Happiness is Door Shaped

by Ray Deveroux

  It was a very sad occasion. John had been one of those rare prisoners who was liked by his peers as well as the staff, he was the sensible one, other prisoners could turn to for advice, and he was one of the Samaritans listeners. John was part of a team of prisoners who would go out, day or night, to sit in another prisoner’s cell, sometimes all night, to talk to them and listen to their worries, not once ever complaining or burdening others with his own problems. We were all in shock, how could we miss this? No one ever thought of John as a risk, but, as a suicide awareness trainer, and hearing stories like this before on my travels, once someone makes their mind up to end their life – not seeing a way out – there is nothing you can do to stop them. I attended the funeral, I wanted to. I wanted to pay my respects to a man who had been “one of my lads, “a team member of the listener group that I ran. I stood there, not wanting to show any emotions. I had already done that in private. Opposite were his wife and five children, their eyes boring into me – eyes that were accusing me of killing their dad, their husband. It was the first and only funeral I would ever attend for a prisoner. It shook me to my soul, and it would be something I would never forget.

  Christmas

  As residential staff, we Officers and Senior Officers are required to work Christmas Day. Prisons are twenty four seven, they never close, so every day is worked, be it Christmas, Easter or any other bank holiday.

  Generally, staff work Christmas on and New Year off, and vice versa on the next year, so throughout my career, I have worked dozens of Christmas Days, some as a favour to other Senior Officers who have young children, to allow them to enjoy time with their families, as they did for me when my kids were young.

  My last Christmas was no different. We tried to make it as light as possible and on the enhanced wing we put together competitions and games, staff bringing in extra packets of biscuits or chocolate bars as prizes, while the new residential Governor would raid his budget to pay money into the prisoners canteen spending money. It wasn’t much, two or three quid here and there, but to the prisoners, it was a fortune – especially those with no friends or families on the outside to send money in.

  The new residential Governor was a huge man; he was more like a rugby player than a Governor. He loved his gym, and looked after the staff well.

  One of my crew for Christmas was an older Officer we called Roll-Up. He had been in the service for many years and really wanted to retire; however, his ever expanding family and the expense that came with it wouldn’t let him. Although a part-timer, he did all the shifts under the sun to make up his wages.

  Roll-Up was so called because of his ability to roll a cigarette in one hand behind his back whilst talking to you. He spoke like a cockney but we called him a mockney because he never set foot in London anywhere near the sound of Bow Bells, where the term cockney originated.

  All the prisoners described him as The Cockney. His had the accent and rhyming slang off to a tee. He was a character and a half. You knew when he was around, his loud cockney accent booming out to warn he was approaching. He was a great bloke though, would do anything for you.

  He was pretty vain at times. Although knocking sixty, he kept himself fit and was always in the gym. To be fair, he was young looking for his age – probably why he was still working out, to keep that young wife of his.

  Anyway, at Christmas, we thought we would have a couple of bingo sessions. Some of the prisoners were elderly and didn’t play pool or snooker, so they were ruled out of the competitions. Not that they could have joined in if they wanted to, there were too many young pretenders. They wanted a quiet life and bingo was right up their street.

  Each member of staff was given a job, Ginger, the quizmaster, volunteered to set out questions for the quiz. Colin started a list for the pool competition, Carol, started a hamper raffle. Each prisoner would buy something for around a pound from the canteen and hand it in for a raffle ticket. At the end we would have enough for first, second and third prizes with the hamper. It was quite popular.

  Roll-Up wasn’t around for the volunteering bit to run a particular competition, so, to his disgust ended up with bingo.

  If one could have filmed the efforts of Roll-Up trying to call out bingo numbers without, as he called them, “me Ant n’ Decs” (specs), it would have been the best comedy show ever.

