UTOPIAN DREAM

Andrew Jenson the constantly depressed inmate who had kicked to death his girlfriend's brother, was sentenced at this time to four years imprisonment. Rather stiff I thought, as he did not look the violent type, nor was he a misfit. One day he was enjoying himself with his girlfriend, and the next he was in the slammer. It could happen to anyone.

Pepsi, my heart throbbing welfare worker, had returned unscathed from her holiday to tell me that someone from the probation service in Birmingham would visit me in three weeks time. Things were beginning to look up, not just for myself but for other prison inmates. The food was definitely improving. Not only better bread, but more cereals instead of that wallpaper paste the authorities purported to be porridge. Their was also tinned fruit at lunchtime, something unheard of before.

The other morning Dr.Shrink had called all the inmates into the ward's office, one by one. When I eventually entered, there was my thick file on the desk. I was feeling quite jovial that morning as the sun was making one of its rare appearances.

"You can see from the file that we're doing everything we can to get you transferred," said Dr.Shrink, as he pointed to three squiggly lines at the top of an otherwise blank page.

"Its the first time I've seen you happy," the doctor said as he wrote down a remark about my happy outlook.

I had always thought that you had to be sick in the head to be happy in that cesspit. Now I knew that I really was insane. As for the efforts to get me transferred, I did not believe a word of it. I was a permanent prisoner there, and that was that.

It was now believed by some that seven thousand more people than usual had died during the winter, mostly from hypothermia and cold induced ailments such as bronchitis, pneumonia, strokes and heart attacks. Meanwhile the heating system in the hospital was still pumping out the heat, like there was no tomorrow.

Like many people, I passed the time reading about the Marcos millions, or should I say billions. It made AD look like a pauper. The thousands of shoes and dresses that Imelda wore, the lavish discotheque on the roof of the Malacanang Palace, the portrait made out of black and white pearls, the apartment blocks in New York, ranches in Texas, the million dollar shopping sprees, not to mention the property in London and the hundreds of millions of dollars in bogus Swiss accounts. Yes I thought, there was definitely one law for the masses, and no law for the privileged few. And just what were their allies, the American Government, doing whilst all this was going on? They must have known. How could they have turned a blind eye? Were they corrupt too?

All this led me to wonder whether the politicians at this time really cared for the people who had elected them into power, or whether they only cared about their own personal ambitions, namely public recognition, honours, and the chance to wield the ultimate power, the nuclear deterrent. It was this touchy subject that appeared to form the heart of my neurosis, and was kept alive in Risley by my reading numerous newspaper articles on world affairs. My anxiety was only reinforced by American policy at this time to turn Nicaragua into another Vietnam, and outer space into a launch pad to Armageddon. Politicians I concluded time and again were not normal people, and one is forced to ask how long the human race can go on this way. Star Wars was plainly a symptom of this madness. To install in Earth orbit electro-magnetic accelerators, called rail guns, plus anti-ballistic missiles on the ground, both designed to destroy incoming nuclear warheads without detonating them, was in my opinion madness. The warhead, made from plutonium the most lethal element known to man, would be scattered over thousands of square miles of the Earth's surface, effectively rendering that area inhospitable to man for thousands of years. It would be better to let the warhead explode, judging by the accuracy of Soviet missiles at this time. The number of rail guns and missiles was obviously unaffordable anyway.

In this electronic age, few of the electorate used their own grey matter to seriously question the fallibility of government. The adoption of Star Wars by many governments around the world, clearly showed that political incompetence was an international disease which could turn out to be more deadly than AIDS. Meanwhile, the electorate preferred to live in a world of fiction, of soap operas. Had Karl Marx published Das Kapital in the 1980's, I concluded that few people would have read it, as there was no romantic fiction in it. The electorate were prepared to let their governments spend phenomenal amounts of money on status symbol weapons systems just as long as it did not interfere with their nightly fix of soap, or drink at their local. As I scanned the newspapers for such thought provoking stories, I would inevitably have a fit and lash out.

I could detect neurosis in some members of staff, which reared its head during the odd incident. One of these incidents occurred at this time. We had on the ward a new inmate called Old Timer. He was obviously on the verge of senility. One morning he got up half an hour before everyone else, and started whistling. Needless to say this did not go down too well with most of the lads, including myself. When we went to collect our breakfasts from the servery Old Timer started insulting the inmates working out there. Come cleaning time however, after Mr.Gravy had relieved Mr.Island, he started arguing the toss about what cleaning job he should have.

"I give the orders around here," said Mr.Gravy.

Old Timer just kept on arguing.

"Right out! Come on, Out!" yelled Mr.Gravy, as he frog marched him out of the ward and downstairs.

According to AD, who was downstairs at the time, the argument was not yet over. Mr.Gravy obviously feeling peeved, then engaged in verbal combat with Mr.Baldygig. Evidently Mr.Baldygig wanted to write out an incident report, but Mr.Gravy was having none of it. But grudgingly he gave in.

"I'll do it," yelled Mr.Gravy, "and take your hands off me. You don't use your RAF tactics here."

Evidently, once wound up it took some time for a member of staff to unwind. Peace or rather normality was short lived when Mr.Flight came on duty that evening. It was rumoured that he was replacing Mr.Island on C ward the following month. Few inmates liked Mr.Flight as he was moody. I got on with him as we shared similar interests, but at times it was obvious that something was wrong. He had an attractive wife, judging by the photograph he once showed me of her. Maybe he had family problems, or perhaps the twenty years he had spent at Risley were taking their toll, judging by his unpredictable reactions.

Anyway, he came on duty and shut himself in the office. Most of the lads were watching television, with another three playing cards in the middle of the ward. A noisy exclamation of enthusiasm erupted from the game of cards, causing Mr.Flight to emerge from his miserable hole, looking for trouble. He immediately told them to shut up or else. The card players gave up their game of cards and went to watch television. Unfortunately Desperate Dan, the one who had made the earlier exclamation, started talking loudly, and so out came Mr.Island a second time. He immediately walked over to the television and switched it off. Like most other members of staff, ill or not, he expected inmates to act like model citizens.

"If yea can't keep quiet so that others can watch it, then we'll have it off, and it'll stay off. I can be as big a cunt as any of you lot!" Mr.Flight stated defiantly.

Mr.Flight then gave them all a lecture on how to behave. If you have ever given a pack of morons a lecture, you will realise that it is the quickest way to becoming neurotic. In Mr.Flight's case the condition was already there and the incident only helped to aggravate it. The television remained off for the rest of the evening and did not come on again until the following midday, a Saturday.

Desperate Dan took the lecture seriously, well for a day or two anyway. For the television addicts, those were hard times, especially for Honey Monster who was almost permanently rooted to an easy chair at the end of the row, from where he could watch the goggle-box and keep an eye on his locker at the same time. Whilst the television was off he spent those nerve racking hours gorging himself on his store of chocolates and crisps. He reminded me at times of that comic character Billy Bunter. The following Sunday morning, there he would be writing his pleading letters. I could imagine what he would write to his mum:

Returning from one visit, Mr.Island called Honey Monster into the office and emptied his visitor's parcel onto the desk. The sweets came cascading out like a tuck shop advert. Honey Monster stood there, sweating at the thought of losing them. Although Honey Monster was on a diet, Mr.Island had no powers to confiscate the illicit sweets. Honey Monster was later told that he could only have diabetic type foods sent in from then on. That really hurt.

There were six inmates in the ward who were either on a gastric diet or were diabetics on special menu. Three were diabetics, including Desperate Dan Sullivan and his brother Donald, whilst their younger brother Dennis was on the YP's wing. The neighbours must have been pleased by the sudden quietness in the neighbourhood, as Dan and Don were always making a racket in the ward. The diabetics injected themselves regularly with insulin each day, often more than once, after giving urine samples which were tested for sugar content, by using a multi-coloured paper strip which changed colour after being dipped in their urine.

One day Dr.Shrink gave Mr.Island a rather loud telling off for not getting urine samples from the diabetics regularly. Needless to say, as soon as the doctor had left the ward, Mr.Island called the diabetics into his office and gave them a right telling off. The riot act!

