In 1974, Park Lane opened in stages up to 1984. Unlike Moss Side Hospital, a high-security wall, completely separating it from the rest of the site, surrounded it. Moss Side and Park Lane shared some facilities but operated as independent hospitals.
In 1990, one of the first acts of the new Special Hospitals Service Authority (SHSA) was to merge the two hospitals.
On 19 February 1990, the new hospital, Ashworth, was born. The old Moss Side Hospital became known as Ashworth South and East, and Park Lane was renamed Ashworth North. Ashworth South, the original Moss Side Hospital, closed in 1995. I have also spent time in Moss Side, making me unique in that I’ve been in all the best lunatic hospitals.
In March 1991, the hospital was severely criticised in a Cutting Edge television programme, alleging widespread abuse of mentally ill patients by staff at Ashworth.
A public inquiry was chaired by Sir Louis Blom-Cooper QC, which put forward ninety recommendations. There was a call for wholesale culture change at Ashworth. This led to a further reorganisation of the hospital and much work to try to change the culture of the institution.
In April 1996, the hospital became a ‘Special Hospital Authority’ when the High-Security Psychiatric Services Commissioning Board (HSPSCB) succeeded the SHSA.
The capacity of 520 beds was gradually reduced. As one of the three Special High-Security Hospitals (Ashworth, Park Lane and Broadmoor), Ashworth receives patients from the North of England, Wales, the West Midlands and North-West London.
Approximately 80 per cent of patients have been convicted of a criminal offence, most of whom are subject to restriction orders. The average length of stay is eight years – a small number of patients will never be ready to leave and will spend the rest of their lives at Ashworth.
I landed in the cuckoo’s nest in 1984. It was about the time of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’. And, boy, was it an eye-opener. Ashworth was originally Park Lane Asylum. There was a swimming pool (over-heated), a gym and a big shop to buy clothes and food. Visits were brilliant.
The lunatics were smoking cigars there and eating chocolate cake. Talk about spoiling us. TV in cells … sorry, ‘rooms’.
And the screws … sorry, ‘nurses’, some of the women were like Page 3 birds. But there is always a downside to such a place – too many nutters for my liking.
Let’s not forget, it is a top-security asylum. It is like the Big Brother house, but 100 times bigger and more secure.
I only survived there for six months. I ripped open a lunatic’s face with a sauce bottle. The nutter bled all over the new gym kit I had on. You would have thought he could have bled away from me and not over me.
But I will tell you now, it was here that I realised that the psychiatrists are definitely madder than us lot. Remember, they work with madness day in and day out, year after year. It has got to rub off on them. And believe me, it does. They are all fucking mad.
I am giving Ashworth 8/10, simply as it was a comfortable stay. Break out the Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.
LOCATION: Thamesmead, London.
CAPACITY: 850 beds.
CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Dispersal, Remand and Category ‘A’ – Male.
OPENED: 1991 and only had a capacity of just over 300.
HISTORY: A prison mainly for prisoners considered to be high risk or likely to want to escape. A special wing houses seventy prisoners convicted of mainly sex offences.
Oh yeah … one of my favourites is Hellmarsh! I had some lovely stays here. My first spell was in their SSU (Special Secure Unit). By 1993, it was a maximum secure unit and was the most secure unit in Europe.
The prison housed mostly terrorists and top-class blaggers, some spies, serial killers and little old me.
I was there over a ‘bank’ and a few other minor charges – innocent, of course!
Sadly, the Governor at this time was a little fat fellow who smoked a pipe. I told him straight, ‘Fuck off before I ram the pipe down your neck.’ It is always best to make it clear how you feel – clears the air.
I had a few old pals there at the time – Rocky Lee, Pete Pesato, Rab Harper and Del Croxen. All good armed robbers. They were on the wing part of the unit. They kept me in the seg block on my own. But I was sweet, and the block screws were diamonds. A right good bunch.
The food was shit, though, but I could buy tins of fish and fruit from the canteen. So I was well sorted. I also trained hard. All day long, pressups, sit-ups and I ran on the yard.