  He had set up a table in the middle of a landing, got all his wipe clean bingo cards ready and the tiniest bingo machine ever invented in the world with pea sized balls. All the prisoners were ready with markers. Some had joined in, not because they wanted a game of bingo, but because they wanted to see what an enormous fuck-up Roll-Up would make of it.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  Laugh? We nearly wet ourselves. He started as he meant to go on – badly. Of course, I knew he didn’t want any part of this, but, as his boss, I told him as sternly and without laughing, that this was his job this Christmas.

  Without his “Ant n’ Decs” he was hopeless, his loud voice, booming out the numbers, making everyone laugh louder, with his fake London accent. He made up the call signs, punctuated by as much obscene language as he could possible fit in:

  On its own, two little tarts, number fucking two, all the eights, two fucking fat bastards, eighty eight …

  And so it went on. The laughing got louder and the prisoners started mimicking him. In his annoyance, and employing his frequently used catch phrase of FUCK A BIG DOG! he tipped the machine upside down and off the table.

  It made matters worse. As he got up, he trod on the pea-sized balls and shot off down the landing like he was on roller skates. He did the splits, falling flat on his arse and ripping his trousers.

  YOU! YOU FUCKING ARSEWIPE! he shouted across to me. I was in fits of laughter, tears rolling down my face. Everyone was literally bent over double, nearly ending themselves with laughter.

  YOUR FUCKING FAULT, YOU FUCKING KNOBBER, he shouted in his fake cockney accent, trying to hold onto his crown jewels after nearly splitting himself in half, one hand on his crutch, the other pointing an accusing finger at me.

  YOU KNEW THAT THIS WAS GONNA HAPPEN! Roll-Up started to laugh himself, punctuated by a stream of fucks and bastards.

  I was going to go over to lend him a hand getting up, but he shouted, keep away from me, you fucking jinx! It just made me laugh even louder; I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house, apart from Roll-Up’s.

  We resumed bingo with one of the prisoners calling the numbers; somehow, I didn’t have the heart to tell Roll-Up to carry on.

  Christmas came and went. We had more than our fair share of laughs at the expense of Roll-Up. It had gotten round the jail about his skill on the bingo machine. Some called out to him, Oi Bingo, shout out some numbers will you?

  To which the reply was, as always, Fuck Off.

  V.E.D.

  Voluntary Early Departure was being offered for Senior Officers. The Prison Service was changing; no longer did they want Senior Officers, or Principal Officers. Instead, we were called Shift Supervisors and Custodial Managers. Unsurprisingly, that’s what they called them in the private sector.

  A few of my colleagues had left on the first round of cuts; it was now time for me to seriously think about my career.

  At fifty-seven, I had three years left until my retirement. Unlike a certain politician who lives in cloud cuckoo land, older staff do not get a desk job during their later years. It’s a front line job and always will be.

  I do hope a politician reads a copy of this book. It might, just might, open their eyes to what really goes on inside a working prison. It’s not a soft job and never will be. Prison Officers have to be mentally and physically fit. They have to be resilient and cope with some of the most demanding people that the courts put in custody.

  It was hard enough for me, even though I still maintained a good level of fitness, to keep up with the youth in today’s prisons. To have the will to stay until I was sixty was daunting, let alone the prospect of the new contracts
being offered for those who chose to stay, which meant a retirement of sixty-eight years old.

  I hear the complaints of the fire service personnel, their grievance being that the job is not for a man past the age of fifty-five. But the Prison Service is the forgotten service and always will be. The only times we hit the headlines is when there is a major incident and someone gets hurt, or a notorious prisoner get hundreds of thousands of pounds in compensation for his hurt feelings. The law, as we know it, is truly an ass and some politicians are firmly wedged there.

  The package was there, I would be a fool not to take it. So I took the leap that many had done before me and signed on the dotted line.

  On my last day, my last shift, the prisoners that knew me shook my hand, wished me well and hoped that I will have a long and happy retirement. At each door, as I went round, I gave one last wave as I closed and locked the doors

  At the very last door, cell E1-31 was a lad called Phil, one of my Samaritans listeners. He shook my hand and said, it’s not gonna be the same without you Mr. D. As I shut and locked the door, Phil shouted the words through the gap, the words I had used each and every time I shut the last cell door, happy that all my prisoners were all locked away and accounted for.

