The first prisoner levered his thin steel mirror off the wall and inserted a coil of wire through one of the tiny holes in a corner. Every evening, after the nine o’clock flap check, he would slip the mirror under his door, then in one movement, slide it across the corridor until it reached the door opposite. After a few days, he could perform this skill as proficiently as any basketball player dunking a ball through a hoop.
The second prisoner then took the wire and attached it to his speaker so that both men could listen to the same music emanating from one source. Ingenious but - I’m told by anyone who lived within a mile of the jail - unnecessary, because on a still evening you could have danced to the music in Freiston town hall.
12 noon
Lunch. England are 200 for 3 and putting up a spirited fight. During the lunch interval I visit Sergio in his cell. He wastes no words, immediately informing me that he has spoken to his brother in Bogota. He always sounds like a man who has only ten units left on his phonecard. Of course, he may turn out to be a con man who has no intention of trying to find a Botero.
In any case nothing can be done until Sergio has completed his sentence. He is due to be deported on 27 September, a month from today, by which time we expect to have worked out a plan to purchase a Botero. Win or lose, I’ll keep you briefed.
3.00 pm
I have my hair cut by Matt (arson for insurance, failed to convince Cornhill or the jury, and was sentenced to three years). Matt has the reputation of being the best barber in the prison. In fact several prison officers also have their hair cut by him. In his last prison, while serving time for a previous offence, Matt enrolled on a hair-styling course, so now he’s a semi-professional. He has all the proper equipment, and within moments of sitting on a chair in the corridor outside his cell, I’m in no doubt about his skill. I need to look neat and tidy for Friday, when Mary and William hope to visit me again. I haven’t forgotten that Mary commented on the length of my hair when she last came to Wayland.
When Matt’s finished the job he even produces a second mirror so I can see the back of my head. He’s not Daniel Hersheson, but for ten units of a phonecard he’s a pretty good imitation.
6.00 pm
At close of play England are 314 for 8 after a gritty 124 not out by Ramprakash assisted by Gough, who was clinging in there helping to avoid another follow on. The two of them enter the pavilion needing another 31 runs to make Australia bat again.
A couple of years ago Darren Gough asked me to conduct the auction at his London testimonial dinner at the Dorchester. As a huge fan of Darren’s, I happily agreed. When the event finally materialized it fell in the middle of my trial. Mr Justice Potts made it clear to my silk that I should not honour the agreement, even though my name was already printed in the programme. After all, it might influence the jury into believing that I am a charitable man, and I suspect that was the last thing Mr Justice Potts would have wanted.
I’m feeling pretty low, so decide to use the other ten units left on my card to phone Mary. There’s no response. I can’t get in touch with William or James as they are both abroad. I sit on the end of my bed and recall the words of La Rochefoucauld: Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fire.
DAY 39 - SUNDAY 26 AUGUST 2001
6.16 am
Sunday is always the longest day in prison. Wayland is short-staffed and there is nothing for inmates to do other than watch wall-to-wall television. In Belmarsh, chapel was a respite as it got you out of your cell, but in Wayland you’re out of your cell without anything to keep you occupied. Mind you, I’d much rather be in Wayland than locked up in Belmarsh for twenty-two hours a day. I write for a couple of hours.
8.20 am
Breakfast. While I’m waiting in the queue for the hotplate, I get talking to a West Indian who is on my landing. He asks if he can have my Times and Sunday Times when I’ve finished with them. I agree to his request if, in return, he will show me how to clean my cell floor. I only mention this because the West Indians keep the cleanest cells. They are not satisfied with sweeping out the dust and dirt, but spend hours buffing up the linoleum floor until you can see your face in it. Although I shower, shave and put on fresh clothes every day, as well as make my bed and have everything in place before the cell door is opened at 8 am, I never look as smart or have as clean a cell as any of the West Indians on my spur.
9.30 am
On my way to the library I slip in behind a man who frightens me. He has an evil face and is one of those prisoners who is proud to describe himself as a career criminal. He is a burglar by profession, and I’m somewhat surprised to see him heading off towards the library with a pile of glossy, coffee-table books under his arm. I try to make out the titles on the spines while we’re on the move: The Encyclopaedia of Antiques, Know Your Antiques and Antiques in a Modem Market.
‘Are you interested in antiques?’ I ask innocently.
‘Yeah, I’m making a careful study of them.’
‘Are you hoping to work in the antiques trade when you’ve completed your sentence?’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ he replies. ‘I’m sick of nicking ‘em only to find out they’re fuckin’ worthless. From now on I’ll know what to fuckin’ look for, won’t I?’
You would think that after five weeks of mixing with criminals, night and day, I couldn’t still be taken by surprise. It serves to remind me again of Lisa Dada’s words about despising burglars, not to mention my own naivety.