"I want urine samples from all of yea by seven o'clock. Yea know the drill, and if yea piss me around, I'll have samples off yea four times a day, so there, got it?" Mr.Island barked.

They all nodded in agreement, then off they trotted with their urine producers between their legs.

Another amusing story at this time, was related to me by Plonk. He worked on the inmates servery and as such one of his duties involved getting disinfectant from the dispensary. The dispensary technician was a rather chubby woman called Joan.

"Good morning Joan," said Plonk one day, as he stood at the dispensary hatch.

"Joan? Don't be familiar," said Mr.Porky standing behind Plonk. "It's Miss Cocks to you."

Whether he said it with a straight face I simply do not know. There were very few women at Risley whom I found attractive. Rumour had it that Shirlie was a lesbian, whilst Pepsi had got her man through a computer dating agency. I was determined to stay away from that computer. We did have a rather attractive welfare officer there at one time, but she only stayed for a couple of weeks. She probably got propositioned a dozen times a day by the inmates. There were only a couple of women I found attractive. One I named Call Girl as I would see her walk between departments carrying files. On my last stay in the ground floor cells she would pass very close to my window. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew it could never be. The only other attractive woman was Kate Bush, who replaced Screeching Owl as assistant governor. She often visited the category A prisoners on the ground floor whilst I was there, but she never chatted me up. I was evidently not dangerous enough to warrant such treatment. Screeching Owl was the nickname the staff gave to her as she had a high pitched voice. I only came face to face with her once, and that was over an application to extend a visit. I got the impression she was a bitchy broad, attempting to prove her superiority over male prisoners. She was probably into bondage!

One day I noticed Honey Monster looking very forlorn.

"What's up," I asked concernedly.

"They knocked back all my goodies," replied Honey Monster disconsolately.

"All your sweets?" I asked, trying not to smile.

"Everything, including my apples," said Honey Monster.

Well that is what happens when you end up on a diet and have Mr.Island in charge, I thought.

One of the characters on the ward at this time was Little Willie. His hunched back and small eyes gave the impression of a genie that had been kept in a very small bottle for a thousand years. He was a nice person, being detained for attacking an inmate in a parole hostel, whilst on parole for breaking a window at a public house where he was staying, so he said. He did however have one infuriating habit. He just would not stop talking to me. I got the impression that Dr.Shrink had put Little Willie in the ward in order to get me to talk more. I spent the first two days talking to him at length, but after that I realised that the more I talked to him, the more he wanted to talk to me. After that realization I made a point of passing him by quickly, whilst looking the other way.

Talking to some of the other inmates appeared to be no more fruitful. At mealtimes Honey Monster would insist on calling the soup onion, even though it was asparagus, oxtail or whatever. He had the habit of asking me of all people, about tax exiles. I suggested Costa Rica, whilst he mentioned Zimbabwe. Looking back on it, I do not think that he knew anything about Zimbabwe, as whenever troubles in South Africa appeared on the television news he would quickly make his feelings known.

"Shoot the black bastards!" He would say in an Afrikaner accent.

I suggested the Ivory Coast as a stable and relatively affluent country, having spent a couple of days there on the golden beach at Abidjan, where I almost drowned whilst serving in the merchant navy.

"Where's that?" Asked Honey Monster.

"West of Nigeria," I replied.

"Where exactly?" Honey Monster asked.

I drew an outline of the African continent.

"There's Nigeria, and there's the Ivory Coast," I explained.

"Yes but,,,,,,where's ummm,,,,,Where's Africa?" Honey Monster asked quietly.

I looked at him incredulously. With that sort of intelligence there was no way he could be in Risley for fraud. It had to be something to do with dead bodies, I thought.

On March the twenty-sixth, whilst the US Government was contemplating war with Libya and Nicaragua, I was thinking about a letter I had received from my new probation officer in Birmingham, Cyril G Bezant esquire. In the letter he stated that he looked forward to making my acquaintance, whilst he wanted me to tell him more about myself. Oh God, he's not one of those, I thought. I'll have to write to him and put him 'straight.' It had also crossed my mind that Pepsi might be keeping me at Risley as some kind of plaything. Now, parole seemed a toss up between hell and high water. I wrote to my new probation officer as requested.

By now I had come to realise that the only way I was likely to get released, was to tell everyone that I was cured, and then hope that when I got out I could get some effective treatment.

I put the forthcoming visit at the back of my mind as I resumed my interrogation of AD.

"What if the judge told you that you would stay in prison until you had returned all of the money?" I asked.

AD thought long and hard about this question. It really troubled him.

"What money?" AD eventually said.

I had the feeling that the reply would have been very different if my question had been for real. He told me about his wife, whom he had been married to for over twenty years. He had two sons, one of whom was about to embark on a world cruise aboard the aircraft carrier HMS Illustrious. (It later suffered gear box failure, and had to return to port shortly after the start of the cruise.) They evidently did not follow their father's profession. After leaving school AD had been pressured by his parents into becoming a toolmaker, but the job and its rewards did not appeal to him, so he embarked upon a career in the black economy. AD loved his wife very much. She was a nurse in a mental hospital and came to see him every Friday and Saturday. Because of his job, each of her visits took place in the hospital. Although I saw her fleetingly, we never spoke. As AD was spinning yarns about me it was not necessary, AD was deeply worried that when the case came to trial, his wife would find out the true age of his female secretaries. I think they were both twenty-one, whilst he told his wife he only had one, aged fifty-five or thereabouts.

"What would you do if your wife told you to decide between her and the money?" I asked.

AD could not give me an answer to that one, probably because he had already guessed I was writing it all down for posterity. I do not think his wife would have given him that ultimatum anyway. During their unsupervised visits in the hospital library, AD would look at papers that his wife brought in for him. I got the impression that he was still managing his financial affairs, and that that was the prime reason why he wangled his way into the hospital and into the staff servery. Following the commercial branch's disclosure that they knew about monies in the Channel Islands, AD later told me that most of that money had since been transferred to more secure accounts. I think he corrupted his wife with holidays abroad, including trips to his 'villa' in Spain. He showed me a photo of it, or rather that of his gorgeous wife standing on the balcony wearing a mini dress. I drooled over 'it.' Evidently the villa was a town house set back a few terraces from the beach, which was out of sight. Ah well, small beginnings. Whilst in prison he let his wife buy a new car and conservatory, no doubt demanded after she had read about the Imelda Marcos spending sprees, and as payment of course for sorting out her hubby's financial matters.

"By the time you get out of prison she'll have spent the lot," I joked to AD.

That remark troubled him. Deep down I think he was a tight fisted bleeder, who resented forking out anything for his wife. I wondered whether she really knew how much money was involved.

Meanwhile, for the peasants in British society, there was nothing to look forward to. The high unemployment rate and the lack of meaning to life, were resulting in an ever rising suicide rate. The suicide counseling organization, the Samaritans, reported that the rate of known suicides was now three hundred and five persons per annum. The true figure was generally regarded as being much higher, since many people did not like to advertise the fact that they had taken there own life. One of my stepfather's young relatives had killed himself about three years previously, whilst in one of the letters I had received from my mother a fey days ago, she told me about the elderly woman who lived nearby. This woman had wandered from home a couple of times, firstly with the intention of throwing herself into the river, whilst on the second occasion she tried to die from exposure in a field. She was aged about sixty, and had an elderly relative to look after. Where was the home help? Maybe the social mess we were all in was partly due to our rejection of Christianity. In the 1980's only five per cent of the population of Great Britain regularly went to church. If there was such a thing as engaging God's wrath, then surely we had succeeded in doing just that.

