Bronson 3

by Charles Bronson

  The conclusions of the inquiry that followed the riot shows the causes as the culmination of a series of disturbances throughout the dispersal system, dating back to the roof-top demonstrations of 1972. This was the most serious incident involving loss of control, since the Dartmoor mutiny before the Second World War. A total of 60 per cent of the prison population were involved in the riot, and the damage to the prison was estimated at £750,000. Hull Prison was out of use for about a year and staff morale, supposedly, suffered a setback. What a shame! Although the riot went on for a number of days, no prisoners escaped and staff and prisoners alike sustained no serious injury.

  By the time the Hull Board of Visitors had finished their disciplinary hearings, they had removed almost ninety years of prisoners’ remission. They did this without allowing any of the prisoners to be legally represented, they refused to allow defendants to cross-examine prosecution witnesses and the prisoners were rarely allowed to call witnesses in support of their defence. Understandably, the prisoners complained to the courts. This is where prisoners’ rights began to change for the better.

  In 1986, the prison changed its status and housed Category ‘B’ inmates, apart from having a special unit for the likes of me, but it closed in 1999. The unit is sometimes used to house supergrasses ready to attend court to give evidence.

  Until the Hull Riot in 1976, this was the number-one dispersal jail in England. Anyone who was anyone was here. Top faces such as Great Train Robber Charlie Wilson; the IRA Old Bailey bombers Roy Walsh, Martin Brady and Billy Armstrong; the Balcome Street Mob; the mass killer Archibald Hall; some of the Kray henchmen; Frank Fraser; Roy Shaw … oh, and me!

  I first hit Hull in 1974. From my cell window in the seg block I could actually see the Humber Bridge being constructed. The docks were opposite the jail.

  That lovely sea air, the smell of fish, those squawking seagulls. On a windy night, the smell of beer and fish and chips and laughter would drift into my cell.

  Hull was without a doubt a fucking good jail. But like all the top-secure jails, it had its fair share of trouble. I once witnessed such a violent attack on a con, it actually made me feel sick. The poor sod’s face was on the shower floor. I have never seen such a ferocious attack, ever. It was like being in a fucking slaughterhouse; that con’s face was just ripped to pieces. Now if that wasn’t enough, he then got sliced down the back; blood just pissed out.

  Another time, I witnessed a guy’s head caved in with a gym bar; and I witnessed a dumb bell smashed into a con’s head. It really was a violent jail.

  It was there I cut up John Gallagher, and later, when he was released, he killed four people. The slag even made a statement against me!

  I also grabbed two hostages in Hull, the first being Governor Wallace. I got an extra seven years for this piece of shit. Then I nabbed Phil Danielson, a civilian teacher. For this siege I got a life sentence. Incidentally, it was the longest siege in the history of the UK penal system in which a hostage had been taken.

  In another incident at Hull Prison, I also got on the roof. Without a doubt, the greatest sight! There are a load of flats just over the wall of Hedon Road, and in some of these flats there are women of the night.

  You should hear the things they shouted at me – ‘Get ‘em off,’ ‘Show us your dick,’ and ‘Give it a pull for us.’ What a foul-mouthed load of tarts … I couldn’t believe it. After all, I was only a youngster.

  It was here in 1975 I last saw my son, Michael, as a child. He was three years old. His mum walked out of my life and I never saw him again until he was 25 years old. Some twenty-two years had passed us by. It is really the only regret of my life. Apart from that, I really don’t give a fuck.

  It was also in Hull I won my first ever Koestler Award for art. I have now won a total of eleven and have retired as the first con ever to win eleven of these awards. The race was on between my old mate James Crosbie of Scotland and me to see who would be the first to reach ten Koestlers; he ended up on nine and I exceeded the magic number. James was once considered the most dangerous man in the Scottish penal system; he was a great blagger and got away with plenty of big money.

  Over the years, I have been back to Hull no less than eight times. Each time, I seem to end up in trouble. I have even demolished their unit. I have chinned a total of nine screws there. I have shit up three Governors. Once, I left Hull in a wheelchair, strapped up in a body belt and ankle straps and wheeled to the van.