It was here that Del Croxen died in his cell. He was only in his 30s. A great man.
I was allowed out of the block to go to a service in the prison chapel with the lads, which I thanked the Governor for. I said a little piece for Del in respect. It’s an old saying of mine. I am not sure who wrote it, I am not even sure if it is right, as I may have changed it over the years:
‘We the willing – led by the unknown – have been doing the impossible for so long – with so little – are we now qualified to do anything at all?’
I don’t know why I chose to say that, but, it felt right. To me, it says it all. And I hope Del would have approved.
Peter Pesato also read a piece, and it was a lovely service, sad and respectful.
I first met Del in Wandsworth; it was Frankie Fraser who introduced us. I would have loved to be on a robbery with Del, as he was a good blagger.
It was around this time the IRA lads upset me. The day we had Del’s service, that night I could hear them playing their rebel songs and throwing out burning paper and singing. They were always throwing out burning paper! I felt it was disrespectful to Del, and I made it known. It stopped.
But it was too late for me. It played on my mind, as I am a very sensitive man. So it set me off on one of my mad spells. I wanted the door off.
It was on my second stay there that they gave me a break and put me up on the Cat ‘A’ wing. It was there I knocked out a con and stuffed him inside the industrial washing machine. He had it coming, one disrespectful slag. Playing his music until all hours. Shouting his mouth off, he was only a drug mug. I told him to slow up, but he got lemon, so – BANG – out cold he went!
I would have put him in the incinerator outside, fucking low-life rat. Fortunately for him, a pal stopped me turning on the machine. He vanished soon after that and it was all peaceful again.
That was until the Iraqi hijackers turned up. I wrapped ’em up, costing me another seven years. Seven fucking years I get over the Iraqis, and the armed forces get medals! I told you this journey is insane.
Belmarsh is a good jail, with some good screws in it, but the food is shit. The cells are good, with nice windows, an iron bed and good showers, too. Visits are reasonable, considering it’s mostly remands in the prison, and on a good day the screws give you extra time.
My visits were always in the seg block. And the screws even made my visitors tea, and were polite to them.
Old Lord Longford – Frank to me – would visit me every month here. Frank’s visited me for years, all over the country; he put me in his two books, Prisoner or Patient and The Longford Diaries.
Sadly, he is no longer with us. I loved the old boy. He always made me laugh. He had some good morals, but he got a bad name over his fight for the now dead Myra Hindley. I told him straight, ‘She is a fucking monster.’
And how do you tell an old man to clean his shoes? He was twice my age, and lived a full life. I am nobody to tell anybody how to live his or her life, plus he was a lord. So let us be respectful. I couldn’t say ‘Bollocks’, could I?
Apart from my couple of slip-ups, I was good there. But it still cost me seven years. My slip-ups are costly.
I am giving Belmarsh 10/10, simply because I was happy there and they treated me well.
LOCATION: Cambridge Road, Bristol.
CAPACITY: 400 beds.
CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Local – Convicted, Remands and Long-Term – Male.
OPENED: 1882.
HISTORY: Originally opened to house prisoners from t
he Bristol locality. It dates back to medieval times, and was the workplace of that famous executioner, old Albert Pierrepoint (1874–1922, from Bradford, Yorkshire). He managed to do his duty at 109 executions … how many were innocent? There are ghosts in that place. Take it from me; in fact, take it from the screws! They have seen them. It is a spooky old place. In 1990, it had a prisoners’ uprising.
I have landed here three times, once in the eighties and twice in the nineties. Each time, fuck all had changed. Bear in mind I am always destined for the seg block. I recall that it was on my first stay at Bristol that I got kicked in the nuts; I ended up on a dirty protest. Not really my scene. These dirty protests are called ‘shit-ups’ for obvious reasons! For those of you with a limited imagination, let me tell you what a shit-up is – you spread your faeces on the walls of your cell, over yourself, over every surface.