Easter Monday, March 31st, 1986 must have been God's day of rest, for on that day we had braised steak. It was the first steak we had had for months. The steak however failed to eradicate my feelings of despondency over my failure to get cleaning materials from the stores. I had approached three members of staff, requesting access to the cleaning stores, in order to get numerous toiletries and cleaning products. The ward had run out of most, and we were now down to two half toilet rolls and one bar of soap. The ward needed three tins of scouring paste, four toilet rolls, six bars of hand soap, one mop handle, five cleaning clothes, five scouring pads, and three scrubbing brushes. We also needed four hand basin plugs as we had none, a situation that had existed long before I arrived on the ward. I received no help from any member of staff. The most detailed reply I received was to the effect that the cleaning stores was closed for the five days over Easter, and that there was no point in going up there anyway as it was empty, since the staff were still waiting for the monthly stores to arrive. The way the cleaning materials were kept locked up one would think it was gold. The truth was that the stores was kept locked up not to stop the inmates from helping themselves, but to stop certain members of staff from taking the stuff home, particularly boxes of tissues. Wankie hankies.

Talking to Desperate Dan Sullivan one day, he told me that his diabetes was caused by drug abuse. He and his two brothers had been on heroin, which according to Dan had caused serious damage to the pancreas, which converts sugar into glucose. Evidently drug abuse did not just destroy brain cells, and infect blood with hepatitis B and AIDS.

"Why did you go onto heroin in the first place?" I asked.

"I was told that if I had just one injection per week then it would be all right," Dan replied, "Then I found that I needed it two, three, then four times per week. Then I was hooked."

He told me that he was a scrap dealer, but paid for his craving by-mugging people as they came out of banks. There were many times when I wished that these two smack heads were somewhere else. They were very noisy, often having conversations with one another from opposite ends of the ward. As the noise began to wear me down, I wished that I was back downstairs. On one occasion Dan was yelling to his brother Don, whilst most of the other lads were trying to watch television. During this noisy exchange, Mr.Bark came out of the office in a foul mood.

"For fuck sake shut up yea Gobshite Git!" Mr.Bark screamed.

Dan turned and walked off hurriedly, his head hunched between his shoulders. The effect lasted a few days, then it was back to the noisy routine.

One of the misfits we had on the ward, called Dick Sore, spent much of his time bedridden, as he had undergone a circumcision, owing to a penis infection, so he told Honey Monster. Certainly he walked like Mr.Pluto when he got up to go to the toilet. I did not think much of him. He was a typical shiftless scoucer, by Risley standards. One morning Dr.Shrink came into the ward on his morning rounds, and asked to see Dick Sore. When Dick eventually arrived at the office doorway, his next words could hardly be believed by anyone.

"Hang on a minute boss, I've just got to go to the bog," said Dick in his usual ill-mannered way.

Dick waddled off to the toilets, and stayed there for what seemed like ages. Finally Dr.Shrink, obviously feeling demoted, walked out of the ward to pastures new. Dick had experienced the runs and a high temperature for several days, but he refused to tell the staff. He would often stand in front of his open window and breath in the freezing air, then leave the window open all day, freezing the ward. Soon after Dr.Shrink left the ward, Dick came out of the wash room then went into the office where Mr.Parrot was on duty, having taken over from Mr.Island for a month.

"Where's he gone?" Said a surprised Dick.

Mr.Parrot tried to act restrained.

"He's gone on his rounds," replied Mr.Parrot.

"What do yea mean, gone?" Dick said.

"If yea treat him like that, what do yea expect!" Replied Mr.Parrot sternly.

"Couldn't he have waited a bit longer!" Exclaimed Dick.

"Go on, get out, Out!" Ordered Mr.Parrot.

Dick ambled over to the lads sitting in the easy chairs.

"Stupid fucking doctors," muttered Dick to the lads.

It was evidently loud enough for Mr.Parrot to hear.

"Hey you," said Mr.Parrot stepping out of the office, "Get yea kit, you're going downstairs."

Well that was that. Out went Dick, and in no time the ward became warm again. Well not quite all. There was a small duty for me to attend to, namely the removal of diarrhoea from the lavatory seat.

No sooner would one inmate go than another arrive. One such new arrival was Captain Ahab. His walking stick would wake me up in the early hours as he went off to make one of his remand appearances. He was accused of killing a young woman, but he said that he could not remember doing it. He had crippled legs as the result of brain damage, a condition known as cerebral palsy. He told me how he had met the woman. One day, whilst out walking his Doberman pincer near the sea front, this young woman whom he described as a prostitute, accosted him by pushing him three times into a ditch. Apparently he was only prepared to admit that he knocked her unconscious. I suspected that there was a lot more to it than that, but I did not really press the matter. By now I was fed up with listening to inmates cases. In a way I felt sorry for Captain Ahab. He lived on his own, and did not appear to be the sort of person who could look after himself. He was another killer from North Wales, the fifth I had so far encountered at Risley. He came originally from the city of Chester, but his parents had since moved to a place near Ironbridge Gorge, the birth place of Britain's industrial revolution, a location I had visited many times with Karen.

At this time I received a reply to my recent letter to my solicitor. He enclosed a list of my belongings, that were now in storage. The storage charge was five pounds eighteen pence per week. I wondered whether at long last I could get my parents to go up there and collect them, as I doubted whether I would be allowed to go up there after being released on parole. As regards a breakdown of the conveyancing fee of twelve hundred and fifty pounds, my solicitor Mr.Roberts sent me a copy of the same invoice I had received last time. I could not help thinking of Mr.Porky's words, when it was revealed that another solicitor from Chester was on trial for dishonesty.

"Solicitors are as bigger crooks as the villains they are meant to represent," said Mr.Porky.

Again I wrote to my solicitor asking for a breakdown of the conveyancing fee, and another request for my depositions. Both questions I thought, were likely to make him feel very ill.

I also decided that it was about time that I wrote to the member of parliament for Risley Remand Centre, complaining about the years delay in transferring me. The letter detailed my crime, drug therapy, prison conditions, parole situation, my letter to the NCCL, of which I was still awaiting a reply, plus details of my solicitor and probation officer. It concluded:

I would be grateful if you would ask the Home Office the following question;

I was never to receive an adequate answer to these questions. One question that I had omitted from my letter was, 'Which day dreaming, pencil twiddling civil servant in the Home Office or DHSS was responsible for my predicament?' Such a question was likely to get me into an even worse situation, assuming that was possible. As for my fits, even Plonk who had read my autobiography, had noticed that I still had them. There seemed to be nothing for my brain to do except cling to thoughts of the past. By now my mind felt numb and punch drunk from all I had heard and experienced at Risley, which had effectively shattered my belief that Great Britain was a civilised nation.

On that same day I received a letter from Birmingham City Housing Department. I was informed that since I was in prison, I did not qualify for housing points. Upon my release I would have to present myself to the housing department on a homeless basis, but the chances of receiving accommodation were very slim, I was advised. It was not a reassuring letter. I assumed that the government's ban on council house building, and the sale of council homes, had aggravated the situation. So much for efforts to rehabilitate ex-cons into the community, I thought. It was an attitude which I found unbelievable.

I was not in the mood to be defeated. Short of squatting in an unoccupied flat, a number of possible modus operand! formed in my mind. I thought of three stories I could tell the housing department. I could tell them that my common law wife had thrown me out for another man, because she maintained that I was sexually inadequate, part of which I felt certain was true. Secondly, I could turn up at their offices, and say that I had just returned from hospital to find that my landlady, the miserable cow, had let my room to somebody else. Then I would open my shirt to show them the huge bandage across my chest, where I had undergone open heart surgery. If that did not seem like working, then I could always go in tea pot like, and say that my boyfriend has thrown me out because he thinks I have got AIDS. I could not see them thinking twice about that story. As for most of the ex-cons I had seen, I doubted whether they had the intelligence to work out something like that. No wonder most would end up back inside. Fortunately my probation officer came up with the answer. No, I was not going to move in with him.

A rather embarrassing incident took place the next morning after cleaning. I had finished my cleaning duties, when upon walking through the dining area, I noticed brown spots all over one of the chairs, and an adjacent pillar.

"Look at that," I said to Honey Monster who was sitting nearby, "someone's spilt coffee all over the place, and is too bone idle to clean it up. Bloody typical of this lot."

