UTOPIAN DREAM

Some members of staff understood the strain that inmates were under and did their best to cheer us up, whilst others acted as if they should have been inmates themselves. Just which category Mr.Pluto fell into, I was uncertain. Like many people, he had his good and bad side. It was with him, Malcolm Richards and David Jarret that I played bridge, a card game which I found more interesting than the average television programme. Bridge is more than a game of chance. It requires bluff and a good memory. The latter I seriously lacked, being under the influence of Prothiaden (the anti-depressant dothiepen). Since players operate in pairs, a system of signals enabling you and your partner to cheat, was essential. Needless to say, Mr.Pluto cheated. It is without a doubt the ideal game to bring the family together, although it has been known to lead to suicide or even murder, if taken too seriously.

The trouble with Mr.Pluto was that he was so good that he knew what everyone else had in their hands. According to what he told me, he was also the best snooker player in that region of the prison service. It was difficult to imagine him playing snooker as he had a big build with a pot belly to match. He waddled along as he walked, whilst his eyes were often like piss holes in the snow, after a night out. He was definitely not the sort of man you would argue with, as he once squeezed my tit for cracking some joke about him. The staff knew how to inflict pain without leaving any marks, and he certainly enjoyed inflicting it. His alternative to screaming, "off ya wanking pits," at seven o' clock in the morning, was to creep up to your bed and whisper in your ear, "rise and shine." He was so unpredictable. He could also do an excellent imitation of a red Indian war dance, or was it a fit. His imitation of a warship's klaxon calling action stations was absolutely brilliant, but the tales about his fishing exploits brought tears of laughter to our eyes.

Three of his fishing tales I clearly remember. In the first of these yarns, Mr.Pluto went fishing with a workmate who knew a reservoir that was worth investigating. They set up their fishing gear, and waited and waited. Nothing happened so they gradually lost interest. Soon after Mr.Pluto put his fishing rod down, a large fish grabbed the bait and pulled the line and fishing rod out into the middle of the reservoir.

"The reservoir's not deep, you can wade out," said his colleague. So out Mr.Pluto waded into deeper and deeper water. In the end the water got a little too deep, but fortunately help was at hand. Their was a small rowing boat moored off shore, which he decided to use. Mr.Pluto climbed on board, which must have been quite a feat considering his size. The rowing boat had been bleached by the sun, and obviously had not been used for some time. Mr.Pluto was in one of his rash moods and immediately grabbed the oars, and with gut determination, strained on the oars as if he was a Roman galley slave. Like the boat, the oars were in none too good a shape. Under the strain, both oars snapped, sending Mr.Pluto hurtling backwards into the bottom of the boat. Not to be outdone, he paddled with his hands, recovered his rod and eventually reached the shore, but as usual Moby Dick got away.

On the day of Prince Charles' investiture in Caernarfon Castle, Mr.Pluto was definitely not feeling in a flag waving mood, so he and a friend went fishing, in the hope of finding peace and quiet. They had not been fishing long when another angler set up camp nearby, then switched on his radio to listen to the royal proceedings. Well the radio was on rather loud, and as angling is a tranquil pursuit, Mr.Pluto decided to pursue it.

"Would you mind turning that radio down?" Mr.Pluto shouted to the other angler.

"Why don't you move if you don't like it?" the noisy angler replied.

He was obviously in an unreceptive mood. Well nobody at Risley argued with Mr.Pluto, and that included the staff. Mr.Pluto moved over to the man, whilst his friend could only dread what was apparently inevitable.

"Listen," said Mr.Pluto to the noisy angler, "I've come here for a quiet day's fishing. Would you mind turning your radio down?"

Again he was not receptive.

"If you want peace and quiet, go somewhere else," replied the pompous angler.

Our hero of the moment then settled the matter the only way he knew. He simply picked the man up and threw him into the river.

"Oh, and I believe this is your's too," Mr.Pluto said as he threw the man's radio after him.

The final part of Mr.Pluto's trilogy of fishing exploits naturally involved more violence. On this occasion Mr.Pluto went fishing with his colleagues along the tow path of a canal. As usual there was always some fool around who needed teaching a lesson. Up and down, up and down went the three scrambler bikes along the tow path, behind the men fishing. The kids on them were really enjoying themselves, but Mr.Pluto had had enough. The next time they came along, he stood on the tow path defiant. The bikes stopped in front of him.

"Listen," Mr.Pluto said sternly, "I've paid my licence fee to fish here, but you haven't got a licence to ride those bikes along here, so clear off!"

"We wont," said one of the lads as they rode off.

"Well I've warned yea," said Mr.Pluto.

Now Mr.Pluto had two keep nets, one of which had a stainless steel handle which he unscrewed from the net. He timed his attack carefully. As the motor bikes roared into view, he stood there as if fishing. Then as the ring leader rode past, he threw the rod backwards, through the spokes of the front wheel. Needless to say, the bike came to a sudden halt, most painfully for the rider, but Mr.Pluto had not finished. To cries of "Oh no!" from his colleagues, he picked up the crippled bike, and raising it above his head, threw it into the canal.

Listening to these tales thrilled us no end. One of the inmates summed up our feelings by saying, "I always thought angling was a quiet sport."

Soon after my trial Mr.Pluto called me into the ward office after sensing that I was still depressed, and gave me a pep talk.

"When you get out of prison you will have repaid your debt to society. You know what your sentence is, so work towards that release date, and then you won't owe anybody anything. Cheer up, because you've got no reason to let it get you down. Look at me, I've killed thirteen people in Northern Ireland. I've even had a petrol bomb explode on my back. So I was given the right to kill, but that didn't make me feel any different from you. The memory stays in the back of my mind where it belongs. I don't let it worry me," Mr.Pluto said.

I did not know whether he was having me on about the thirteen. Bloody Sunday? Nevertheless, I could well understand why the Catholics in that part of the world still hated us. I would.

Mr.Pluto would take no nonsense in the ward, but at the same time he seemed to encourage such play acting. Graham Tiler often fell victim.

"Right, fill the bath!" Mr.Pluto would shout, after some tomfoolery had taken place.

He could be sure that there would always be at least one Judas on the ward, who would fill the bath with cold water. The struggling, condemned man would then be captured, carried, then finally plunged into the deep, causing the water to cascade onto the floor. Naturally the victim would be fully clothed at the time. It was a great laugh, but I could not help feeling that at times like that, madness reigned. What's going to happen next, I would constantly ask myself. Fortunately for the victim, dry clothes would be quickly fetched from the linen stores, though with any luck, they would not fit.

