Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  Contents

  Foreword

  1. First Experiences

  2. The Jail

  3. First Day

  4. H.M.P Whitemoor

  5. Concerted Indiscipline

  6. Back On The Wing

  7. H.M.P Winchester

  8. Coroners Court

  9. H.M.P Highdown

  10. The Tattoo Man

  11. Tobias Stone

  12. Back to work

  13. The Courts

  14. Next Stop, H.M.P Hull

  15. Beirut

  16. Notorious Prisoners

  17. Riot

  18. New Years Eve

  19. Sentence Planning

  20. H.M.P Everthorpe

  21. Swampy

  22. Hostage

  23. Foreign Nationals

  24. Residential Units

  25. Back On Reception Wing

  26. Echo Wing

  27. Mad House

  28. Unpredictable

  29. Christmas

  30. V.E.D & Me

  Copyright

  Foreword

  This book is based on true events that happened in various prisons around the country. The characters are real; the names are not. Some of the stories you read are “as it happened” and one hundred percent true; others are marginally fictitious in order to make the stories more complete. After all, why should I let the truth get in the way of a good story?

  I have been in the Prison Service for more than twenty-five years, working in various prison establishments around the country. This is my story of what it’s like to work in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.

  It is a must read for those of you who want to take up a career in the service. Don’t be put off; although it’s a hard-hitting book, most days are boring and repetitive. Incidents that are described in the book are few and far between. In fact, in some of the smaller jails, you may never see a serious incident. However, prisoners by their very nature are unpredictable, and that’s what makes working for the Prison Service attractive.

  For those of you who have been there and done it - respect.

  First Experiences

  On June 21st 1991 I walked into a jail for the first time in my life. I was scared. In fact, I nearly shit myself. Of course, I wasn’t the only one there putting on a brave face.

  It started with a test if you can call it that; one of those aptitude tests to find out if you are suitable for the role of a prison Officer. Simple enough – all you had to do, was go through the test and mark your answers on a kind of lottery ticket play sheet; you know, mark inside the box with a bold line kind of thing. Well, I had already seen the Officers marking previous sheets. All they had to do was pop this marking sheet into a slider. If the marks lined up, it was a pass.

  So I filled in all the boxes. Yes, I know, you’re supposed to be honest and all that, but I was desperate; I had two young daughters, a wife and a mortgage. Anyway, they called out some names afterwards, but not mine. The said names stood and filed passed the remaining eight left sitting on those unforgiving chairs that made your arse feel like lead.

  The said names went marching past the window, leaving the rest of us to think of seeking other employment; or, in my case, to let the wife know that I was still jobless.

  A big Officer stood up and announced that those passing the windows were heading for the gate and had failed the test. We were the successful ones. Well boil my bollocks in acid, that wasn’t expected!

  The next stage was a tour of the jail. This was HM Prison Norwich, one of the oldest prisons in the country. We were told to dress sensibly as we were going into a working jail. Women were urged to be modest in their choice of clothing. Don’t wear your best bib and tucker, they said, put on sturdy sensible shoes, just try to think of a busy market, and for Christ’s sake, listen to what the Officer says. Well, I was in my best suit of course, hoping to impress. Officers job? Bollocks! I was after a cushy number, sitting on my arse in an office as a Governor.

  I wasn’t the only one. The lone female in our group was in her best and of course skimpiest two-piece suit, hair freshly done, and nails to die for. Yup, we were all dressed to the nines.

  Our Officer escort raised his eyes to the gods, and with a shake of the head, said, Follow me …

  The Jail

  The first thing that hits you is the smell. Human excrement has that un-announced stink that assaults your nostrils and sticks to your clothes. We were all there, four blokes and one girl, following the escorting Officer. Stick to the sides, he shouted. The noise in there was deafening. Stay under the walkways, he shouted over his shoulder. At this point the noise increased as the population of this shit hole noticed the NEPO’S (New Entrant Prison Officers) coming onto the wing. The noise changed from the general chatter of loudly spoken swear words to the inevitable catcalls when they noticed us.

  Well, at that point, you couldn’t recognize where the worst smell was coming from – was it them or us? Christ, it was barmy. Every single one of the prisoners’ attentions was drawn to us. The Officers on the landings tried to keep the prisoners moving in the slop out line, emptying buckets of shit and piss from their cells into the sluice, the communal toilet on the landing. There was no such thing as in cell sanitation in those days.

  Whilst we NEPO’s were busy trying to look as small as possible and avoid the accidental spillage from the buckets, the prisoners were shouting over each other, banging their metal buckets against the steel railings. What a row, what a stink, we were all nearly heaving our guts up. Some of the prisoners noticed and with grimy fingers pointed at us, they laughed their heads off.