I said it out loud so that Mr.Parrot would hear me, but he just stood in the office doorway, looking vacant. Meanwhile, Honey Monster was trying to tell me something.

"I don't think,:,,I don't think er,,,,,I don't think it is coffee," he finally blurted out.

I got a damp cloth, and started wiping up the mess. Sure enough it was not coffee, but the strong smell of Clearol, a corrosive cleanser, that I could smell. It came in small tubes which generally speaking, only the staff were allowed to have, as it was poisonous. Evidently Mr.Parrot, had been squirting it around the ward. No wonder he had been standing there with a vacant expression on his face.

Later that day Mr.Flight came over to talk to me about my transfer. He evidently thought that it was Dr.Shrunk who was responsible for my being kept at Risley. He thought that Dr.Shrunk was not prepared to accept responsibility for giving me parole, particularly as he only had another three months to serve as senior medical officer, before he retired into private practice.

Dr.Shrunk had been criticized recently for allowing a female inmate to be released after killing at least one of her own children. After her release she apparently killed her third child by drowning in the bath. He had also come unstuck in the case of Brian LLewelyn, by stating that he was of average intelligence.

Mr.Flight's words still did not explain to me why I had not been transferred. I had not had a consultation with Dr.Shrunk since my trial. In fact I could not remember having spoken to him at all since then. I was only seen by Dr.Shrink for at most, five minutes each month, during his morning rounds. Mr.Flight felt that I would get parole after Dr.Shrink took over, and asked me to be patient. There was however, no guarantee of this, so I posted the letter I had written for my MP, and to hell with the consequences.

A photocopy of this letter would no doubt end up on Dr.Shrunk's desk, and cause minor irritations, but that was nothing to the feelings that I felt every time someone in the ward started talking to me. It would invariably include at least one of the following questions; "How are you, how long have you been here now?" , or

"When's your earliest date of release?"

or, "How's your parole going?"

And worst of all,

"How much longer have you got to do?"

I would pace up and down, trying not to think of such questions. Usually I would day dream, which was the only defence I knew against madness. Sometimes, after my brain had done too much thinking it would simply switch off, only to find myself in another part of the ward when my senses awoke.

Mr.Parrot was far easier to get to know than Mr.Island. He had spent a lifetime in the prison service, whilst his liking for regimental tunes apparently originated from his days in the Salvation Army. He was trained in venereology and pharmacology. In other words he knew an awful lot about sex and drugs, he once remarked. He told us about a visit he once made to Broadmoor Mental Hospital, a large sprawling establishment quite close to Sandhurst Army Academy.

"The main difference between the two places being that in Sandhurst 'everyone' thinks he's a budding Napoleon. As for Broadmoor, its a quiet, pleasant establishment surrounded by sports fields. Inside there are snooker tables, libraries and aquariums everywhere," Mr.Parrot said in a salesman like patter.

During the visit he became engrossed in the aquatic life. Whilst looking into an aquarium one of the inmates 'seven foot two inches tall' came up to him, apparently annoyed that he was being treated no better than the fish, by gorping visitors.

"Why don't you fuck off!" said the tall inmate.

"Why don't you!" said Mr.Parrot sternly as he quaked in his shoes. The staff at Broadmoor were apparently very grateful for his use of tact in avoiding trouble, as it evidently took twelve members of staff to control that particular inmate at times. Mr.Parrot then moved on to see the women's section, where he started talking to a female inmate. She was seated, so when she told him that she came from his part of the world, he crouched down in front of her as they continued the conversation.

"And what have you done to end up in here?" Mr.Parrot asked concernedly.

"Oh, I killed my husband," she said.

"Killed your husband, How did you manage that?" He asked doubtingly.

The innocent looking old dear removed both her hands from the back of her head, and lunged forward at his throat.

"I strangled him!" she screamed, as Mr.Parrot tumbled over backwards.

He later apologised to the staff at having upset the patient.

"Oh," they said, "ninety-nine per cent of the time, they are quite normal."

Yes, I am!

In his lengthy career, Mr.Parrot had only been attacked three times. On one occasion he was sitting at his desk in the ward, during the early days at Risley, when there was no ward office. All of a sudden he was struck without warning by a heavy wooden chair. The culprit was a religious nutcase, who had a habit of getting down on his knees to pray at any time of day, even as everyone else was going to the servery to collect, their meals. After being struck by one chair, Mr.Parrot watched helplessly as the inmate picked up another, which as it was swung back, hit the television cabinet. Mr.Parrot saw his opportunity for survival, and went for him, getting the inmate in an arm lock. The next thing he knew, three inmates, all murderers, piled on top of him. This is it, he thought, I'm done for. As things turned out, the inmates were in fact helping him.

As he said, "In all scenes of violence, you will always find at least one inmate who will help you."

Continuing the story, Mr.Parrot said, "The alarm was sounded, and in no time thirty-eight thousand feet came from all directions.

He later spoke to the troublesome inmate in a stripped cell.

"Why did you attack me," he asked.

The prisoner replied in all seriousness, "Because you were stopping me receiving messages from God!"

Amen!

Mr.Parrot was evidently much respected by the doctors. According to Mr.Parrot, even Dr.Shrunk had come to him on occasion, to quiz him about drugs. He did not have much respect however for the psychiatric profession.

"In ordinary medicine," he stated "you can't hoodwink your colleagues, but in psychiatry there are no x-rays to tell whose right and whose wrong."

At this time we had a Dr.Bold in the hospital, who was awaiting trial for offences that had taken place at another prison. He was accused of smuggling alcohol into the prison for the inmates. Rumour had it that he had also worn prison underwear, and ate inmates food. He definitely sounded like a desperate character. Whenever an inmate fell ill, he apparently advised them to drink plenty of water. He was eventually found guilty, fined two hundred and fifty pounds, and thankfully lost his job. It was an example of the standard of professional competence that prison hospitals attract.

Fortunately medical science was coming to the aid of psychiatrists in the form of EEG video displays, and positron emission tomography (PET) or nuclear magnetic resonance scanning (NMR). Drugs were also available for the treatment of many mental illnesses, including schizophrenia. All that was necessary were the financial resources to purchase the equipment, plus competent and caring staff to use it effectively.

The television news media at this time broadcast the so called letter of repentance, written by the moors murderer lan Brady, who was at this time being held at Park Lane Mental Hospital. Mr.Recluse, who was watching the television news with me, was obviously incensed by what he heard.

He turned to me and said, "Brady was in Gartree Prison whilst I was there, I know all about that case. Do you know exactly what he did?"

"No," I replied.

I knew that he had been convicted of killing two children, whilst at least two other disappearances remained on police files. A few weeks before I had read in a national newspaper a transcript of the tape recording made by lan Brady and his accomplice Mira Hindley at the time little Lesley Ann Down was tortured and killed, twenty years previously, but I could not figure out exactly what was taking place. Mr.Recluse however, was quick to fill in the missing gaps.

"He cut off her fingers with secateurs, whilst forcing her to suck his cock!" he stated in a hard voice.

I cannot think of words that can adequately follow that statement. Only after hearing it could I fully understand the hatred the parents of those children still felt towards Brady and Hindley.

No wonder she was screaming, I thought, and no wonder Brady had found it so difficult to come out of his shell and talk. Just what was his accomplice doing at this time, I wondered. Taking the photos?

Another horror story at this time, was related to me by Mr.Flight. This concerned an inmate by the name of Anderson. I remembered reading about the case in the newspapers some years before. The events were as follows; The gang of three, led by Anderson, entered a country cottage thought to be empty. In it were two women carrying out an inventory following the owner's death. The women were tied up and raped. Anderson then stuck the barrel of his shotgun up the vagina of the women, and mercilessly pulled the trigger. He was later grassed on by his sister, who had detected a strange behaviour in him since the crime. He was held on remand in a hospital where Mr.Flight worked. One day the photographs of the two dead women arrived in the main office, for the doctors to see. Naturally the hospital officers saw them first, showing the internal organs blasted away. After seeing the photographs, Mr.Flight refused to speak to Anderson, who was held in a ground floor cell.