  I have been injected there many times, and I’ve also been beaten. But I just love the place. It is a unique jail. A total one-off. The food is brilliant; well, it was on the unit. Proper fish, big pieces of it, nice fresh salads, even the porridge was made with milk. They make a treacle tart in Hull like no tart I have ever had – it was beautiful.

  Hull was also the only jail in the UK with a boxing ring; it was great. Floyd Patterson once came to the jail and put on a show. But with the crowd running the prisons nowadays, they stopped all that. But it fucking worked, that ring was brilliant, we all enjoyed it. We would have bets on fights. I won all mine … bets and fights.

  Back in those days, the gym screws were a good bunch, they just let us slog it out, as long as we weren’t using blades and table legs. But today, you’re lucky to get a punch bag with these fucking imbeciles; they can’t see how a ring can help youngsters relieve their frustrations. That’s why I’ve got so much respect for people like Harry Marsden who has taken countless youngsters off the drug scene and helped put them back on the straight and narrow because of his boxing club.

  Yeah, I had some great times in Hull. A lot of bad, too! I once cut a con’s arse with a Stanley blade right across the cheeks. He opened up like a tomato! After that, he never nicked out of anybody’s cell again. The fat rat couldn’t sit down for a month; fifty-eight stitches he had. His arse must have looked like a mailbag.

  It was also there that I scored my first and last hat-trick on the soccer pitch. I admit, I’m far from a good player. I’m more of a goal-maker, I’m a runner. I will run all day long. But the match, I just had the hot buzz. I just knew it was on. Bang. Bang. Bang. All good goals.

  You don’t forget days like that and it must have been taped, as Hull was full of Big Brother CCTV.

  Plenty of memories. Awesome memories. But Hull jail ended up costing me a life sentence.

  I will give HM Prison Hull 9/10, simply because it is just a big part of my life. I learned so much from being in there, such as: never bend down in the shower to pick the soap up; never sit in the front row of the TV room; never walk into another man’s cell without tapping the door.

  Believe me, three good tips there.

  LOCATION: Milton Road, Portsmouth.

  CAPACITY: 200 beds.

  CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Category ‘B’ Lifers – Male.

  OPENED: 1877.

  HISTORY: First used to accommodate criminals from the Portsmouth area up until pre-World War II when it was used to detain those likely to cause political trouble or on suspicion of spying. Taken over, after this, by the Royal Navy, it became a Naval Detention base. After a short spell of not being used for anything, it became a centre for Recall Borstal Boys and remained so for just over twenty years until 1969. It then became a Category ‘B’ prison solely for life-sentence prisoners who had committed a domestic murder, the only prison to cater for this sort of prisoner. Now, though, the prison takes all sorts of lifers regardless of who they have killed … you just can’t get a decent class of murderer any more these days!

  Now this place looks like an old fort, it is an all-lifers’ jail. Most of the 200 cons it holds are old men who have served years and years.

  I was on my way to Albany on the Island in the ’80s when the van broke down, and a police van arrived and took me to Kingston Prison to be held until an escort could be arranged.

  Once in the jail, I was put in their seg unit that was only about a fourcell capacity, and unused. A screw told me, ‘We rarely have need to use it,’ as most of
the cons are old and institutionalised. It seemed they were happy, mugs of Horlicks and bags of seed for their budgies. They gave me dinner; it was bloody lovely, one of the nicest prison meals I have ever had.

  I had just eaten it and my door crashed in; it was the Albany screws. ‘Ready, Bronson.’

  I was gutted. I could have spent a cosy six months in this little castle, it just felt so peaceful. Even the screws were so laid back and relaxed. I noticed that most of the screws wore shoes and not boots. They really seemed a decent bunch. There was no intimidation – or eyeball stares – it was such a shame I was just passing through. But in reality, it is better not to stay in a graveyard. Because that is basically all it is. ‘Dead men breathing.’

  I will give HM Prison Kingston 7/10, just for the good dinner and laid-back screws.

  LOCATION: Welford Road, Leicester.

  CAPACITY: 300 beds.

  CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Local Prison and Remands – Male.