10.00 am
In the library I get talking to an older prisoner called Ron (ABH). Most inmates tell me they never want to return to prison, especially the older ones who have served long sentences. But, time and again, they’ll add the rider, ‘That doesn’t mean I won’t, Jeff. Getting a job when you have a criminal record is virtually impossible, so you stay on the dole, until you slip back into a life of crime.’
It’s a vicious circle for those who leave prison with their statutory PS90, NFA (no fixed abode) and little prospect of work. I don’t know the answer, although I accept there is little you can do for people who are genuinely evil, and not much for those who are congenitally stupid. But the first-offence prisoners who want a second chance often leave prison only to find that for the rest of their lives the work door is slammed in their face.
I accept that perhaps only around 20 per cent of prisoners would be worth special treatment, but I would like to see someone come up with a solution for this particular group, especially the first-time offenders. And how many of you reading this diary can honestly say you’ve never committed a crime? For example:
(a) Smoked cannabis (5 million), crack cocaine (300,000), heroin (250,000)
(b) Stolen something - anything
(c) Fiddled your expenses
(d) Taken a bus or train and not paid for the ticket
(e) Not declared your full income to the taxman
(f) Been over the alcohol limit when driving
(g) Driven a vehicle without tax or insurance
(h) Brought in something from abroad and not paid import tax
I have recently discovered that those very people who commit such crimes often turn out to be the most sanctimonious hypocrites, including one leading newspaper editor. It’s the truly honest people who go on treating one decently, as I’ve found from the thousands of letters I’ve received from the general public over the past few weeks.
10.45 am
Chapel. We’re back to a congregation of eleven. The service is Holy Communion, and I’m not sure I care for the modern version. I must be getting old, or at least old-fashioned.
The service is conducted by John Framlington, resplendent in a long white robe to go with his white beard and head of white hair. He must be well into his seventies and he looks like a prophet. A local Salvation Army officer preaches the sermon, with the theme that we all make mistakes, but that does not mean that we cannot be saved. Once he has delivered his message, he jo
ins John to dispense the bread and wine to his little flock. During the singing of the last hymn, John walks off down the aisle and disappears. We are all left literally standing, not quite sure what to do next. A female face peeps out from behind the organ, and decides to continue playing. This brave little gesture is rewarded by everyone repeating the last verse. When we’ve delivered the final line of ‘O Blessed Jesu, Save Us’ John comes running back down the aisle. He turns to face his congregation, apologizes, blesses us and then disappears for a second time. He’s a good man, and it’s generous of him still to be giving his time every Sunday for such a motley crew as us.
11.45 am
When I return to my spur after chapel, I find that it has been locked off and we are unable to get into our cells. A small crowd is gathering at the entrance of the spur, and I am informed by Darren that our cells are being searched for phonecards. It seems that one of the prisoners has shaved off the silver lining on the top of his card as this allows him to have a longer period for each unit. Not a great crime you might consider, remembering that we’re in a den of thieves. But what you won’t realize is that the next person who makes a phone call will find that BT automatically retrieves those stolen units. Result: the next prisoner will be robbed blind.
The next inmate on the phone that morning turned out to be a voluble West Indian called Carl (GBH) who, when his last ten units were gobbled up in seconds, never stopped effing and blinding all the way to the PO’s office. The spur was closed down in seconds, and Carl had unwittingly given the ‘prison search team’ an excuse to go through everyone’s personal belongings.
When the gate to the cells is eventually unlocked, a team of three officers comes out carrying a sackful of swag. My bet is that the offending phonecard is not among their trophies, but several other illicit goods are. I return to my cell to find that nothing of mine has been touched. Even my script lies in exactly the same place as I left it. I take this as a compliment.
12 noon
Lunch. England have progressed to 40 for 1, but the ominously dark clouds that appear over Wayland are also, it seems, unpaid visitors at the Oval. I turn my attention to the Sunday papers. The Sunday Mirror, that bastion of accuracy, tells its readers that I defended myself from another inmate with a cricket bat. I gave you a full ball-by-ball summary of that match, and the only thing I tried to threaten - and not very successfully - was the ball. The article then goes on to say that I am paying protection money to a prisoner called Matthew McMahon. There is no inmate at Wayland called Matthew McMahon. They add that payment is made with PS5 phonecards. There are no PS5 phone-cards. The funny thing is that some inmates are shocked by this: they had assumed the papers reported accurately, and it wasn’t until I took up residence that they realized how inaccurate the press can be.