Mr.Flight used a pointed finger to tell him what to do. Later the despondent inmate constructed his own 'Anderson Shelter,' by rolling up his mattress. After sticking his head in it, he set fire to it. He died from asphyxia.

The days on C ward dragged relentlessly on. I remember one particular arrival at this time, as he had an injury to his forehead. As I spoke to Plonk about the events that had taken place during the first day of his murder trial, our injured inmate was sitting by his bed, behind me, reading a magazine. Suddenly he keeled over and fell to the floor. I immediately shouted to Mr.Dog, who was on the dog and bone as usual. He immediately telephoned for 'doctor' Pluto. At first I thought it was an epileptic fit, but there was no mumbling or twitching of limbs. Neither did he have any blueness around the eyes indicative of brain damage.

Dr.Pluto took his pulse, then looked into his eyes to detect pupil dilation. He could not find anything wrong with him, apart from the apparent lack of consciousness.

"Strong pulse," he said, then walked off the ward saying, "Have a nice day."

That same day we had heard from another inmate about an incident involving Mr.Pluto at Queen Elizabeth II Crown Court in Liverpool, usually referred to as QE2. Mr.Pluto was involved in escort duty that day. Standing in the dock with the accused, a screw came up from the cells to speak to him.

"Someone has injured themselves downstairs. Can you assist?" Asked the screw.

Mr.Pluto immediately turned to the judge and said, "I've just been called out on a medical emergency," and off he trotted down the stairs behind the dock, imitating an ambulance siren, "ner nir, ner nir, ner nir!"

The next morning on C ward, the inmate with the injured forehead was called into the ward's office, to see Dr.Shrink. A few minutes later he returned to his bed and stripped it. He told us he was being sent downstairs. Four hospital officers stood around the bed, as he wrapped up his sheets, in anticipation of trouble.

Mr.Bark asked, "what is he, gobshite?"

"As much as," replied Mr.Flight.

"Well we know how to put him right downstairs," said Mr.Bark.

The staff did not like inmates to act out illnesses, and tell porkies.

On April 11th, 1986, I met my new probation officer, Cyril G Bezant. He appeared to be far more competent than I expected. We did some straight talking. Our little chat lasted two hours, during which time I related the events leading up to my crime, the crime itself, and life in Risley. I told him that all I wanted to do when I got out was to furnish a self contained flat, and live a quiet life. I told him that I did not know why I had not been transferred, whilst he replied that he would make enquiries. I also told him that I had heard nothing regarding my letters to the NCCL, Home Secretary, and my member of parliament. I also mentioned the fact that Dr,Shrunk had only another two or three months left, and that this may have had something to do with me not being transferred or released on parole. We talked about accommodation for me after my eventual release, during which he told me that the city housing department were not entitled to turn away my application. He felt that a self contained flat would be better for me, rather than a parole hostel, since most were mainly for down and outs. The meeting was conducted in a positive spirit. I did not feel there were any issues that I needed to straighten out with him.

There was smoke on the horizon in the form of an industrial dispute by prison staff. Average pay was now two hundred and eighty one pounds gross for a fifty-four point six hour week. The number of prison officers had increased by eighteen per cent to eighteen thousand seven hundred since Mrs. GG came to power in 1979, whilst the prison population had risen twelve per cent to forty-six thousand three hundred in the same period. Recently the prison officers had received white shirts in place of their blue ones, and new shoes, but quite naturally they wanted a pay rise too. If matters did come to industrial action, then under the 1982 Criminal Justice Act, the Home Secretary could declare an amnesty to prisoners. Knowing my luck, it would not include me.

April twelfth was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the world's first manned spaceflight, achieved by Uri Gagarin for the Soviet Union. On that anniversary the Japanese Government announced that it intended to build a rocket together with a spaceplane called HOPE, which would be similar in concept to that of the French Ariane 5 rocket and Hermes spaceplane. The Communist Chinese also announced that they would build a manned space station by the year 2000AD. Rumours of a Soviet manned mission to Mars in the 1990's abounded, whilst the maiden flight of their Energia heavy lift launch vehicle, which would one day carry its own Buran space shuttle, was expected soon.

Meanwhile, quaint Great Britain, the establishment of a science based society, and in particular the establishment of a substantial UK space programme, was being ignored by government. Its corner shop mentality lacked vision to see a future economy. Government income was to be used for paying off debts and reducing taxation to the level of a third world economy with amenities to match. Space was considered by the British Government, and most of the electorate, as pie in the sky, purely research which would swallow up tax payer's money like an economic black hole. The British did not consider space to be an industry much like any other, which could employ a hundred thousand people or more, given the necessary backing.

The government through grants, helped to establish new traditional industries in unemployment black spots, which only helped to undermine traditional industries in other parts of the country. In a limited market, extra capacity only meant undermining capacity elsewhere, whether it be in agriculture, manufacturing or the service sector. Certain industries such as British Rail and British Coal (through the CEGB) were kept going with the help of government grants and subsidies, for social reasons. Genuine new industries such as computer controlled interactive video discs, and flat screen televisions, were few and far between. The establishment of a space industry, primarily for social reasons, was something that the British Government would not countenance. It was not prepared to create a future for younger generations, nor apparently was it even prepared to leave behind some monument of achievement such as HOTOL, which like the jet engine would be around for decades. Why was it that on space, the British Government was out of step with the rest of the world?

Terrorism once again reared its ugly head at this time. A small bomb explosion in an airliner caused an explosive decompression, sucking four passengers out of the aircraft and to their deaths on impact with the ground, whilst the aircraft managed to land safely in Athens. Two people were killed in a bomb explosion at a discotheque in West Berlin, whilst one hundred and thirty three people were killed when an airliner crashed in Mexico. This last incident was later attributed to an overheated tyre which exploded soon after take off. These incidents created an air of paranoia in Washington DC. Would there be war between the USA and Libya, possibly involving Lebanon, Syria and Iran? It was rumoured that B52 and F111 bombers, together with two naval task forces in the Mediterranean Sea, were about to hit at Libyan oil fields and military targets. Politicians were calling on the president to show restraint. Appeasement in other words. I had learned from my own experiences that it simply did not pay to be tolerant indefinitely. At one time there was no bigger fool than myself, who was naive enough to think that peaceful co­existence could exist through kindness. Had I been in charge, I would have bombed the lot of them with nuclear weapons, then ignored the hullabaloo afterwards by going fishing. The politicians of the world had to learn fast, that world peace could only be maintained through mutual respect, which at times had to be instilled.

Respect was something which was lacking when I talked to Plonk. At the end of Plonk's trial he was awarded the big 'L', life. It did not surprise us, nor him judging by the way he accepted it. Like many alcoholics, Plonk had acquired his drinking habit whilst in the services. He was in the Royal Navy up until the age of thirty. The daily ration of rum, and having every decision made for him, contributed to his eventual downfall. Eventually he got married and became a father. He worked for British Aerospace, but after volunteering for redundancy his life went downhill. After being in hospital for alcoholism, he was admitted to a dry house for a few weeks, where he met more alcoholics. His wife had left him. Against the advice of the social services, he decided that he was going to live with a female alcoholic whom he had met in the dry house. He told me that he wanted to help her, but instead she dragged him down further into the gutter. They lived in a caravan. She was always drinking from bottles hidden in various places around the mobile home. The saliva would dribble from her mouth during the day, whilst at night she would wet the bed, then blame it on her pet dog. It was a depressing tale.

One day Plonk paid a visit to an elderly woman he said he knew. Crazed by drink, he battered her head in, but remembered little about it, except waking up the next morning and seeing the body. It was thought that he stole a hundred pounds from her home before fleeing. I was surprised by the fact that he received sickness benefit to finance his boozing on the dole. I could not help thinking that in the case of alcoholics, drug addicts and tramps, they belonged in labour camps. Unlike the genuine unemployed, they refused to conduct themselves in a socially acceptable manner and were therefore criminal, requiring detention. I could see no reason why the law abiding general public and the welfare state should be forced to tolerate them. You do not get through to people like that through do gooder tactics.