There were times when things were deadly serious, like when the ward was searched for drugs and other contraband, by screws or hospital officers. Searches carried out by hospital officers usually required inmates to leave the ward and wait by the servery. The ward doors would be shut so that we could not see what was going on. All the beds would be stripped, and the lockers rummaged through. Sometimes the book case would be searched, leaving two hundred or more books on the floor, for the inmates to tidy up. If the staff were really keen, then the linen stores would also be a target. It would take the rest of the day to put the linen stores back into shape. The whole place would look as if a hurricane had hit it, but the search would still not be over.

Next would come us. We would either get a rub down search or stripped search. In a stripped search we would have to stand on a towel in the bathroom, and remove all our clothes for inspection of the lining. This was no time for being bashful. Some of the inmates were really self conscious about their bodies, and often tried to go to bed fully clothed. Sometimes they would search in our ears, but fortunately no further. It was a degrading exercise which had to be done due to the actions of a small minority of inmates. Every now and then, someone would be released from Risley, then go and tell the newspaper reporters just how easy it is to get drugs smuggled in. The only way to stop drugs entering remand centres would have been to make all visits closed, and ban all gifts of food and drink. In late 1987 the receiving of food parcels was banned at remand centres because of the drugs problem, the Home Office stating that the good food in remand centres did not require such supplements.

There were only four occasions when I saw inmates with drugs. In each case cannabis. On three of those occasions it involved an Afro-Caribbean. It was a way of life with them. Part of their cultural heritage. The staff never found drugs. Once an inmate had mixed his cannabis into a tin of tobacco, there was nothing to be found. You could always tell when someone was lighting up. A group of lads would invariably be acting excitedly near an open window. Even so the ward would stink of the stuff whilst the hospital officer or night watchman would be blase in an easy chair, watching TV. How could the staff be so ignorant? Some inmates told me that the staff knew, but that they just wanted an easy life. If so then what were the searches for? I got the impression that searches only took place when something had been stolen from ,a member of staff, such as a packet of cigarettes. As for drugs, it was better to ask the doctors for some. We were searched once, immediately before Christmas 1984, and twice in early January 1985.

The decorations went up in the ward for Christmas. There were not many. Just enough to let everyone know that this was the season of good will. There was no Christmas tree in the ward, but there was one outside the ground floor office, which no doubt cheered up staff and visitors alike. Many inmates looked forward to Christmas as a relief from the monotony of prison life, and possibly as a means of uniting with the folks back home with something in common. Certainly visits at Christmas were popular. Apart from the decorations however, prison routine varied in only a few ways. On Christmas day, boxing day and new year's day, the meals were markedly better. Meals were not as well prepared during the rest of the year.

I was surprised to see peaches with tinned evaporated milk. Not bad compared to the bread and butter puddings, and enormous sponges that we were usually obliged to devour. We were even allowed to watch television unofficially, until about midnight, providing there was something worth watching. Over Christmas, as many inmates as the staff dared, would be brought up from the ground floor to share in the festivities. The new year was also worth looking forward to. As the seconds ticked by and the new year arrived, the rumbling from inmate's banging cell doors and windows, amongst the cheering and whistling of others, would get louder and louder on the wings. A similar response could be heard during important soccer matches, as hundreds of inmates, confined to their cells almost all day, listened to the commentary on their radios. As a goal was scored the prison would erupt. The coming of the new year was however full of apprehension, as many of them would soon be brought to trial. Some of the lads on the ward would get some relief by flashing their arses at the guys on the wings. The inmates on the wings must have thought we were all a bunch of nutters.

As the weather got colder our exercise periods seamed to get more frequent. The snow began falling in early January. On Wednesday, January 16th, everything carried on as usual. The following day was our fourth exercise period that week. We were all ordered out of the open wards and into the courtyard, whilst many with less sense trooped out of the closed wards, even though they did not have to. Many of these inmates were inadequately dressed, wearing only a shirt and thin denim jeans. One inmate even had his arm in plaster, sticking out in a horizontal position. There was no rest for the wicked no matter how physically or mentally handicapped you were. If you were an inmate in a ground floor cell, it was unlikely that you would have a pullover, and you definitely did not have a jacket, there being no more than twenty of them for the entire hospital. By the time I left Risley there were only about two to a ward. For some reason, nobody bothered about ordering more. For those inadequately dressed, which was usually over half the inmates, it was just tough luck. You froze.

The head bangers would stagger out into the frosty cold, muttering to themselves, whilst sliding their ill fitting shoes through the snow. It was an unnerving experience, as we never knew how they were going to react, from one second to the next. One lad would stand on the same spot for minutes, brushing his hand over his hair. He had an effeminate appearance, and looked at me and other inmates strangely. I prayed like hell that he would not come over and touch me. It made my blood run cold, the weather and the nutters. Looking back on it I feel sorry for them, as they were so alone with their problems.

On warm days, one of them would run around the courtyard like an Olympic athlete, whilst another had a habit of walking backwards when you least expected it. Another would tumble head over heals on the grass, time and again, with encouragement from inmates in the courtyard and from the overlooking cells on the wings. It was a big laugh to most, but not to me. I could not help thinking that like my wife, each of these loons had a spouse or parent thinking of them. They would be hoping like hell that they would be receiving the right treatment to make them well, not displayed in a courtyard like animals in a zoo. It was very tragic.

The snow flakes floated down across my eye lashes, thence dashed to pieces on the frozen ground. The icy cold vortices created by the tall hospital building, could not be avoided as the inmates walked in the same direction around the yard. Today was definitely colder than yesterday, I thought. The medical officers stood in a cluster in the corner of the yard, their thick black overcoats made them look like blood thirsty Cossacks, whilst the inmates were Napoleon's ill equipped French army, making its painful retreat from Moscow in 1812. Come to think of it, there was no doubt someone amongst us who thought that he was Napoleon. We had to walk to keep warm, but our clothes offered little protection. Gradually, one by one, exposed parts of our bodies began to freeze.

It was normal practice for me to relieve the boredom of exercise periods by eating chews, small sweets bought, for one pence each from any change I had left over when spending my weekly wages in the canteen. These sweets helped to take my mind off the penetrating cold. On and on along that bloody tarmac we would trudge, some talking in groups, whilst others like myself suffered in silence. No point in complaining I thought, as it would only go into my record resulting in later and not earlier parole. Parole, that magic word, like sex. What would it be like? Frostbite penetrated the periphery of my ears as dew drops fell from my frozen nose, as we trudged on and on to 'Paris'.