  HAPPINESS IS DOOR SHAPED MR D. HAPPINESS IS DOOR SHAPED!

  With that all the prisoners shouted as one:

  HAPPINESS IS DOOR SHAPED, and banged on their doors as I walked, for the last time, off the wing.

  Me

  It takes balls to be a Prison Officer, and I mean that. All the men and women who walk the landings, day after day, week after week, year in year out, need to be recognised for the tremendous job they do. The general public never sees the fear, the pain, the humiliation they go through on a regular basis. Sure, there are many books and films about what the police do, with detective dramas on all channels, putting some into hero status, but never, ever, do you come across a gritty no-holds barred story about the Officers that work in Her Majesties Prisons. No, that’s something that should be kept well away from the public domain, shouldn’t it?

  Anyone that has worked in a jail in any capacity will tell you it’s a frightening place to be; throughout my career, many have said to me I don’t know how you do it.

  Well, the job has got to be done. Unfortunately, these days, it’s getting harder and harder, because the Prison Service is the forgotten one. No one marches up and down Whitehall in our support waving banners. We cannot go on strike – there is a law against that.

  No one but those who have been there and done it knows what it’s like – never knowing what time you’re going to get home, whether you’re going to end up in hospital, or someone who has a grudge is going to knock on your door.

  I’ve seen and witnessed staff that have done many years in the Prison Service, looking forward to a well-earned retirement, only to be struck down soon after leaving. Never enjoying the fruits of their labour, leaving behind widows and fatherless and motherless children. After seeing their loved one go through the shit that this society dumps in their jails, day after day, they have nothing to show for it but a headstone in a cold cemetery.

  I hope that reading this book will give you some insight into what really goes on in our jails, the hopes and fears of the staff that work there and the pain and, sometimes, laughter that goes with it.

  It is said that Prison Officers have a wicked sense of humour. After reading this book, you can understand why. But as I mentioned earlier, we are human beings. Like you, we have feelings.

  Although most of the incidents in this book are a true and accurate record, some, have been given an artist’s flourish, to establish some groundwork. For example, although I know what happens within the prison walls, one can only speculate what happens beyond there. The stories attached to some of the prisoners who had been released are based on hearsay, so although I cannot say they actually happened, they are the best I can do with the information available.

  Needless to say, all the names, including mine, have been changed to protect the innocent – or guilty. But those people I know and had the honour of working alongside will know who exactly who I’m talking about.

  Some of the stories have happened to someone else; they have been told to me over the years and deserve a place in this book.

  If there is a publisher out there who thinks the book is good enough to put onto the screen, let me have a decent character, please.

  As I completed this book, a letter popped through the door from the Prison Service. Apparently, so many staff have left, taking up the offer of Voluntary Early Departure, that they are now short of experienced staff.

  Would I be interested in returning as a reservist, on a contractual basis?

  Will there be a follow up to Happiness Is Door Shaped?

  Who knows? Watch this space!

  I have to add my thanks to all those Officers and staff who have been with me through the thick and thin of working as a Prison Officer. If I haven’t thanked you already, please, if you are reading this, accept my warmest and most heartfelt appreciation for being there. For without my colleges and friends, I would not have survived all those years in the Prison Service.

  If you decide to join the Prison Service, it’s a great job. You will find it to be a most rewarding career – if you make it through the training!

  This eBook is published by

  Grosvenor House Publishing Ltd

  28-30 High Street, Guildford, Surrey, GU1 3EL.

  www.grosvenorhousepublishing.co.uk

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © Ray Deveroux, 2016

  The right of Ray Deveroux to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The book cover image is copyright to Ray Deveroux

  ISBN 978-1-78623-800-9 in electronic format

  ISBN 978-1-78623-783-5 in printed format

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.