunk and strut a few moves, and
yet how ironic the words seem.
It's Saturday night in the heartof Liverpool, but we 1200
(09:23):
inhabitants are separated fromthe celebrations.
Everyone I love is beyond thesehigh walls, closer than you can
imagine but in truth, they mightas well be on the other side of
the world.
There will be bust ups behindthe door tonight.
(09:44):
Vicious disagreements, men withpent up anger and jealousy
exploding.
There'll be panic attacks andwhities.
Statistically, someone will havea 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
(10:10):
loves to engage with herfavourite lads.
Her cutting Scouse screech hasalready been heard as well as
the shouts of, Vinegar Tits ison lads.
The truth is, the filth in herdirection is far too X-rated,
and I feel uncomfortablerepeating it.
(10:31):
Suddenly the music stopped.
The power went off on the otherside of the wing.
Tonight, there are as manymobile phones behind cell doors
than there are behind thecounter in the Carphone
Warehouse.
One of the lads can be heardsweet talking Vinegar Tits to go
and turn the trip switch backon.
(10:54):
It was a lazy start thismorning.
I was lying on top bunk forhours.
Eyes closed, but mind awake.
The wing was still quiet ateight and we were not being
opened up until nine.
I'd decided before my first moveoff top bunk that it would be a
porridge day.
(11:15):
I started my sentence way backin January on it, and every day
since it's formed the basis ofmy staple diet.
Honestly, for me, prisonwould've been much harder
without it.
I decided after breakfast Iwould swerve lunch.
Normally on a Saturday, we'reworking and we eat down there.
(11:38):
The wing is a different worldthough, and lunchtime is
guaranteed to be more like OneFlew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.
I used the time we were unlockedto make a love call to T.
I'd put an extra 20 pounds on myphone credit for over the
Christmas and New Year.
The drones were early lastnight, before the News at Ten.
(12:00):
Parcels the size of a KFC familybucket.
The miniature UFOs hoveredoutside our window, close as
touching distance.
We could hear our neighbour onhis phone saying, not that one,
next door to the left.
I've got the'ook out of thewinda.
(12:22):
Can't you see it?
Clear as Dolby Surround Sound.
He pops into the toilet to usethe phone and we can hear every
word through the wall.
How it hasn't come on top is amystery, but three parcels have
been delivered by drones sinceChristmas Eve and not even one
(12:42):
early morning spin.
It's an extremely lucrativebusiness, but if it comes on
top, that's years on yoursentence, not weeks or a loss of
privileges like losing your TVfor a month.
Tonight, my daughter is inValencia, my mother at home.
(13:04):
First time in 30 years they'venot gone to the social club, and
T, the woman I love is at homewith the cat, Tiger.
She's my hero.
Today, she cycled the WirralWay, alone.
I'm here on top bunk going nofurther than using the toilet or
to make another bowl ofporridge.
(13:27):
Our 9:00 AM visit for tomorrowhas been moved to our usual 2:00
PM slot.
Mr.
R approached me, asked me couldI 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 timelast year other than we did the
(13:50):
usual walk, West Kirby Marina.
regardless of the weather, Itseems strange and ironic that a
year on, I have more to lookforward to next year than I did
this.
For now, I'm hoping the rave formen only plus Vinegar Tit's
laughing screech fades enough tobe able to watch Jules Holland's
(14:14):
Hootenanny.
ABC are on, Seasick Steve andJohn Cooper Clark.
It's been a bit of a traditionfor the last 20 years or so.
I wonder whether he'll mentionGeorge Michael's death Be a dead
giveaway it's prerecorded if hedoes not mention, fireworks have
(14:36):
kicked off outside.
We can hear cars beeping hornsas they do drive-bys of Walton.
I kid you not, there will be alad in here on a phone speaking
to another pal who drives by.
The dickhead in here will besaying We're all raving in
Walton.
Beep your horn fella?
(14:57):
Here y'are, I'll send you aphoto.
Out of the blue the power hasgone back on.
Vinegar Tits must have flickedthe trip switch.
Music turned up to 11 again.
So loud it woke my pad mate.
He asked me, have I missedmidnight G?
(15:20):
And the ship's horns blowing?
No, it was only 9.43.
We've been banged up behind thedoor since ten past four and
five minutes later, well, it waslike an illegal rave.
Macca said loads of the ladswere dropping Es.
(15:43):
Liverpool won today, beat Cityone nil.
We're hoping we're on first onMatch of the Day.
Then flip over to Hogmanay.
After that, I suppose it's alisten to the ship's horns, then
lights out and thoughts of T andplans for our new life once I'm
home next year, 2016, has hadeverything I could never have
(16:06):
envisaged only a year ago.
Toenails and the posse causingme grief and undue stress every
day.