I had a digital watch, a blue faced Limit International Chronograph which the prison authorities kept under lock and key. I was not allowed to wear it as it had a stop watch facility which could be used to co-ordinate an escape. I therefore had no way of knowing how much time had elapsed during the exercise period, unless I counted each lap as one minute. At times it was difficult to keep your balance on the ice, particularly with numb feet. In a way it was best not to know the time, for time appeared to go more quickly when you did not count it. My fingernails needed cutting, I thought, as I tore away the wrapper from another chew.

During that long march, I became aware of a pigeon trapped in the coils of razor wire, strung along the edge of the low flat roof located between the prison wings. It was still alive, vainly flapping its wings, as the wire got ever tighter around its neck. Normally the birds were the only free species residing at Risley, but that day fate was even more unkind.

"Move away from the corner," shouted a medical officer to a cluster of inmates who were seeking shelter from the ice cold wind blowing down from the high walls.

"Fucking cold ain't it mate?" said an unknown inmate to me as he walked by.

By that time it had become difficult to think of anything but the God damned British weather. The trapped pigeon continued its vain fluttering, no doubt wondering how long it could survive like that, as indeed so did I. Two sparrows now stood on the razor wire, peering down at the doomed bird, like angels waiting for the finale. We walked on and on. Some inmates stood around in huddled groups, talking about anything but the weather. We waited for the order to go in, but the staff seemed as snug as a bug in a rug, in their heavy overcoats. In their wind resistant, rain resistant, snow resistant, thermal lined overcoats, they just stood there chatting to one another.

Eventually a saviour appeared, not for us but for the pigeon. A workman in brown overalls clambered onto the roof and walked over to the bird, which was now flapping its wings even more, in an attempt to escape from the human. Using pliers he cut the wire, then carried the bird away in his hands, for more attention. Things were looking up, I thought. The cheap and ill fitting clothes were no match for the weather on that day. I had one button missing from my jacket and another coming loose, with no means at my disposal for sewing them back on, nor even of getting another coat, as there were none in the linen stores. Theoretically an inmate wore brown jeans and jacket before his trial, and after conviction, blue. A failed escapee would wear blue jeans and jacket with a broad yellow vertical stripe down both. In reality I had trouble getting any clothes to fit me, never mind the colour.

"All right, in yea go!" yelled a hospital officer.

At last deliverance. We all trudged into the hospital, too cold and miserable to say anything. Unless like me you had a chew. Upstairs in the ward there was no electricity. The power had been off for sometime. The radiators had quickly cooled down, as the hot water was circulated by electric pumps. Out of the fridge, into the freezer, I thought. Having to share a dark ward with thieves, murderers, sadists and rapists, did not appeal to me one bit. It was only then that I could see the advantage of having the floodlights streaming through the windows, being powered by emergency generators.

Word had it that Denzil Williams, a Welsh vicar held in one of the other wards, had been noticed spying on one of the other inmates who was sitting on the loo. So said Mr.Flight. There were also rumours of tonnes of pornography found at his home, dating back to 1952. I never use to take these tales seriously, particularly as after my trial, the staff at Risley had told the inmates that I had received a life sentence. There was no doubt in my mind that some officers enjoyed making up stories, or exaggerating matters.

The stories about Denzil Williams however, almost made my hair stand on end. He was awaiting trial for cutting off the sex organs of deceased male parishioners, who had been awaiting burial in his chapel. He then photographed the organs, before cutting them up and feeding them to the sea gulls. Well, at least he had not killed them, but there is always the first, I thought. I had written home stating that we were all going around with our hands in our pockets. Joking of course. But the medical officer who read our letters before they were posted, did not find it funny, and told me to write a replacement letter. We were not allowed to mention the names and exploits of other inmates. Because of this, inspiration was a great struggle, often resulting in boring letters. Little did I realise that I was to see quite a lot of Denzil Williams, whom the news media were to Christian, 'the devil priest'.

The following Friday the ward got cold again. A valve needed replacing in the new boiler house, so the heating had been turned off. The inmates clustered around a portable gas fire, with blankets over their shoulders. With so many loose fitting windows in the ward, it proved a pathetic attempt to keep warm. There was no double glazing. It was all single pane. Many of the steel window frames had faulty hinges or missing latches. The old oil fired heating system could not cope, so one million pounds or more had been spent on a new one. It was a big improvement on the old system, but temperature control was sadly lacking, as there were no thermostat in the ward, nor anywhere else in the hospital. When the warm weather arrived we would be sweltering, with the radiators too hot to touch. The heating system was finally turned off in mid May. Why the prison did not use ducted air heating, I failed to understand, since it was the only way of ensuring that inmates did not damage the radiators or rattle them at night. It would also have ensured that wards and cells were properly ventilated. This was to become a sore point with me during my stay in the hospital. I also recall a case where a comatosed inmate had to have his arm bandaged up after leaving it lying over night on the radiator.

On that Friday, two hundred millimetres of snow had fallen in Cornwall and Wales, whilst the temperature outside did not bare thinking about, The ground floor medical officer, Mr.Willie, came into the ward.

"Right, exercise!" Mr.Willie shouted.

"What, now?" said the wards medical officer.

"Yes of course. Come on lads, get up!" Mr.Willie said defiantly.

The inmates grudgingly got up from their warm chairs, then shuffled off to their lockers to put on their jackets and wrap a towel around their necks. I counted my chews. I had four. Just enough, I thought.

"It's all right, I'm only joking," Mr.Willie remarked.

He was not smiling I noticed. Did he mean it, I wondered. Slowly it dawned on us that it was all a sick joke. We all moved back to our once warm chairs. Someone deserves a cold bath, I thought. Later that day another pigeon was untangled from the razor wire. We could see it from the ward window, but this one was clearly dead.

I was paid one pound twenty-two pence per week at this time, less three pence towards the social fund, which paid for the television licence, Christmas decorations, playing cards, chess, monopoly, dominoes, etc. After spending their one pound nineteen pence in the canteen on a Sunday morning, it was then permissible to go to the chapel. Few inmates went there to pray for forgiveness. It was more a meeting hall in which to see friends kept in other parts of the prison. It also helped to relieve the monotony of prison life. Others went there simply to avoid cleaning duties, I only went once.

In the chapel there was no praying and no singing. We just sat there watching a film on American sport. It was not my idea of a Christian service. From what other inmates told me, there was singing on odd occasions, if you can call it that, whilst at other times pop groups would make an appearance. These groups were so loud that I could hear them clearly enough across the square in A ward. I felt glad that I was not one of those forced to sit through it for an hour or more. The music sounded terrible. I felt that the groups only came as it was the only place they could find a captive audience. I liked most music and had a collection at home of over eighty LPs, ranging from Carly Simon and Francoise Hardy to Jethro Tull and Uriah Heep. At one time I use to go and see rock groups playing at the Nags Head in Wollaston, Northamptonshire, where the BBC radio one's John Peel was DJ. All that seemed so far away in time and space, as if it had never happened. Certainly the life I had before I met Karen appeared to belong to someone else, not me.