  Of course, the girl in our group was noticed. How could they miss her? The noise levels rose as the prisoners tried to get her attention. Their whistling could have shattered a thousand mirrors. Eventually, with a weak smile, she popped her head out from under the walkway to give a nervous wave. Her reward was buckets of slop, which neatly covered her from head to foot. Thankfully, I kept away from her, preferring to stay at the back of the line; it was nearer the door. Coward, I hear you say. But later on in my career it stood me in good stead, so thankfully I missed the “splash out” from the many buckets of slop aimed her way. The standard of prison food back then was reflected in the waste, which was directed at the poor girl. She screamed loud enough to put a jet engine to shame, and some of the language was worthy of a hardened criminal. She made her way, slipping and sliding, to the exit. Dark brown footprints made a neat line to the door, her high heels making a loud clicking noise as the young girl did her best to run from the shit. The prisoners were shouting and screaming at the tops of their voices, banging their slop buckets on the steel railings, all eyes following her to the door.

  I never saw her again.

  We very quickly learnt a harsh lesson. The rest of us followed obediently in a single line, not daring to poke our head out of the safety of the walkways, or even look up.

  When our tour was over, we were back out into the fresh air. Our grinning escort Officer let us know that that was a normal unlock in the life as a Prison Officer, and what did we think of it? It was a hard but rewarding career, however, it was not for the faint hearted, or the weak stomached for that matter.

  I left the jail with a few thoughts raging through my brain. Was it for me? Could I take it? What would the wife think, me coming home smelling of shit every day? Fuck it, best to do what you’re good at; with six years in the army, I could take discipline and I’ve had shit thrown at me before in Northern Ireland. And God, I needed the job. Not to mention the earache from the missus if I turned it down.

  So I joined Her Majesties Prison Service.

  At the age of 34 and a little over six foot two, twelve and a h
alf stone and ex-Army boxer, I was in pretty good shape. I had all my own hair and, thanks to military dentists, a good set of teeth! I was made for the Prison Service. I met many, many, Officers throughout my career who said that joining the Prison Service was the best thing they ever did (and I met many a convict that was ex-military that wish they had joined too!)

  I entered the training school at Hull University. The class at the university had been put on as an extra intake because of the new approach the Prison Service was entering into. It was known as “Fresh Start” Normally, you would have gone to the training school at Newbold Revel near Derby, but because of the sheer numbers the service was recruiting, it was held at the Hull University, East Yorkshire.

  And there’s me thinking I was something special.

  Anyway, it was all normal stuff; marching up and down, beasting, running round like a nutter in the gym with benches on your head until you drop. You could tell the ex-military from the civvies – we were loving it, and they clearly weren’t. Drinking in the mess afterwards, yep you could certainly see who was who there!

  We were also taught Control and Restraint. C&R is a method that Officers applied when dealing with fractious and violent prisoners; a hands-on approach to physically controlling prisoners, which, again, proved to be fun for the likes of us, but not so much for the civvies, who invariably suffered as we practiced the moves on them. Funny how ex-military stick together and enjoy inflicting pain on unfortunate souls who weren’t.

  A lot of the new recruits were quite young and spent most of the time on campus. Myself and a couple of others preferred to get out and about to see what Hull City had to offer. We visited the real ale pubs, and got to know a few of the locals, including three women who we were to meet at some of the regular haunts we frequented.

  We were all married men at the time, the girls knew this, so it was nice to have a bit of female company without the awkwardness of either side having to strike up any kind of relationship.

  First Day

  After completing thirteen weeks training, I walked into HM Prison Norwich for the first time in uniform. I was met at the gate by the training P.O. (Principal Officer) and shown into the training room in the jail with four other NEPO’s.

  The training Principal Officer was old school, had been in the job for years, prematurely grey on top and a face that looked as though a hundred prisoners had wiped their feet on it. Not a happy man. He was nearing retirement at fifty-five. He looked closer to sixty-five. He certainly looked as though he had had enough; he had seen it all and, no doubt, done it all.

  If you have never been in a jail before, it’s an eye opener. Apart from the smell, there is the noise, the atmosphere and the sense of hopelessness. It’s a place like no other; you physically have to be there to experience that feeling. Imagine this, if you can: turn all the televisions, radios and stereo’s on in your house, get to a central point where you can hear them all about equal, until it all just becomes a blur of noise. Next, get a bunch of well tattooed heavy set strangers – skinheads will do nicely – about a dozen or so, all talking loudly at the same time, smoke from their roll-up cigarettes blackening the deep scars on their unwashed pockmarked faces while banging on something metallic. And, for good measure, slam a door or two.

  The hairs will start to stand up on the back of your neck, with the feeling that you are being watched, and you will get goose bumps. Go bang some dustbin lids together to mimic the gates being opened and closed, put loose change and keys in a tin and give it a good rattle. Multiply that by twelve and you will be close to what it sounds like in a prison. Oh and don’t forget to leave the toilet door open after someone has had a good dump, and no one has brushed their teeth for a week.

  Get the picture?

  There was a rank structure in the Prison Service when I joined, starting at the bottom level with the PA (Prison Officer Auxiliary). These were the general dogs-bodies – no disrespect to former P A’s – whose job it was to open and shut the big gates, escort delivery trucks, sort post, prison canteen; jobs that were non-contact with the prisoners.