These shit-ups are not a pretty site and often cause screws to run out of your cell retching their guts up in disgust at the sight and smell of it all … you can’t do anything but have a smile on your face at the sight of this.
But in acts of desperation, we all have to do what we need to do. Most people outside can’t relate to a shit-up, but it can work, believe it or not. So if you’re ever in the position of having to carry one out, then at least you have an idea of what it’s all about.
I covered the four walls and the door with shit. I even smeared it on myself. Why? Simple – I was fucking sick and tired of the system fucking me about. But all in all, Bristol is a strange old jail.
From the exercise yard, in the seg unit, you can see some houses over the wall (a loft window). A rare sight in any jail, if not a security weak link.
Anyway, one day, I was walking around the caged yard and I saw something move up in that window. I pretended not to look, but I saw it – a naked woman! Whether she was flashing at me or it was an accident, I don’t know, but, God, I saw it!
Well, I am only human. Flesh and blood. A young man. How do you think I reacted? I shouted up, ‘Stick your body closer to the window!’
I dropped my trousers and shouted, ‘Hey, look at this for a two pounder!’ In no time, the screws were on me and back inside I went. Fucking spoilsports.
This is one of the really old-style jails that has got a lot of character to it, and some of the ‘old school’ screws are there. They are the best screws you can get, so much better than the new breed of screws.
I am giving Bristol 5/10. They do a really nice drop of porridge, too, and they do a lovely bowl of soup.
LOCATION: Brixton, London.
CAPACITY: 825 beds.
CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Category ‘B’ – Male.
OPENED: 1821, a real old piece of overcrowded madness.
HISTORY: The land was bought in the early 1800s and a ‘House of Correction’, as it was known back then, was built. Originally designed to house just over 150 men, it did, in fact, house three times this amount, so nothing much has changed there since then. Eventually became a prison for females, then a military prison and eventually reverted back to an all-male prison, which it remains to this day.
Do you realise, it is 16 years since I was last here? Hey, doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun?
It was 1988 I was there, held on ‘D’ Unit, which was maximum secure. There were only twelve of us on there. All of us were remanded and all looking at ‘Big Bird’ if found guilty; I am talking big-time porridge, enough to fill up a swimming pool.
On this unit, all this time, were Charlie McGuire, cop killer; Ronnie Easterbrook, armed robber; Valerio Veicci, armed robber; Finbar McCullen, IRA; Liam McCotton, IRA; Mickey Reilly, armed robber; Tommy Hole, armed robber; Wayne Hurren, armed robber; John Boyle, American Mafia drug king; Denis Wheeler, drug king; and Vick Dark, armed robber – which, including me, makes the dirty dozen! Do you get the picture? It was serious stuff.
Out of all of these guys, only two won their trial and went free – John Boyle and Finbar McCullen. The rest of us got bird. Some were lifed off, with recommendations for thirty years.
Poor Charlie McGuire has since died, passed away in his cell. And Valerio Viccei got extradited back to Italy to finish off his twenty-year sentence. He got some jam role (parole) and got shot dead by a trigger-happy copper. Tommy Hole was shot and killed in a bar-room hit. It’s a bloody dangerous game this! Here today … shot tomorrow. And blown away into orbit.
This unit is small. It has two special cages. Guess who was in one? Yeah, yours truly. I always seem to end up in a cage for some reason, and that is fate. Destiny!
Like some apes get caught and put in a zoo, that is the story of my life. But we did OK in there. We could spend £50 a week in the canteen … if you had £50, that is. (Some don’t have 50p.) Me, I have always got a few bob stashed away for a rainy day.
Well, I don’t smoke, or fuck with drugs; I have no vices in jail so I’m sweet. And I have got some good pals, who look out for me. As I look after them. It’s a family thing, see. We all think as one. That is how it works. Should you have the unfortunate piece of bad luck to end up behind bars in the clink then remember to have a good support team behind you. Prison isn’t a place to go it alone, even for the likes of me … remember that.