The priests would often come around the ward like circling vultures. I was not a religious person, although at one time I use to be. Religion did not come easy to me as I was very independently minded, and hence preferred to stand on my own two feet. 'God helps those who help themselves,' is a phrase I firmly believed in. Maybe if I did not, then perhaps I would have sought help for my mental illness, long before I entered prison. The only occasion I asked for help was when I wrote direct to my parent's vicar, when it became clear to me that my mother had become very depressed regarding my circumstances. This occurred shortly before I went on trial. Fortunately their vicar was kind enough to help, and I think he succeeded.

I had a great respect for Jesus Christ, as a person. A man who was prepared to be executed rather than accept the injustices that prevailed throughout the Roman Empire. I could not help thinking that, were he alive today, his antics would have led him straight into a place like the hospital at Risley. The hospital had seen quite a few religious loons. The cell walls were covered by their prayers and images of crucifixes. The Church of England's outspokenness against the British Government at this time was commendable, though a little late in my opinion. The criticism of the Church of England by government ministers, seemed to reinforce my belief that the government was not prepared to accept anyone else's point of view, regarding how society should be run. The government was to continue along its monetarist course, regardless.

After my trial, trying to relieve the boredom of my confinement became a major preoccupation. I liked reading my magazines, particularly the articles about space research. I had always been interested in the subject ever since I read Dan Dare in Eagle comic, when I was a kid. With the two book allowances I was awarded for obtaining six GCE '0' level passes at secondary school, I obtained the book 'Spaceflight and Boosters' by K.W.Gatland, which I found immensely interesting. For some reason I did not go into the aerospace industry when I left school. I knew nothing about careers and higher education. For years my parents gave me no advice, as they were too busy arguing amongst themselves on a weekly basis. They never helped me with my homework. I suppose I was more intent on leaving home and seeing the world, so I joined the merchant navy. I became a navigating apprentice for an oil company. I served on five oil tankers, only one of which I liked. During the sandwich course at college I enjoyed studying oceanography and wrote a dissertation on space research. For both of which I was awarded prizes. At the end of my four year apprenticeship, I failed the orals section of my second mates foreign going certificate exam, three times. It was made clear to me that I would never pass. The incentive to go on did not exist.

I found the task of sailing from one obscure oil refinery in Europe, to a single buoyed mooring in the Persian Gulf monotonous. One month to get there, and another month back. I also found the job very stressful, even as an apprentice. On the bridge, my neck would go ridged with pain, due to stress. The thought of becoming an officer, responsible for seventy million pounds worth of ship and cargo, not to mention the lives of forty or more people, appalled me. My first mistake would be my last, but the memory would remain with me forever. On top of all that, there was always someone on board who wanted to make my life a misery. I had no friends at home as I had lost contact with them. At the end of my apprenticeship I drifted from one pathetic job to the next.

I worked for two months as a security guard, six months as a labourer making pre-cast concrete walls and floors for tower blocks, one month making caravans and twelve months as a work study engineer in a leather tannery. I packed that job in when it became too boring and depressing. I simply walked out one day, never to return. After a period on the dole, during which I was turned down by the RAF, whilst I turned down the army, I finally got on a TOPS course in draughtsmanship at Handsworth Government Training Centre, Birmingham. The course was eleven months long, after which I worked for three years for a company that made heat exchangers. The bad working conditions made me feel depressed, so one day I handed in my notice. Five months later I went into contract draughting. It was only when I met Karen, a year later, that I found my niche in society.

Many of the inmates in Risley had never had a proper job, let alone a career. Work to many was abhorrent. They hid in the linen stores or the bathroom during cleaning periods. Often it was those who considered themselves tough, with loud mouths, who did the hiding. To many, stealing came easier than working. Work was for fools. It was easy to see why some members of staff had nothing but contempt for some inmates. I tried ignoring the shirkers by concentrating my mind on cleaning the bathrooms and wash room. All I wanted was peace of mind, but I rarely if ever got it in that place. There were many times when I found the strain of living with so many pathetic people almost unbearable. Often I felt like throwing the bloody television set onto the floor. It would have been the only way of achieving peace and quiet. Even after lights out, some of the inmates would rabbit on for ages. The night staff would do nothing. Many appeared as pathetic as the misfits in the ward. If I could put up with this lot and keep calm, then surely I could put up with almost anything on the outside.

There were quite a few inmates who thought they were Gods gift to women, spending ages looking at themselves in the mirror. One young Irishman would recline on his bed whilst looking into a mirror or two, all day long. He took all the mirrors out of the wash room and kept them for his personal use. Fortunately he did not stay in the ward very long.

It was in February 1985 that the AIDS scare at Cheltenham Prison became known to us. I had instantly realised that the hospital at Risley was a breading ground for disease, and had developed a fear of catching something off the filthy urchins who were dragged into the place each week. I remember one inmate, a drug addict or smackhead who had been brought up to A ward after serving a period of quarantine downstairs, having caught hepatitis C from a dirty hypodermic needle. He was required to use his own mug, plate and cutlery, which he washed himself, to prevent cross infection.

Both hepatitis C and AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) were transmitted by blood to blood contact. These diseases could be spread by contaminated needles, acts of buggery, contaminated blood used in hospital transfusions, or contaminated factor eight used by haemophiliacs. It was known that these diseases could be spread in prisons through homosexual acts, and inmates using contaminated needles to produce tattoos. As far as I could tell, neither of these activities were pursued in the hospital, at least not amongst the inmates. The danger of accidentally using a contaminated razor blade did exist at this time. Some inmates did not know the number of their blade, which was the same as the number of their bed, if like me they were too doped up in the morning for their brain cells to work properly.