I asked Plonk why he started drinking again after he left the dry house, when he knew he was an alcoholic, and that that first sip would lead to ruin. He said that he did it because he knew that the alcohol would make him feel better. I thought that if you can teach monkeys to fly spacecraft, by using aversion therapy (electric shock treatment), then you can teach an alcoholic to become teetotal. Such methods have been used, but tend to uncover other disorders. At the age of fifty-two, Plonk's daughter still wrote to him. Unlike most inmates of his age, he still had something to live for.

Another inmate in C ward who was feeling decidedly sick at this time was Roy Godfrey. He had just received his depositions relating to the murder and unofficial burial of his female victim. He did not write as many letters now as he did upon his arrival. His second wife, whom he now called a slut and a whore, apparently did not write to him. The photographs of his two children stood by his bed. He told me that he wanted to top himself, but I doubted that he meant it. At times, when he went on and on about suicide, I was tempted to suggest to him that he threw himself down the dumb waiter shaft, but I did not for fear that he would do just that, after writing a suicide note stating that I had suggested it to him. Like many murderers he had a strong conviction for the death penalty, rather than life imprisonment. I thought it was just talk, but without doubt he had got death on the brain.

Roy received letters from his sister in Styal Prison regularly. He had visited his sister there on numerous occasions. He described it as a modern housing estate composed of hostels, where the inmates could cook their own meals. Unlike Risley, it was a very civilised place. His sister had been there for five years, and although inside for murder, she was allowed to go to college twice a week to study, suitably escorted of course. I found it all very hard to believe. I was left with the impression that women's prisons were vastly superior to those for men. So much for the sex discrimination act, I thought.

Also feeling pretty peeved at this time was AD. Evidently, er-indoors had sent him a registered letter containing twenty pounds. The letter was read by the staff in the main office on the ground floor as usual, and the money duly recorded. The money was then placed in the draw of the office desk. Shortly after this the money disappeared. Nobody wanted to accept responsibility for its loss, and pay restitution. The governor therefore told A D to petition the Home Secretary. Begging letters were no doubt up AD's street, but having to ask the government to pay him money which they had already officially received, I felt was going too far. From what AD told me, the governor then confronted the staff with AD's petition, who then had a whip round, but just who got flogged is anybody's guess. It was obvious that at least one member of staff had stolen the money. They were all officers, and officers were supposed to be gentlemen, not villains. We could not have villains guarding the villains, could we? This incident, the way my own money was handled, the misplacing of inmates goodies during visits, and the method of my final discharge from prison, at HMP Liverpool, led me to the conclusion that there were an awful lot of screws on the take.

To get into the prison service you needed to be healthy, of reasonable intelligence, no criminal record, and of a pleasant personality. You started in the profession by spending three weeks observing prison life. I somehow doubt whether the right candidates would have been available for the next step, had they spent those first three weeks in the hospital at Risley. After coming to terms with the realities of the human dustbin, there followed nine weeks of training at Newbold Rebel, Newbold-on-Avon near Rugby. Here they learned how to count, frisk, operate personal radios, 'restrain' inmates and generally find out why screws were called screws. Inevitably some thieving beings slipped through the selection process. Rather than be sacked, it appears they were given the unpleasant jobs, namely those in prison hospitals. Since prison officers and hospital officers were paid substantially by the Home Office, I was at a loss to understand why they put their jobs on the line by petty thieving off inmates. I can only conclude that they knew the governor and Home Office would turn a blind eye, rather than risk industrial action. Also the rewards must have been substantial. There is no doubt in my mind that such thieving would not have taken place, were it not for the two faced attitude of most officers, whose real feelings for prison inmates must have been of deep seated contempt. The prison service was soon to show just how powerful and greedy it could be.

No sooner had the Sullivan brothers lost their friend Dick Sore to the cells, than they managed to acquire another, Jeffrey Wright. No sooner had Jeff taken up residence in the ward, than his distribution of filter tipped cigarettes and cannabis, drew the Sullivans into his fold like spiders to a fly. Jeff's bed was too close to mine for my liking. During the day he slept in easy chairs, in the evening he held pot parties, whilst at night he masturbated noisily. Since I spent most of the day reading at my bedside, I found these giggling parties disturbing. They always had the window open to let the cannabis smoke escape, and the cold air to penetrate my bones. The cold breeze would blow against my back, making it difficult for me to concentrate on my reading. It was difficult to remember what I had read, owing to the Prothiaden I had been on. As for the tinnitus and manic or epileptoid fits, the former was life long, whilst the latter was to last at least twenty years.

That night after lights out, Jeff and the Sullivans were still giggling. They had been tormenting one of the beasts, who next morning asked to be sent downstairs. As he walked off the ward, Desperate Dan Sullivan clapped in approval.

"Right!" exclaimed Mr.Parrot, "You can go too," pointing at Dan.

Well, that made my day. Peace at last, I thought, but I knew from experience that it could not last long. I knew that they would not leave a diabetic in the stripped cell for long. With any luck they would move him to another ward, away from his brother I hoped. Unfortunately, the next day Desperate Dan returned to C ward.

Captain Ahab received a parcel at this time, containing four novels sent by his book club. They were Mills & Boon romance stories. He would clutch them in his arthritic left hand, and peer at them through squinting eyes. The police had stated that he had manually strangled his victim. It was difficult to see how he had done it, from a physical let alone mental point of view. As far as most inmates were concerned it was a sex attack, and that made him a beast.

Meanwhile, UK based American F111 swing wing bombers flew around the Iberian Peninsula, refuelling in mid air several times, before bombing political, military and terrorist targets in Libya, supported by US navy carrier aircraft.

Dr.Shrink called me into the ward's office one morning for a chat. I told him about Mr.Dog playing his radio too loud at night, keeping us all awake. A senior officer present said that he would deal with it. I then asked the doctor why Park Lane had not accepted me.

"Hadn't they?" Dr.Shrink replied.

"Well why hadn't I been transferred to a hospital?" I asked.

"North Wales Area Health Authority and Oxford Area Health Authority (where my parents lived) don't want you," he replied.

"Why don't they want me?" I asked, feeling dejected.

"Well it's all a matter of economics. It costs three hundred pounds a day to keep you in a place like that, and it's a matter of being able to afford it. Both Dr.Shrunk and Dr.Shrank recommended that you be transferred. The recommendation goes before a tribunal in London, where a panel of three people who have never seen the inmate concerned, can overturn any advice and simply do nothing," he stated.

"Are they obliged by law to transfer me within a fixed period of time?" I asked.

"No, they often take as long as four months," the doctor replied.

"Why haven't I been transferred to a long term prison," I asked.

"Dr.Shrunk has decided to keep you here because of your depression, etc." he replied.

"I banged my head against the wall the other night, probably during a fit, it was seen by another inmate. I also have too much time on my hands. I'm bored stiff," I stated.

"Well I'll see if I can get Dr.Shrunk to transfer you to a long term prison," Dr.Shrink replied.

We discussed the possibility of me getting parole before getting transferred. I also told him about my recent meeting with my new probation officer.

Dr.Shrink then said, "Most of these delays from London are political. Because of the US bombing of Colonel Gadaffi's HQ, the Home Office will be more interested in securing the country against terrorism, than they will of your welfare."

I had learned more, but on reflection I felt that I was being fobbed off. I was still no nearer to gaining my 'freedom.'

Gadaffi, make my day!

Colonel Gadaffi survived the bombing of his compound where his family lived. The F111's had been equipped with laser guided bombs, and infra-red night sights enabling the crews to see in the dark, and yet they failed to destroy many of their objectives. One F111 was lost, the cost of which was probably greater than the damage inflicted. One hundred non aligned nations rallied around Colonel Gadaffi, along with eighty per cent of the general public in Great Britain, if the newspapers were to be believed, for I was not amongst that eighty per cent. Soon afterwards an attempt was made to blow up an El Al jumbo jet at Heathrow Airport, with four hundred people on board. Fortunately the attempt failed when the security staff found the bomb in the bottom of a hold all being carried by an unsuspecting, pregnant Irish woman.