  OPENED: 1825.

  HISTORY: Since 1825 right up until 1990, building work has seen the prison expand from being a very large gatehouse to a prison with a visitors’ centre and administrative offices.

  This is in Welford Road, in the centre of Leicester, with Filbert Street, the Premiership football ground, close by. On match days you can hear them cheering.

  Looking at the prison is like looking at an old castle; in fact, it is a castle. This is quite a unique jail as it is just one big long wing; take a look at the aerial photo. And the wing is cut into sections; one end is for remands, the middle is for the convicted, the bottom end is the seg unit, and the next bit is the protection wing. Then on the other end is the SSU – Special Security Unit.

  Then there is the hospital wing, kitchen and workshops. That’s Leicester, a very cramped jail.

  I first went there in the 1980s. Unfortunately, all my stays in Leicester have been short, and always in the seg unit, so I have not been up on the wing. But I have been up on the roof, so I have seen more than most.

  Apart from the SSU section, Leicester is just a local jail. The unit part was brought in for the Great Train Robbers, the Kray firm and the Richardson gang. Since then, many infamous cons have spent time on there – Harry Roberts (cop-shooter), Billy Skingle, Joey Martin, Freddie Foreman, Reg Kray, Harry Johnson, Angel Face Probyn, John Kendall, Steve Waterman, John McVicar … then all the IRA lads, the drug barons and the spies. They have all been on there, some for years, others for months.

  I was always kept in the seg unit under a ten-guard unlock – at least ten screws outside my cell door before it can be unlocked.

  I was, in fact, the only con ever to have a police ID parade in their seg unit. And guess what? The witnesses never picked me out. Too fucking scared to, I bet! I swear to God, if they had of done so I would have attacked them there and then, I was just in the mood for a war.

  I ended up ripping a door off there – well, I was bored, and a man needs to occupy his mind!

  The food there was swill. I was always hungry there. But the screws were not a bad bunch.

  I recall about 1986/87 when female screws started to work in men’s jails. It really was a big thing in those days to see a ‘screwess’. Especially in the morning when you unlocked to slop out your pot. It was embarrassing. What man wants to walk past a woman with a pot full of shit? Now you know why a lot of us used to crap in a paper and throw it out of the window.

  Anyway, there was a gorgeous screwess and it turned out she was a sex change. It blew me away. I keep telling you, those screws are a funny breed.

  I will give HM Prison Leicester 5/10, only because I enjoyed my stays there. I am not sure they enjoyed me, though, but let’s not get personal.

  LOCATION: Greetwell Road, Lincoln.

  CAPACITY: 450 beds.

  CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Local Prison and Remands – Male.

  OPENED: 1872.

  HISTORY: A Victorian prison that continued the tradition of a prison being in Lincoln since medieval times. A vast refurbishment project has seen the prison transformed into a more manageable place.

  I hit Lincoln Prison on about ten occasions in the 1970s, ’80s and ’90s.

  Each time I was allocated to their seg block, apart from 1991, when I hit their SSU. There were only four of us in there – Tony Steel, Joe Purkiss, Paul Flint and me.

  Tony was only eighteen years old when he came in; he is forty now, and has never been out.

  Paul is a strong lad; he once almost kicked his way out of a moving van.

  As for Joe, he is just a big fat slob, but we all love Joe, not got a big brain but a big heart.

  The unit was small, comprising about eight cells, a small yard, a workshop and a multi-gym. Our visits were held in a small room on the unit.

  A con in there called Kelly – he left before I got there – had taken a hostage in another jail; he was a dangerous fucker. He was also as bent as a nine-bob note, a raving poof. He used to have his ‘fella’ visit him and they got caught on the visit giving each other blow-jobs. Could you make this shit up? Doesn’t it blow your heads? It does mine.

  The Governor on the unit was Mr Pratt – by name and nature. Sadly, I gave him a knuckle sandwich. BANG! So my time on this unit was short.

  I recall once in their seg unit I was out on the yard for my one-hour exercise period which was in a caged-off fenced yard outside the kitchen and below the A Wing cons. Anyway, a pal of mine, Patch, walked into the kitchen, and shouted to me through the locked gate, ‘Hi, Chas. Need anything?’