At this time, hepatitis C and AIDS were incurable. Little was known about AIDS except that it was a retrovirus. It attacked the immune system in such a way that common ailments became major life threatening complaints. By using powerful drugs these attacks could be beaten off, only for another attack to occur months later. Eventually the immune system would become so weak that no amount of drugs could make up the deficiency, whereupon the victim would die. Without a cure, once AIDS was caught, death was certain, usually within seven years of becoming infected, though no one wanted to admit that fact. By making homosexuality legal, there was a pervading feeling in government, where many politicians and civil servants were gay, that it was morally if not legally wrong to detain in quarantine those infected with AIDS. As with unemployment, the masses were to pay the price for government complacency. Government officials knew that as the years ticked by, if no cure was found, a point of no return would be reached, thereafter all homosexuals would be safe from quarantine, as the human race slowly but inexorably reached the point of extinction. AIDS was later called HIV ( human immunodeficiency virus)

At supper time a large urn containing tea, would be brought upstairs and deposited against, the grill gate of each ward. Inmates would then stand in line with their mugs, dipping it into the tea urn when their turn came. The mugs of many tramps and misfits were unclean, so there was usually a scramble to be first in the queue. We had a system, which usually worked, to prevent the tramps from getting to the urn first. One of the two inmates working on the staff servery would come up with the tea urn and a plate of something to eat. He would get the tramp to take the plate and deliver it to the dining area, making out all the time what a big important job it was. In the meantime, everyone else would make a mad dash for the tea. Should the system fail, as inevitably it did on occasion, it did not pay to think of the urine stained mug that had christened the tea before yours.

AIDS was called the gay plague. I had never been homosexually inclined, whilst the hard atmosphere at Risley was hardly likely to convert anyone to the fold. Without privacy, such acts were impossible to achieve, at least amongst the inmates. My contacts with the gay world were thankfully few. I clearly remember the time I was picked up by a gay bloke. It was July 21st. 1969 the day after Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the Moon. I was in Trafalgar Square, London that day, trying to cheer myself up after failing my Second Mates Board of Trade exams for the first time. In all my years in the navy I had never been propositioned by a man. It sounds unbelievable but true. Back home, I simply never expected it.
I was sitting on the side of the pool talking to two rough pieces of skirt from Leicester. After failing my exams, I was in need of companionship.

"Why are you holding my hand?" one of the scrubbers asked.

I was at a loss to say anything, I just felt very lonely. The girls eventually walked off, to feed the pigeons, probably thinking that I was some kind of weirdo. Anyway, soon after my luck changed, which is one way of putting it.

"Nice weather isn't it?" the man said.

"Yes," I replied innocently.

We got to talking about this and that. His name was Sydney Parker, and he must have been about forty-five years of age.

"The pubs are still open, let's go for a drink," he suggested.

It was a sunny afternoon and I was thirsty, so I agreed. We went for a drink in a pub near the Sadlers Wells Opera House as I recall. After a few drinks he invited me to his place for a meal. He seemed a very decent fellow, so I accepted his offer. He lived in a small flat up the northern line at Archway. He cooked a very nice meal, which made me feel really great after having to endure the burden of my exams earlier that day. He told me that he was an actor, at present rehearsing in a play starring Susan Hampshire. He handed me a very large photographic album, depicting his career, I looked at it intently.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Sydney asked.

"No," I replied, "Not at the moment."

"Do you like dancing with girls?" Sydney asked concernedly.

"Yes, of course," I replied innocently, taking more in from the photographs than the direction the conversation was heading.

"You're terribly difficult to know," Sydney said.

"There's not much to know about me really," I replied.

I continued browsing through the photographic album.

"You're terribly difficult to know," Sydney said again.

I thought that he must be a very lonely person and that it was just one of his idiosyncrasies.

"You're terribly difficult to know," Sydney stated for the third time.

Why does he keep on saying that. I wondered. Suddenly the penny dropped. Oh no, not one of those, I thought, how could I be so naive and stupid. A shiver went right through me. I looked intently at the photographic album, asking him various questions about each picture, and not really being interested in a reply. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I looked through the album three times wondering what I would do if he made further advances. Attack him or run? Finally, he got the message.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to go for rehearsals now," Sydney said disappointingly.

I could feel the relief flow off me. We entered the city centre by underground, in silence. Just before our parting in Leicester Square, he started getting terribly bitchy, rather like a jilted girlfriend. I could not believe what I was hearing. What a way for a 'man' to behave, I thought. It was definitely not the sort of brain I would have admired in government, I was later to think. Imagine him having to share a cell with my mother-in-law.

My second, and hopefully last encounter with the gay world, took place in Birmingham some three years later. People who go to live in a city, generally start with a bedsitter or flatlet. That was how I began. I had just finished my training course in draughtsmanship, when I decided to stay in Birmingham. There were plenty of night spots, and at that time, plenty of jobs. I lived in a flatlet just up the road from Aston Villa football ground. The house sheltered many dubious characters. One of these was an attractive woman named Jane Carter. I thought she was straight, as what I thought was her boyfriend, would visit her regularly. He looked quite smart in a 'double breasted' suit. A few months later he was arrested, after attempting to take a joint of meat out of a supermarket under his coat. He was taken back to the police station, and only after being ordered to stripped did he admit he was female. Well we all make mistakes, and mine was to give Jane thirty pounds, so that she could find us a decent flat to live in. She used the money instead to pay her girlfriend's fine, after which, they lived happily ever after.

I went to see Jane about the money, at a gay lib disco. One of my mates came along for support, but he was of a timid disposition. He was totally innocent when it came to understanding the world's vices. We were both standing there on the edge of the dance floor, peering into the gyrating darkness, when a tall slim handsome man came up to us. He stood shoulder to shoulder with my mate. When the shoulders started rubbing together, my mate turned to me with a horrified look upon his face. He was petrified. After about a minute of heavy sweating, the tall man turned to his mates. "Um, I don't think he does yea know," the tall man said in an effeminate voice.

My mate could not get out of the place fast enough. He ended up marrying a nymphomaniac, no doubt as an act of bold defiance.

It was my personal opinion that gays were weak minded or perverted individuals, unwilling to accept their traditional role in society. They frequented cities, where there perverted sexual practices went little noticed amongst an anonymous community. They attempted to drag everyone else down to their own base level. They were a threat to the strength of western society, and like a cancer, would eventually eat away at the social infrastructure, resulting in its ultimate demise.

Homosexuality had always existed in developed society. Murals depicting such acts could be seen on the walls of ruined buildings in the Roman city on Pompeii. That of course was before the days of organ transplants, hypodermic needles, intravenous use of blood clotting agents, and flights to Zaire, where the green monkey was thought to be the harbinger of AIDS. The legalization of homosexuality and prostitution through escort agencies, had all helped to exacerbate the problem. In truth, it was not individuals but government that had created the problem of homosexuality and AIDS. In Risley I was to see how that policy had backfired. In the ward at this time was a Glaswegian, who had been picked up by a queer whilst hitch-hiking. He stabbed the driver to death when advances were made towards him, after he agreed to stay the night at his place. He received life imprisonment.