The leader of the opposition in the British parliament, dug out of the cupboard all the nouns kept locked away during the Falkland's War, and unleashed them with unmerciful whiplash effect upon the ministers who had sanctioned the use of British bases.
"One day he'll be prime minister," remarked Mr.Flight whilst watching the television news, "Just one day!"

Three westerners held hostage in the Lebanon, were shot dead in reprisal for the raids on Libya. The human race had learned little since the days of Chamberlain's Munich, and that spineless word appeasement. Most British school children were not taught the history of the twentieth century, and this was the result. Ignorance breeding more ignorance. Was all the terrorism really to do with the Palestinian question, or was it a combination of Idi Amin type mentality and too much wealth? If it was the latter, then the falling of the oil price to ten dollars per barrel would hopefully have a sobering influence.

C ward's little terror, Desperate Dan Sullivan, was returned back downstairs a few days after his reappearance in the ward. Roy Godfrey was transferred to B ward at this time. He had also been a bit noisy, after complaining at lights out about my open window.

On the queens birthday, the union flag was flown near the top of the flagstaff. It was not quite at the top, as no one appeared concerned enough to put the matter right. Maybe it was a reflection of the staff's attitude to the establishment, for the members of the POA (Prison Officer's Association) had voted for industrial action, but no further. During the days that Mr.Parrot was on duty, the ward was inundated with sound from the television set, as he along with Mr.Stick was hard of hearing. There was also his incessant displays of passing wind. Did he behave like that in front of his family, I wondered. It all helped to wear me down.

Much to my surprise I finally received my depositions, and a breakdown of expenses from my solicitor. My solicitor's expenses included work related to the cul-de-sac enforcement notice, arranging storage of personal effects, divorce work, building society repossession proceedings, all of which involved a total of three hundred and eighty out going letters, one hundred and forty-incoming letters and eighty telephone calls. Such were the problems of trying to sell a home in an unemployment black spot. After going through the statements I realised that a number of them were missing. It looked very suspicious since the most vital statements, none of which I had read, were not only missing, they were not even listed on the two indexes. Had the judge seen them, I wondered. I decided reluctantly that another letter was called for:

I was determined that my time at Risley would not be fruitless. The letter from my MP and the building society, later turned up amongst my belongings after my release. As for the rest, I assume they are still locked in space time. Perhaps I should have written my letters in Welsh. I never received the missing statements, and there was of course one statement that I did not request, that being from my solicitor himself. Technically he should not have represented me, being a possible witness. I never received any independent advice whilst on remand, whilst the surroundings of my incarceration, and experience of my crime, impaired my judgement on the matter. I had not asked Mr.Roberts to represent me. He was imposed on me by the police, who never asked me whether he was a possible witness. I did not replace him because I did not know how, and I did not want to cause trouble. As for my incarceration, I was sentenced to five years in prison, not over two years in this shit heap. I regard that as a violation of human rights. And of course, to obtain real justice, there should be a re-trial based upon provocation and entrapment alone, since my mental state was simply used to keep me in prison longer. Whilst I state that I suffered from neurosis, the SMO stated that I was depressed. I may have looked depressed, but the reality is that I was furious at having to live in close confinement with people I had nothing in common with. There were simply few people there with whom I could have an intelligent conversation with, so I kept mainly to myself, which to some staff was symptomatic of depression. All that I experienced was a glowing example of bureaucracy within a large organisation, where no-one is prepared to accept responsibility, namely government. This is why the human race needs to be managed by a minimalist world technocracy. It did occur to me that the SMO was deliberately not making any decision on my future, because he feared loosing his retirement pension if he got it wrong.

On that same day, I also wrote to the National Council for Civil Liberties again, outlining my circumstances. In the second half of my letter I wrote;

As the present deadlock continues, my EDR gets closer. No matter what the outcome of my petition, a number of disturbing facts come to mind. I feel that my right to expect proper medical treatment is being denied on the grounds of expense. If through my mental illness I was to attack someone after my release, it would be I and not the government that would get the blame. In addition to my rights being violated, there is also the rights of the general public to be taken into consideration. They pay taxes to maintain prisons and mental hospitals, and are therefore entitled to expect the well being of the general public to be paramount in the minds of those in the Home Office and DHSS. My treatment indicates that both those rights are being ignored. I feel therefore that in the interests of future inmates, I should petition the European Commission for Human Rights in Strasbourg, and in view of the limited experience of the staff here, I would be grateful if you would advise me on the matter.

A number of other matters I also feel need attending to. Prior to my plea or trial, I did not receive my depositions. To date I have only received half of what the judge presumably read. I was strongly advised to plead guilty, and since only the doctors gave evidence, all other statements were handed over to the judge in writing. This procedure I feel is nothing better than trying someone in their absence. I strongly believe that all accused should be in possession of all their depositions long before the trial begins, since this may affect an inmates plea.

I understand from a fellow inmate here, that female inmates in Styal Prison can wear their own clothes, and that even killers are allowed out to attend centres of higher education. The stark contrast between the treatment and opportunities of male and female inmates, I find is nothing less than a flagrant act of sex discrimination. It has been officially stated that prisons are not a place of punishment. From my own experiences I would disagree with that. From the study of other prisoners, some of whom have entered here on two or three occasions during my stay here, I conclude that most male prisons and mental hospitals have little positive effect. Poor conditions only create an underlying resentment, which manifests itself in more crime upon their release. Such poor conditions and opportunities violate the tax payer's rights, as well as those of the inmate.

I would therefore be interested in your comments about a petition to the ECHR based on the following:

1. That all accused persons should automatically receive all of their depositions at least two months before their plea.

2. A convicted person should be transferred to a long term prison, or long term mental hospital within two months of their conviction, and that the destination should be determined only by doctors and staff who have seen and spoken at length to the inmate.

3. Facilities and opportunities for male and female inmates of prisons and mental hospitals should be equal.

4. Facilities in prisons and mental hospitals should promote good mental well being, discipline, manners, work therapy, exercise and job training. Inmates should be given the opportunity to construct the furnishings for the new home they will ultimately live in upon their release. An inmate should be entitled to his or her own cell with en suite toilet, hand basin, shower and allowed entertainment. The cell should be suitably sound proofed, heated and ventilated.

I believe that the only rewarding way to treat crime is to prevent it in the first place, by making cars, goods in shops and homes more secure, and by creating a leisure orientated, science based, full employment society. In the absence of such moves by government, one is only left with trying to improve conditions in secure establishments, in the hope that the benefits will be seen and incorporated throughout society. The indifferent attitude displayed by successive governments, must be brought to an end. As someone who was unemployed for four years before coming here, I know more than most people just how that attitude can kill.

Whether I received a reply or not to this letter, I had already decided that I would write my petition to the ECHR on May the fifth. Other possibilities were a petition to parliament, or even to the queen.

In the meantime the battle lines were being drawn in the POA dispute with the Home Office. The government had prepared three military camps as emergency prisons at Rollestone Camp, Salisbury, Wiltshire; Beckingham Camp, Lincolnshire, and Proteous Camp near Nottingham. The government were also considering using police cells, but early release of inmates was being ruled out. The spoil sports!

Plonk was transferred to the Hornby Hotel, whilst Honey Monster was talking about his trial coming up at the Old Bailey, London. AD received frequent visits from his worried solicitor, who told him to have nothing to do with his partner, who was as good as sunk. AD's visits from his gorgeous wife continued. He loved her very much. I must admit that when I saw her in her tight fitting jeans or pink jump suit, it was easy to see why. Whether his attitude would change once he got his hands on the loot, remained to be seen.

His intimate knowledge of high class call girls, and the prostitute scene in Birmingham, should have given his wife cause for concern, had she known. That night Mr.Dog came on duty, looking more than a little grumpy.

"I'm not very happy with this ward," he said in a mean voice.