  I said, ‘Yeah, I am starving!’

  Five minutes passed. A slab of cheese came flying through the gate and hit the fence. It was about half the size of a football. Then a big loaf of bread comes hurtling my way and crash, it hit the fence. But I am on the other side of the fence.

  ‘How the fuck am I going to get it, Patch?’ I ask.

  ‘Leave it to me, Chas,’ he says.

  Five minutes passed and Patch was let out of the gate. He had a broom. The screw said to him, ‘Be quick.’

  Patch pretended to sweep up and he shot over and picked up the goodies and then slung them over the 18ft fence. What a genius he was.

  I ate half of it. Then it was time to come in. The six screws who’d come to get me looked puzzled, but they never even tried to take it off me!

  Lincoln had some first-class screws, proper characters, like Big Mick Freeber. He was a diamond. He used to go and get me a load of chips from the kitchen. And on visits he used to give me an extra half-an-hour.

  There was also old Jack Spencer. He was the only screw in thirty years who ever opened my door alone. At times, he shouldn’t have done. He has even sat in my cell with a mug of tea.

  One Christmas, my door opened, it was about 8.00pm. He was there, alone, with a cake. He must be retired now. But I will always admire that man, a true gentleman. And he knew how to treat people; I always gave him respect. Screws like him are really so few, and he was no soft touch, a hard man, but he had a streak of kindness in him. Like the time I was in a body belt. It was too small, and really uncomfortable. It was causing me breathing problems; it cut into my mid section. I weighed 16st and they had restrained me in a small belt, as usual!

  Jack made them take it off and get a bigger size. Most screws would have just left me in pain.

  Lincoln’s not a big jail but it is compact, it is a very old jail, but the sort that I love best. It has got character. And a lot of ghosts, too!

  I really do have some nice memories of the place, and to think that I was bashed up there several times.

  I will give HM Prison Lincoln 8/10. See, I am not bitter.

  LOCATION: South Littleton, Worcestershire.

  CAPACITY: 600 beds.

  CATEGORY AT PRESENT: Category ‘A’ and ‘B’ High-Security – Male.

  OPENED: 1971.

  HISTORY: Originally was a Category ‘C’ prison, then sexed up into a high-security status for those serving four years to life. Predominantly for long-term prison
ers.

  I landed here in the late 1980s and again in the ’90s. It is one of our maximum-secure jails, built in the sticks of Worcestershire.

  A Governor I have a lot of respect for – and that’s rare, coming from me – Mr Whitty was, perhaps, the fairest man in authority I have ever met, and, boy, did he give me a break.

  I totally fell off the edge at Lartin in one morning of madness. I wrecked A Wing, I attacked three screws, scalded four others and seriously assaulted three cons with an iron bar.

  Everybody, including me, thought it was all over for me, and that I would be nutted off again. But, somehow, Mr Whitty stood by me and helped me over this period of blackness. And I mean he helped me so much that I have never forgotten him. And for the first time in my life, I actually felt guilty for my actions, as I felt I had let Mr Whitty down.

  Yeah, it is a fact. Don’t ask me to explain it, I am not a psychologist, I just know this time was a very difficult period for me to work out. There I was, fucked-up completely, attacking people, destroying everybody in sight and, after it all stopped, I felt bad over it!

  Normally, I would say, ‘Good.’ But this time, it was me who felt bad. The cons I hurt were scum anyway, sex offenders. So fuck them.

  But the screw I attacked had done nothing to me and the damage I did was just senseless. I actually deserved all I got.

  No sooner had I got all that behind me, I was off again on another load of destruction. Long Lartin really only saw the bad side of me and the truth is, it was a bloody good jail.

  If I had to pinpoint it and try to explain it, I would say maybe I had fucked up and all the time in solitary I had spent had messed me up.

  And when I hit Lartin, I just couldn’t cope with the openness of it all. It was a big open space with massive fields all round it, even though it was maximum-secure; it was all new to me. I was used to a 10ft square concrete coffin, not all this.