In the past you could laugh at gay lib, but in the early 1980's that laugh slowly disappeared. Gay disco's closed, whilst singles advertisements for gay people slowly vanished from publications. People began to realise that AIDS could spread throughout the country, to all levels of society, and indeed throughout the world, possibly wiping out mankind. Expensive research costing hundreds of millions of pounds was to be carried out, notably in the USA and France. The general feeling was that if enough finance was made available, a vaccine and eventually a cure could be found, possibly by 1990. Hepatitis, syphilis,herpes and now AIDS. Few people were asking themselves whether the cure was not as much social as medical. If AIDS was defeated, what would the next social disease be to threaten mankind?

I thought of such a disease being unconquerable, was frightening. It would not only put an end to the permissive society, but all forms of human contact, including marriage. No one would go to places of public entertainment, as distrust and fear grew. Some countries would adopt an isolationist policy, notably island communities and communist states. A breakdown of world trading patterns would result, leading to more unemployment and greater social unrest. With such a disease ravishing government departments, particularly law enforcement agencies and defence, the populous would turn its back on government and abandon the cities. The breakdown of society into another dark age would be inevitable, particularly if these destabilized governments ended up waging nuclear war.

AIDS was as lethal as bubonic plague, but it could not be defeated simply by killing black rats, cleaning streets and building sewers. A person infected with bubonic plague would be instantly placed in an isolation ward, and yet someone carrying AIDS was allowed to walk the streets, and often knowingly contaminate others. They were committing murder, but no such charges were brought against them. At this time there was no reliable method of mass screening for AlDS. Some people did not think the British government cared anyway judging by its half hearted approach to cervical and breast cancer screening. AIDS was still not a notifiable disease, almost four years after it was first detected in the USA. At this time the fear was that the number of deaths from AIDS would follow an exponential curve. In that event a point would be reached where such preventive measures would be meaningless. AIDS would in that case, not only envelop homosexuals, bi-sexuals, prostitutes, organ recipients and haemophiliacs, but also the remainder of society.

The central African countries of Zaire, Uganda and Zambia were already thought to have reached that point. Here the disease was thought to have been spread by reusable hypodermic needles, or insect vectors such as mosquitoes or bed bugs, or perhaps the people were susceptible due to genetic make up or malnutrition. More than one strain of the disease was thought to exist, each attacking specific parts of the human body, including the brain, producing a form of dementia in young people. The retro virus' ability to mutate, posed added problems to medical scientists attempting to defeat it.

The AIDS scare, or the gay plague as it was popularly called, clearly indicated to the general public just how slow and indecisive government is, not just in the UK, but throughout the world. AIDS would no doubt be conquered, and the results obtained from research, used to combat other illnesses, such as Parkinson's Disease, motor neuron disease, and dementia. History would show whether the huge amounts of money spent, saved more people's lives in the long term, than government dithering killed off.

No sooner had the inmates at Risley relaxed from the AIDS scare, than we had an attack of legionnaire's disease, not far away, at Stafford Hospital, resulting in the deaths of a large number of people. They had gone there for medical assistance, only to be killed off by the hospital's air conditioning system. The cause of the outbreak took a long time to track down. Legionella fed off ferrous piping in water systems. Pipes and water tanks needed to be cleaned every six months, whilst maintaining water systems at very high temperatures and chlorinating them regularly. A more effective alternative was to pass the water over copper and silver tablets. At Risley there was no way that silver would be brought anywhere near this light fingered lot. Instead, we got our water supply chlorinated.

Life in Risley seemingly carried on as usual. The men of the cloth would come around every other day, sorting out inmates spiritual problems. They were no doubt eyeing us up, with the thought of administering last rites and writing a letter to next of kin, for those who succumbed to legionnaire's disease or AIDS. Mr.Pluto would indicate his disgust for religion by bellowing out every swear word he learned at Sunday school, and a few more besides whenever a priest came near him. In his eyes, the only person who was number one, was himself, the Lord being a non-starter. In a word, he was God, and he knew it.

Another member of staff with an extrovert personality, was Mr.Porky. He was a Welshman from Newcastle.

"Where all the men are men, and the women chew tobacco," Mr.Porky would constantly say.

He had strong views on law and order, particularly those related to drug offences.

"Drug addicts! They are worse than animals, as no animal on Earth subjects itself to such abuse," Mr.Porky would often say.

He often said that he would never retire.

"Working here every day is like watching candid camera. When I retire they'll have to push me out in a wheelchair," he said defiantly.

In the early morning Mr.Porky would often hand the shaving mirror to some unsuspecting inmate, and as the inmate was looking at his own reflection, he would say, "If you see that man, tell the police, they're looking for him." At the end of each meal, the staff had to count the inmates, then telephone the hospital officer in the ground floor office, informing him of the number.

"Fifteen in the dangerous ward," he would often say.

He did not like pop music, so whenever it came on television, he would retire to the ward office, and demonstrate his contempt by putting a chair up against the door.

One day Mr.Porky was explaining to the inmates how he would get rid of all the drug addicts in the country, by lacing the hard drugs in chemist's shops with rat poison, then let the addicts steel them. This was to be the coup de grace to the nation's illicit drug problem. One of the inmates, Lord Muck, did not like what he was hearing, especially when he heard the comment about drug addicts being worse than animals. Being a smack head, he threatened Mr.Porky with physical violence. Mr.Porky had to remind him where he was. Our Lord Muck, a title my mother use to give to my father whenever he fell behind in his chores, came from Merseyside.

"The largest open prison in the country," Mr.Porky would call it.

Mr.Porky was a very likeable character, except to scoucers and smackheads.
One morning as I was mopping out the wash room as usual, Lord Muck came in and started brushing his teeth. All of us except his highness were busily working away, cleaning the ward. After spending ten minutes brushing his teeth, he then wandered off. I found him next, hiding in the bathroom.

"Why aren't you working, everyone else is?" I asked.

Now anyone else would have grudgingly picked up a bucket and started cleaning, but not Lord Muck. He had the cheek to start arguing the toss. Well I was not standing for that, so I walked out onto the landing between A and B ward, where all the staff had congregated for a chat. Very few of the staff actually liked supervising the cleaning. In that respect, they were as bone idle as many of the inmates. I asked the member of staff for A ward to try and find some work for Lord Muck. To my surprise, Lord Muck then arrived on the scene, then proceeded to tell the staff why he considered himself too good to do any work. I went back to my cleaning duties in the bathroom, when low and behold, in comes Lord Muck.

"Would you mind putting that mop down for ten minutes whilst I talk to you?" Lord Muck commanded.

I stormed out of the bathroom incensed, telling the staff that I could no longer put up with him. The staff then gave him a cleaning job downstairs.

A few days later I was cleaning with my mop again. We were short of cleaners that morning, as many of the lads had gone to make their remand appearances. After cleaning the wash room floor with my mop, I then started cleaning the recess near the grill gate. This area was normally cleaned by another lad. Lord Muck meanwhile, had decided to meditate on the lavatory seat, whilst the remainder of us were all busily cleaning. Having evidently got a load off his mind, he then came out to confront me.