2.00 pm
Exercise. We are allowed out for an hour, rather than forty-five minutes, which is a welcome bonus. As we walk round, I get teased by a lot of prisoners who say they are willing to protect me if I’ll give them a PS5 phonecard. Some ask how come you have a PS5 phonecard when the rest of us only have PS2 phone-cards. Others add that I can hit them with my cricket bat whenever I want to. I confess that this wouldn’t be so amusing if Jimmy and Darren were not accompanying me. Certainly, being the butt of everyone’s humour inside, as well as outside, begins to tell on one. Jimmy has also read the story in the Sunday Mirror and what worries him is who to believe in the latest row between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith concerning immigration. I tell Jimmy that only one thing is certain: although the result of the leadership election will not be announced for another two weeks (12 September), 70 per cent of the 318,000 electorate have cast their votes, and I assure him that IDS is already the next leader of the Tory party.
‘Can I risk a bet on that?’ asks Darren.
‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your wager.’
The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’
Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he drops down dead.’
The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I reply.
‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’
4.00 pm
I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds. I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial, I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the highest quality. He looks puzzled.
‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.
‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.
He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’
5.00 pm
Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse. However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.
7.00 pm
At last there’s something worth watching on television. Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for. Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.
It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre, though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.
DAY 40 - MONDAY 27 AUGUST 2001
6.08 am
Forty days and forty nights, and, like Our Lord, I feel it’s time to come out of the wilderness and get on with some work, despite the fact it’s a bank holiday. I write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. Corn Pops (for a change), UHT milk, a slice of bread and marmalade. I stare at the golly on the jar. I read yesterday in one of the papers that he’s no longer politically correct and will be replaced by a character created by Roald Dahl and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I like golly, he’s been a friend for years. As a man without an ounce of prejudice in him, I am bound to say I think the world has gone mad.
9.00 am
I call Mary, who is furious with the Home Office. Winston Churchill has written to the Home Secretary, David Blunkett, asking why I’m still in a Category C jail, and Winston has received a reply from Stephen Harrison, David Blunkett’s private secretary, suggesting that Lady Archer ‘is satisfied that this is the best that can be hoped for’. Home Office officials obviously don’t listen to the Today programme, or read any newspapers. It doesn’t augur well for justice being done to those prisoners who do not have a supportive family. Mary will write to Martin Narey today and put the record straight. My solicitor has not yet received a reply from DCS Perry. Perhaps he’s still on holiday. She’s also written to the governor of Wayland - also no reply. Thank God I’m not locked up in Russia.
Now I’m no longer on the induction spur, I’m allowed to have my own plate, bowl and mug. Mary promises to dispatch all three today. I can’t wait to be rid of the grey plastic set, even if they won’t allow me to replace the plastic knife, fork and spoon. Mary tells me that the letters of support are still pouring in, and says she’ll send a selection for me to read, plus a list of friends who want to visit me in prison. She confirms that she and William are hoping to visit me on Friday.
9.15 am
A block are playing C block at football, and Jimmy (captain of everything) asks if I’d like to be linesman, knowing it will get me out of my cell for at least an hour. How considerate, I tell him, but I don’t know the rules, and I feel sure that there’s more to it than just putting your flag in the air when the ball goes out. Fortunately, one of our reserves is fully proficient in the laws of the game, and runs up and down the line behind me, making me look quite competent.
The first player I have to adjudicate offside is Jimmy, who makes no protest and immediately raises his arm. The true character of a person cannot be hidden on a playing field.
By half-time we are two down. However, in the second half, we
pull one back and just before the final whistle, Carl (GBH, phonecard problem) thumps in a blinder from twenty yards to level the score. As he is in the next cell to me, I can expect several graphic replays in the corridor, with the yardage becoming longer by the day.
12.15 pm
Lunch: Toad-in-the-hole (vegetarian sausage) and peas.
3.00 pm
Exercise. We’ve managed about two circuits when Darren, Jimmy and I are joined by what can only be described as a gang of yobs, whose leader is a stockily built youth of about five foot six, with two rings in his nose and one in each ear. From what I can see of his neck, arms and chest, it doesn’t look as if there’s anywhere left on his body to needle another tattoo. As soon as he opens his mouth every other word is fucking-this and fuck-ing-that. I’m no longer shocked by this, but I am surprised by the smell of alcohol on his breath. My usual approach when faced with this situation is to answer any question quietly and courteously. I’ve heard enough stories about prisoners being knifed in the yard over the slightest provocation to do otherwise. But as there are no questions, just abuse hurled at me and my wife, there’s not much I can say in reply. Jimmy and Darren close in, not a good sign, but after another circuit, the young thug and his gang of four back off and go and sit against the fence and glare at us.
The Home Office could do worse than invite Darren to sit on one of their committees and advise them on prison policy. He is, after all, far better informed than Stephen Harrison, and therefore the Home Secretary. After a spell in Borstal, and two terms in prison, Darren would be a considerable asset to the drugs debate. He adds that when he was first sent to jail, some fifteen years ago, about 30 per cent of prisoners smoked canna-bis and only about 10 per cent were on heroin.
A Prison Diary Purgatory (2003) Page 12