I don’t take a penny off my blood family. In fact, I don’t even like to bring them into my world of criminality, because they are all honest, you see. They don’t understand my way of life, as I do not understand theirs. My mother is my angel. So I keep it at that. But my pals are my true brothers. My real family.
So, Brixton ‘D’ Unit. It was here I crashed in Liam McCotton’s canister. No hard feelings. He is a top guy. I admire the way he took it. I also got a screw’s nose and twisted it! (Only for a laugh.) Not that I would do it in a nasty way. But he was sticking his nose into things that did not concern him. So in these sorts of situations you need to twist a nose or two just to show that it is bang out of order.
I remember, one day, I was upset over the food being cold. So I picked up the tea urn and poured it all over the food waiting to be served out to us on the hot plate. We all got fish and chips that night as a treat. Another day, I picked up the office desk above my head. I am not sure why I did that. To be truthful, I am not sure why I do a lot of things.
It was there I fixed a pigeon’s wing. I found it in the yard, it was shivering and cold, and its wing was not right. I wrapped it in my shirt and brought it back to my cage. I washed it in some shampoo and dried it. Brushed it with my brush. And set about healing it. I fed it bread and milk. And I sort of made a bit of a splint with a plastic spoon and strapped it around its body.
After a week of this, I thought, ‘Yeah, it is time!’ I took it out on the yard and threw it up in the air, it would either fly or crash. It flew round the corner of the unit. I swear it looked down at me and smiled at me, I swear it did. I don’t really know how I did it, but I did. I was right proud of that. Because of that, I knew what the Bird Man of Alcatraz got out of healing birds.
It was later that two IRA lads escaped with a gun, and Brixton stopped taking Cat ‘A’ prisoners. And it was then that Belmarsh that took all the ‘A’ prisoners. A shame, really, as Brixton was a good old jail.
This was a dirty old place, mind you, infested with vermin, maggots, rats and roaches … and screws. But I liked Brixton. I got on well. And I think the screws were a half-decent lot. They sort of let us get on with it. Well, they had little choice because we would have demolished the place. It was on this very unit, years before, where Stan Thompson escaped with Big Ron Moody and Gerald Taite. They all got clean away.
Taite made it back to Ireland. Big Ron never did get caught but he later got shot dead in a pub gangland hit, and Stan just drifted back in.
But it was a lovely escape from such a secure unit. They dug through three cell walls and made it out.
I am giving Brixton 7/10. Yeah, it is worth that just for the memories. I have never been back since; sad, really.
LOCATION: Crowthorne, Berkshire.
CAPACITY: 404 beds.
CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Special Secure Hospital – Male and Female.
OPENED: 1863.
HISTORY: Broadmoor Hospital was originally named Broadmoor Criminal Lunatic Asylum. The first patients to arrive there were ninety-five women in 1863; male patients arrived the following year. The asylum had been built following the Criminal Lunatics Act of 1860; it’s uncertain why Crowthorne was chosen as the site. The Mental Health Act of 1959, which came into operation in 1960, changed the name to Broadmoor Hospital making it into a Special Hospital for psychiatric patients of dangerous, violent or criminal propensities; its role was to treat these patients.
In 1979, the prison van pulled up in this asylum – I was inside it. This is the ‘Big House’ of all the institutions in the UK. Don’t let anybody tell you different. If they do, then send them to me. Because I am telling you, this is the daddy of them all.
For 141 years, this giant of a place has stood on the hill in Crowthorne village, Berkshire. The old austere, Victorian red brick with beautiful carvings give it an air of authority, so splendidly built in its magnificent countryside setting.
Sounds romantic, eh? Well, it is hell on earth! And I became their number one devil. For five long, hard years, I lived under this asylum roof. Oops … tell a lie … three times I was actually on the roof.
Broadmoor was a place of sheer amazement and electrifying incidents, some horrifying scenes, and even murders and plenty of near-murders.
Sometimes, the murders are a blessing. As it is an escape from hell.
The austere welcoming of Broadmoor
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