"You're supposed to clean that floor with a scrubbing brush," Lord Muck advised.

Well, I had learned from my ill fated experiences with my in-laws, that I should not keep my feelings bottled up.

"Why don't you get down on your knees and bloody clean it, instead of letting everyone else carry you along," I yelled defiantly.

The hospital officer then came out of the ward's office and told me to shut up. Evidently he was seeking the quiet life. I therefore returned to my cleaning.

During those ten months on A ward, I had often felt like going back downstairs, into a single cell. After this latest skirmish, I decided that my own good health came first, and that someone else would have to clean the toilets in future. I therefore ended up in cell 007, licensed for the insane, at my own request. The cells on the ground floor constituted the real funny farm, where in my opinion Lord Muck should have been sent. It was men like him who would father Britain's next generation of villains. What a thought.

I preferred being on the ground floor, as it afforded me greater privacy. Neither did I have to worry so much about my belongings being stolen. It was quieter, though when the noise started it was usually very loud. The cell lights I could switch on and off as I pleased. The lights along the landing were switched off at around 10pm. The floodlights outside the hospital lit up the cell, but an inmate could position his bed so that his face was in shadow, an option which was not available upstairs as there was insufficient space. The floodlights around the hospital were white argon arc lamps, whilst further away around the square, yellow sodium street lights were kept on all night. One of the disadvantages of being on the ground floor was the smell, particularly from the stripped cells, as the chamber pots emitted a certain odour since they were not air tight. In that respect it was best to do your thing between meal times and the slopping out period which followed. During the night the night watchman would make occasional visits along the landing, in his shoeless feet. Carrying a time recorder, he would insert a key into it which hung from a chain at the end of each ground floor landing and outside the wards on the first and second floors. The night staff were required to make a certain number of trips during the night, most of these being carried out at the beginning and end of his watch, enabling a bit of kip in between.

When para suicide cases were in the stripped cells, the night watchman would be required to visit that cell every fifteen minutes. It often proved necessary. At night two members of staff were located in the main ground floor office, close to the telephone and alarms. During the day the offices were occupied by senior staff, so a hospital officer would occupy a small table located at the end of each closed ward, near the bathroom. Here he would read a newspaper if there was nothing else to do. Often a loon would call out for the 'boss.' As they could not see him, the boss would usually ignore them, and pretend that he was not there. Each member of staff knew that if you answered one command, another half a dozen would quickly follow. Hospital officers were not waiters. During the times I spent cleaning the ground floor landings, the only thing the inmates wanted usually, was some water to drink or a light for a cigarette.

Being in a cell on my own was a lonely experience. After a few weeks I began talking to myself. Although it was possible to talk to other inmates, few if any could hold a serious conversation. I therefore spent much of my time cleaning, reading, or gazing out of the window for long periods. From my cell window I could see the same lawns and trees that I had seen for the last ten months, but the shrubs were now only two metres away, presenting a haven for sparrows, starlings and the occasional blackbird or robin. A large audience of birds could be quickly assembled by throwing a slice of bread out of the window. Watching the starlings and sparrows fight over the food before the seagulls swooped down, I found more entertaining than watching television. There was never a shortage of bread.

Upon my arrival in cell 007, I was presented with two filthy blankets and a bedspread. I made my bed with the two sheets I had brought down with me from A ward, but there were no pillows. During my entire stay at Risley there was always a shortage of pillows and jackets. Everywhere one looked there was filth. It took me two days to clean the cell with diluted disinfectant and a green scrubbing pad. Food, mucus, excrement, dried semen and an abundance of graffiti decorated the walls, floor, windows and furniture. Dried food ran down the door, where plates and bowls had been passed between the vertical bars. Hour after hour I spent rubbing away at the grub, snot, shit, spunk and crude art work. On the third day I had a bath, and with a supply of clean clothes, blankets and sheets, I began to settle down to the routine.

Each day would start the same. At about 6-45am some sadistic bastard would ring the fire alarm bell, on and on. Just as you were starting to drift off to sleep again, the bell would start tolling for thee. The hospital officer would then come around and switch the cell light on. I would then nip out of bed and switch it off. There was little point in getting out of bed before 7-45am, as inmates on the ground floor could not have a wash and shave until after breakfast, at eight. There was so little to eat for breakfast that I could never understand why I bothered to get up for it. Some inmates abstained, causing frustration for the staff, who would have a devil of a time getting them up later. The cure for this problem was for the staff to assume that if an inmate did not want breakfast, then he obviously did not want lunch either. In practice, at lunchtime, the sleepers were usually let out at the very last minute. After breakfast came slopping out and or cleaning, since some members of staff carried out slopping out before breakfast.

Slopping out was a great British tradition, rather like a hearty fried breakfast, if you could get one. Some traditions the Home Office observed, whilst others it conveniently ignored. The tradition of slopping out goes way back to Norman times, when the only sunlight an inmate saw was when he was unchained from the walls, dragged from the dungeon and obliged to baptise the moat. The Home Office reluctantly decided to scrap this policy in their new Victorian prisons, when it was realised that American tourists only wanted to visit the ultra clean Tower of London, and not the real McCoy. Which is why British prisons which look like castles, have no moat, and do not charge an entrance fee either.

That was a joke to cheer you up. For those of a nervous disposition, do not read further.

During slopping out we would carry our chamber pots to the far end of the landing, taking great care not to spill the contents onto the floor, and above all avoiding a collision with other inmates, or worse, a member of staff. We would queue up to tip the contents down the sluice, above which was a spring loaded tap with which I could wash my pot clean. A lavatory brush was also provided. Inevitably some idiot would block up the sluice or flush toilet. Unblocking pipes was a never ending job at Risley. Slopping out was a degrading exercise, emptying your pot in full view of others, whilst trying often without success to avoid stepping into urine and excrement inadvertently spilt by zombies. Each morning at this time, half the prison population of England and Wales, almost twenty thousand human beings, would be performing this very nauseating task.

At mealtimes we would trudge along the same landing used for slopping out. We would wait outside the wash room for the grill gates to open, whereupon we would then walk to the ground floor servery. The menu was the same as that for the open wards. We would take our food, together with a mug of tea or soup, back to our cells for consumption. Some inmates found difficulty in carrying it back to their cells without spilling it, owing to their disability or the effects of drug therapy.