And now nothing from them.
Navigating the anarchy andtreachery and madness that is
only ever a few meters away.
The tense moments that wereclose to violent confrontations,
(16:29):
but somehow I've managed to surfbetween surviving and thriving.
I've been called out to men indistress as a Listener, seeing
the worst of prison the night Iwent down to the block.
There are men I've encounteredfor only brief moments,
desperate and defeated by fear,who I still don't know whether
(16:52):
they made it through the night.
I've witnessed dead men on thecold, filthy floors being
dragged away like they wererotten carcasses.
There is no dignity dying inprison.
But now in the craziest of badsituations, a rave in prison on
(17:13):
New Year's Eve, I count myselflucky.
I've got my Open Universityacross the line and begin in the
next few weeks.
Old school, just pen, paper, andbooks to read No internet In
prison although the posters bangon about rehabilitation, the
(17:35):
reality is they make it asdifficult as possible to
progress.
The fuse is lit to a brand newfuture and a brand new life.
I've risen above stuff that Inever thought possible, and I've
not been afraid to show love orcompassion.
I've nearly been shipped outjust for being myself.
(17:57):
Mr.
P's personal grudge against me.
For some reason, he likes to sayto me that my prison is too
easy.
Between him and Toenails it feltlike a relentless barrage of
loathing in my direction.
The Match of the Day theme tunewas as far as we made it with
the power.
(18:18):
Vinegar Ts was being called theworst of slags within 10
minutes.
And the rave for men only feltlike a police raid had just
killed the action, and we're allsat in the darkness.
Lads are calling the Evertonfans saying they've done it on
purpose.
the ravers are turning intodelinquents and my pad mate said
(18:42):
he's never felt so depressed,even though he slept through
most of the day.
Again, I've moved to the ensuite to try and scribble a few
last words.
There's just enough moonlightpeeping through the broken
window.
I can see fireworks rising intothe sky from the waterfront
(19:05):
direction.
The colours wash over my pagelike a rainbow dumbed down.
I'll be listening to ship'shorns in the dark rather than
writing about them.
The wing has kicked off.
Vinegar Tits has disappeared Andwe're abandoned to the mercy of
(19:25):
darkness and mayhem.
It is just 11 o'clock.
No Jules' Hogmanay, no ABC.
No Entering 2017 on a midnighthigh.
No.
Instead, it ends my Tales fromthe Jails here, and I'm about to
(19:45):
climb onto top bunk for a longnight in a terrible place.
I haven't even got someone towish Happy New Year two.
This is not my darkest hour, butinto the darkness I must return.
(20:14):
Into the darkness I must return,pulling my courage to face its
fears, fighting the swell oflamenting tears.
Dragging my feet unwilling towalk, guarding my words,
(20:41):
unwilling to talk.
One look captures the brutalangst and the stench of dread is
buried in the walls as cries forhelp are beaten til they fall.
(21:06):
The pack, the pack, the ravenouspack, they smile inside with
gloating pride.
I cannot turn and leave butmarch forthwith on a nervous
stride, concealing that which Icannot hide.
(21:31):
I wave goodbye to hope anddreams, scarred by regret of
what might have been.
Sleep arrives to release me, butmy dreams depart on a broken
(22:00):
cart as I slip away into anotherday.
No window.
No moon.
No stars.
Only a room without a view,lined with bars.
(22:31):
What does the new day bring?
What does the future hold?
Wrapped in this blanket in thefreezing cold.
They wait beyond the steel door,desperate to begin their tribal
(22:53):
wars.
My only friend is the longdespair, surrounded by words
that say they care.
I'm a shadow in a corner ofcrumbling mortar.
(23:20):
I'm a bleating lamb that sensesthe slaughter.
Boys don't cry as they saygoodbye.
Into the darkness I must return.
(24:07):
Hi everyone, G-Dubz here in2025.
We've reached the end of SeasonOne, my first year of
incarceration, and are pressingpause on the podcast.
But we will be returning in theNew Year with Season Two, which
turns out to be far worse thanyear one.
(24:29):
In the meantime, I'm going to beinterviewing a variety of
people, asking them suchquestions as, why is society
fascinated with the topic ofcrime, criminals, and prison?
I'm also interested in speakingto former prisoners who didn't
re-offend, to find out what paththey followed and who they
(24:50):
became as a result of their timein prison.
We'll be posting these on thepodcast platforms in the TFJ
feed from next month.
I'll also be back at the deskturning Season One into a book,
and we'll keep you posted on itsprogress.
I'd like to thank everyone whohas taken the time to listen and
(25:10):
follow, and if you've connectedwith any of the episodes or just
enjoyed listening to somethingdifferent, please stay
subscribed and tell your friendsabout Tales from the Jails.
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