He had obviously been told off about his radio, which was now conspicuously absent. What I did not realise until later, was that the entire night staff had been told off. It was that quiet from then on that it took a long while for me to get use to it. To even things up, Gobshite Git returned to the ward the next day.

"He's going up and down the stairs like a whore's draws," was how one member of staff put it.

There was rarely a serious moment when Mr.Parrot or Mr.Pluto were on duty. They had similar habits and similar phrases, but who copied who I never found out.

Mr.Pluto would often sing, "I stuck my finger up a nanny goat's bum, and kept it there till the nanny goat cum."

Whilst the second song in his repertoire was, "You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your clit."

With the raped body of little Sarah Harper, aged ten, found dead in a canal, Crimewatch put on a special television programme concerning twenty or more children found murdered or still missing in mysterious circumstances.

"Get me another boy, this one's ripped!" Was all Mr.Parrot would say.

I wondered whether this attitude also prevailed amongst Britain's police forces. On April 25th, 1986 the POA decided to work to rule at sixteen establishments for twenty-four hours. This meant that the remand centre would not take any more inmates than that originally designed for it. Inmates sent out to make remand, appearances, would not be allowed to return unless the numbers were down to acceptable levels. The next day the first signs of tension appeared. A disturbance developed on C wing. Prison officers converged on the scene, carrying helmets, riot shields and long batons, similar to baseball bats.

Ten inmates had climbed onto the roof, carrying steel bars as weapons. Tension eased as time passed by. Inmates flashed their bare backsides from the roof, as alsatian dogs sat quietly in the sun waiting to be sent in. From C ward we could not see the events taking place on the roof of C wing. We could however clearly see the reinforcements arriving. Visitors to the YP's wing were clearly wondering what all the excitement was about, since they could not see C wing either. We could see the end of the wing, and occasionally an inmate would be seen standing there waving a piece of copper piping, presumably ripped out of the wash room. On one occasion an inmate ripped off the television aerial, and waved it at the patient prison officers below, who by this time were expecting hefty overtime payments. The offenders on the other hand, were likely to get one hundred and eighty days added to their sentences.

Evidently it was relatively easy to get out of the cells on the wings, by going through the loft access hatch located in the bathroom ceiling, then through the louvred loft ventilator, and onto the roof assisted by the television or radio mast, bolted to the gable end of the building. The last successful escape had been in 1966, the perimeter wall not having been built at that time. Although escape was not possible, the staff knew from experience that escalation of the incident was still conceivable. Many inmates tended to be easily influenced, so the staff were taking no chances. Lunch time at the servery therefore, was far from normal. Instead of the usual inmates serving the food, there was no less than seven members of staff doing the job. There were now only eleven inmates on C ward. The midday television news programme failed to mention the disturbance at Risley, only the escape of four prisoners from Crewe police station. Evidently the police were already being stretched to the limit.

Talking to Captain Ahab, I came to realise that my own life was not the only tale of woe in the ward. According to what he told me, he had once been married to a woman whom he had known for five years. She suffered from a deteriorating brain condition, as a result of cerebral palsy. She was confined to a wheel chair, which she would often stop by sticking the fingers in the spokes, so he said. He was married to her for two years, during which time he only slept with her twice, as she soiled the bed. He had met her originally at work, where all the disabled sat at a bench whilst assembling gear boxes. Eventually her deteriorating condition became too much. The social services refused him home help, saying that she belonged in a hospital. She was then admitted to a special hospital for the disabled in Chester. A couple of years after her admittance her sister died of leukaemia, leaving her a lot of money. His former wife could no longer recognise him, as her brain had deteriorated so much.

Evidently the hospital where she now was, was a very nice place, with single rooms, and special disability toilets which wash the backside with a jet of water and then blow dry, activated by a foot operated switch set in the floor. I could have done with one of them in my bungalow I thought, activated by a remote control switch in the kitchen every time I discovered my wife bog brooding. I could just imagine her reaction.

"You little bugger!"

During the prison disturbance, inmates from A ward were transferred to B ward, since the rooftop protest could be clearly seen from A ward, and vice versa. Two officers watched the inmates on the roof from the welfare department. According to AD two of them had a camera with a telephoto lens, to record all incidents, whilst the other had a radio, through which he was telling the screws in the loft space and elsewhere, exactly what the inmates on the roof were doing. This technique led to a rather comical incident, which AD related to me. The inmates had made a hole in the felt and fibreboard roof, which one inmate apparently stood too close to. Obeying instructions from the lookout with the radio, two officers or more positioned themselves beneath the hole. As the inmate got too close, a personal radio squawked.

"Get him. Now!" Said the lookout in the welfare office.

Immediately two pairs of hands shot out, grabbed his ankles, and down into the dark depths he vanished. It was all over in a second. His mates upon turning around, found him no longer there. Just like the Bermuda Triangle!

The misfits who had gone out onto the roof were ill-prepared for a long stay. They had no food, no pullovers, no jackets, and no blankets. Three inmates came down after the governor promised them that no charges would be brought, if they gave up there and then. At eleven o'clock that night the remainder gave themselves up. Whereupon the overtime abruptly came to an end.

Four inmates who had escaped from a nearby police station were evidently from Risley Remand Centre. One of these was Bill 'Blondie' Sykes, a sixteen year old burglar, who usually slept in the bed next to AD's. He had entered Risley within one week of leaving school. He had been in the hospital with a broken ankle. During the escape bid from the police station, Blondie climbed a wall, only to break his ankle again upon landing on the other side. Why did he try to escape in his condition? Why attempt to escape when on such a minor charge? Why escape at all when you have not got the funds to support yourself? I think most of the inmates got caught because they went around committing illegal acts, with most of their brain switched off. Vitamin deficiency amongst the lower classes, caused by the eating of large amounts of junk food, was soon to be regarded as a primary cause of reduced IQ and violent behaviour. I wondered whether the food at Risley compensated fully for such deficiencies.

At this time my mother wrote to me saying, "I wouldn't want you to go to prison, its bad enough where you are." I could not get it into her thick skull that a remand centre was considered worse than a long term prison. In a long term prison inmates put their offences behind them, and got on with doing their porridge or bird, as it was called. In a remand centre the preoccupation was with the forthcoming trial. As a long term inmate, I was constantly bombarded with requests for advice, and I must admit that owing to my unjustified treatment, my advice largely centred on how to screw the system. I was no longer a supporter of British justice. The establishment was the oppressor, whilst the inmates were the oppressed. Although I was sick of hearing people's cases, I simply could not get away from it. I wanted to crawl into a little hole, but there was simply nowhere to 'escape' to. My own advice to anyone going for trial is, make sure you get ALL of your depositions and NEVER plead guilty, at least not until it is time for the jury to go into recess to consider a verdict.

Honey Monster was interviewed by the police one day. Evidently his banking exploits extended as far as Llandudno, so he said. He had evidently tried to sell a non-existent company there, not knowing that it was all being filmed by the bank 's closed circuit television cameras. The police showed him a still photograph from the film, and Honey Monster reluctantly agreed to have it TIC'ed (taken into consideration). I told him that when you are on remand, you are supposed to confess all to the police, otherwise you could be arrested again, immediately after serving your sentence. Honey Monster however, did not believe in admitting anything. A view he shared with many inmates.

One of the new lads to join us in the ward at this time was ET. He was semi paralysed down the left side. His left arm hung aimlessly, whilst his left leg flapped against the floor as he slowly walked. There was also an indentation in the front of his neck, where he had once had a tracheotomy to help himself breath during a period after a stroke, which resulted in his present paralysis. He said he had once been an epileptic before having a stroke. I was not cheered by that news. He also told me that he had once been shot in the left eye whilst serving in Northern Ireland in 1975. I did not know what to believe, as when I recounted this story to a member of staff he just laughed. Certainly he was not a pretty sight. He had evidently been in Risley before, and received no sympathy from the hospital officers. This became evident the next day when ET told Mr.Parrot not to tap his foot on the floor whilst they were all watching television. Mr.Parrot retaliated by packing him off downstairs.