  Then the Prison Officers – screws, warders and the many other names we used to go by. These were the bread and butter of the service, mainly on the front line, on landings, dealing directly with prisoners, villains, cons and a few other choice names.

  Prison Officers each had their own unique way of going about their daily job. Some were big hairy screws, as illustrated in the media, while others would use their personality and gift of the gab to deal with prisoners. Female Prison Officers are no different. Whilst they may not have been big and hairy – although there was a minority – they were, just like all the Officers, a mixture from the community and each had differing ways of dealing with prisoners.

  It wouldn’t work in the Prison Service if we were all the same, just like the prisoners we were in charge of. Not all were prone to violence; some were family men who just got on the wrong side of the law and so needed different levels of supervision. I knew a few ex-forces men who had been imprisoned straight out of the service. In some ways, being ex-army myself, I could understand the reasons behind the problems they faced. They, like me, were discharged without any support into civilian life and, not used to being out of uniform, got themselves into trouble.

  On the other side of the coin, the Prison Service was full of ex-forces who, like me, got straight back into uniform. It was something we were comfortable with, and it kept us out of trouble.

  Next were the S.O.’s (Senior Officers), who were in charge of a wing or unit. They were responsible for the day-to-day running of the wing, and ensuring that you were doing your job. They were first line managers, who were responsible for a number of Officers and whose responsibility it was to create annual reports (S.P.D.R). This is a yearly report on the performance of an Officer; it highlights strengths and weaknesses, and gives the Officer an opportunity to expand his or her knowledge base by attending courses, both local and national. Some of the courses are mandatory, which are done annually, whilst others are skill or job specific, for example, security or mandatory drug testing.

  The last in the uniform line were P.O.’s – Principal Officers. These were in overall charge of the wing or unit and did Orderly Officers tasks. They detailed Officers as to what wings they would be on and what jobs they would be performing. They were directly responsible for S.O.’s and again, wrote the S.P.D.R’s for the Senior Officers they were responsible for. In my eyes, they drank tea all day.

  Top of the list were the Governors. They did their best to avoid residential wings, just in case a prisoner was on the loose. Don’t get me wrong, you can’t tar them all with the same brush, some of them were hands-on, and knew how to get the best out of the staff. These were generally the ones that came up through the ranks, but in my experience, you only saw a Governor in a meeting or when you’d seriously fucked up.

  Let me give you a few examples of the Fucked Up System in brief.

  In general terms, a Fuck Up is when you have put in a wrong count at the end of a shift, you see the Senior. Officer, he bollocks you and tells you to count heads not beds. Bollocking over.

  A Silly Fuck Up is for believing a prisoner’s sob story and letting him use the office phone to call his nearest and dearest to save his marriage. You get extra points for letting him use the Principal Officer’s office and phone while allowing him to sit in his nice comfy chair. You see the Principal Officer, who rants on and on that you’re not going to pass probation (NEPO’s had to do twelve months on probation, before being passed as a fully-fledged screw). After the bollocking, you are allowed back on the wing. If he’s kind hearted, you get to keep both your testicles. The phrase you will get your nuts ripped off was all too common when getting summoned to the Principal Officers’ office.

  A Serious Fuck Up, is when, for example, escorting a prisoner to a hospital appointment, you let him off the handcuffs to use the loo and find an empty cubicle with the window wide open. Thankfully, in my twen
ty-five years I never got to the Serious Fuck Up stage, although I got very near it. The Officers who got to that stage and got called up to the Governor’s office were rarely seen again.

  The rank structure has changed over the years. When I left it had morphed further into Private Sector roles, particularly, the uniform posts. Prison Auxiliaries became OSG (Operational Support Groups) with more responsibilities, working with prisoners being one of the biggest changes. They were given tasks such as bin collections, assisting with visits, performing searches, and generally, taking a chunk of Prison Officers duties that did not involve working on residential units. But watch this space. It’s only a matter of time before the Prison Service finds a cheaper way to manage prisoners on wings. Just like the Police Force, doubling up on patrols with their equivalent, Community Support Officers.

  Prison Officers roles have not changed that much over the years; the onus has shifted from hands on to hands off, and a more dialogued approach to dealing with offenders. This is no bad thing; in the past, Officers were getting into nasty scrapes. Some ended up in hospital with serious injuries. Don’t get me wrong, it still happens, but less frequently now, thankfully.

  Prison Officers, like the police, have inherited more paperwork. During the early days in the Service, it was 90% on landings, 10% paperwork. It’s now 50/50.

  Senior Officers have become Supervising Officers. Big shame, really, it separated us from the private sector. Supervising Officer is a role within the private sector, but the machine rolls on. As a Supervising Officer, you lost the Junior Management role and were no longer responsible for staff, a role that I performed for over 10 years. I, for one, was sad to see it go. My only blessing was that I left as a Senior Officer walking out of the gate for the last time with my Senior Officer’s epaulettes on my shoulder.

  Principal Officers became Custodial Managers, again just like their counterparts in the private sector. They were given a big chunk of the Senior Officers work, carried on with their normal duties (drinking tea) and had some Governors work bolted on. In other words, they were stuck driving a desk more often.