If each cell had had its own shower, hand basin and flush toilet made from stainless steel, and a door hatch which allowed food to be passed through from the heated trolley, then less than half of the existing staff would have been needed. More cells could have been provided in the space occupied by the bathroom and wash room, whilst a better environment for inmates would have been created. Better facilities would have attracted better staff, but very little thought, had gone into the design of Risley. Initial cost won the day. No thought had been given to noise, a pleasing interior design, nor the importance of using fixed non-combustible furniture raised off the floor for easy cleaning. As with the architecture, little thought was given to the treatment of prisoners. Treat a person like an animal for years and that is precisely what is unleashed upon society when that parole date or EDR arrives. Without experiencing decent conditions in prison, an inmate from a deprived background has nothing to aspire to when he or she finally experiences freedom.

Being in a closed ward meant that I no longer had to worry about what was on TV, since there was not one available. I could read a newspaper in peace and actually hear myself think. No noise from televisions or game players. No urinal flushing all night, nor fooling around after lights out. Above all I could lie on my bed whenever I felt like it. Surprisingly I found the shouting of deranged inmates comical, although there were to be a few exceptions when it dragged on for days. It took a while to get use to not having direct access to a hand basin and flush toilet.

Some inmates would throw urine out of the windows and excrement onto the landing for unwary staff to step into first thing in the morning, when they were bleary eyed. In some British prisons it was still the accepted norm to throw excreta, wrapped in newspapers, out of the cell window at night rather than put up with the smell. They were called shit parcels.

As I was a more reliable and trusted inmate, I was let out occasionally to clean the closed ward's bathroom, wash room, landing and the occasional cell. Cells occupied by inmates who lacked the ability to clean them, were in a disgusting condition. Cleaning cells usually involved cleaning the floor, walls and windows with a mop, making the bed with clean sheets and blankets, which had to be fetched from the linen stores on the second floor, and emptying the chamber pot whilst holding my breath for as long as possible. I discovered that it was not the sight of filth that affects a person, so much as the smell of it.

All of the ten ordinary cells in the closed ward were occupied. Most of the inmates were reasonably quiet, with the exception of two who were noisy on occasion. One of these was called Budgie, as he had a habit of whistling like a bird of paradise, The other, Scotty, was very down to Earth.

"Officer, officer! mister Stone, mister Stone!" yelled Budgie.

Mr.Stone was the medical officer on duty that particular week. He was a nice chap, possessing a sense of humour and level temperament. Like many in the prison service he had been in the RAF specializing in photography, and had also worked on the Battle of Britain Flight.

"Mr.Stone, Mr.Stone!" cried Budgie again.

"Hey Scotty, where's Mr.Stone?" asked Budgie to another inmate.

"He's sitting on his arse," replied Scotty.

"Hey you lot," shouted Mr.Stone, "Shut up!"

Mr.Stone was evidently engaged in the serious pursuit of exercising his grey matter, by sitting at the small table at the end of the landing, reading his newspaper. I envied Mr.Stone's personality and wondered whether the conflicts with my in-laws would have turned out the way they did if my introvert personality had instead been like his.

One of the three stripped cells in the ward was occupied by what can only be described as a shrivelled up version of Mick Jagger. Each morning he was led out to the wash room, where his disorientated mind would fail to recognize such basic items as a hand basin. As I cleaned the landing, another inmate mopped out this stripped cell and carefully kicked out the used paper plate and plastic cutlery. Also on the floor was a brown paper bowl, brim full with urine. The urine would be poured down the sluice, then the bowl thrown into the dustbin, after being washed out in order to reduce the smell in the ward. The stripped cell cleaner would throw the single rip resistant sheet onto the foam mattress as he continued to clean the floor. The sunlight through the glass bricks gave a foreboding church like atmosphere to the unfurnished room. The smell was overpowering. Definitely no forced draught central heating here.

"Good country air that," remarked Mr.Stone.

The speaker at the end of the landing, as if controlled by a DJ with a sick sense of humour, was broadcasting the Amen Corner song, "If paradise is half as nice,,,,,."
The stripped cell inmate, wearing rip resistant baggy shorts and smock, apparently unaware of his surroundings, was led back into his cell. Was this the last stage before death itself, I wondered. His brain was scrambled by drug abuse, whilst obviously unfit to stand trial. I felt lucky at having avoided a similar fate.

There was Jim, twenty years old, in for psychiatric reports. Like most inmates he came from Merseyside. He was a small meek person, illiterate with a speech impediment. What future was there for him in a society which had four million unemployed? Sometimes he would say something to me four times and still I would not understand him. How could a doctor write an accurate medical report on such a person? Only one word sprang to mind, despair. Whilst the local authority had tried to support him through sheltered workshops, in the real world of the human jungle he had never stood a chance. There was no shelter out there from the wave of crime that consumed all the small flotsam in its wake.

What I saw in that closed ward filled me with despair and depression. At night, as I lay there thinking about these unfortunate people, I would become depressed and the tears would flow uncontrollably. But this was no way for a man of thirty-six years of age to behave. One had to replace the feeling with outrage, and yes, even hatred, towards those politicians who had created such a sick society.

In the early hours of the morning the nightingale could be heard singing, or was it budgie doing his bird imitations? The almost daily ritual of coaches, mini buses and taxis taking inmates to court, soon got into full swing. Scotty was in a foul mood. He started the day by shouting out of the window at the screws walking past.

"I'm gonna stick a skewer through yea throat, and bite yea balls off and roast 'em!

I'm gonna tear yea innards out, and fry 'em before your eyes. And then I'm gonna gouge your eyes out, because I'm a Scot!"

One of the officers walking past his cell window, told him to calm down, but it did no good. With his throat now hoarse he used another tactic. Picking up his chair, he threw it time and again at the barred windows. The gulls flying past his window issued forth their mocking cry. Gradually, with all energy spent, silence reigned.

After breakfast my daily ritual of feeding the sparrows and starlings would take place. The occasional appearance of a blackbird or robin would remind me that I had now been in Risley almost a year. I would also throw out bacon rind which the small birds would ignore. The black headed gulls on the other hand were forever on the alert. Within seconds, one of them would dive to the ground as others circled overhead. Invariably the bacon rind would be swallowed whole as other gulls chased the victor, who would make a broad circle over the lawns, then settle on top of a lamp post located outside my cell. With a lowered head it would call out in triumph to the others. The next day there would be another victor standing on the rostrum, but until then only the present glory mattered. I could not help envying the birds, for only they had a genuine freedom within the walls of Risley. Although the birds had a short and dangerous life span. I could not help wishing I was one of them, at least until I had flown over that perimeter wall.

Each day would always end with the clanging of doors, the grinding of locks and the marching of heavy feet along the landing, as the day shift commenced their mad rush home. The nights would usually bring wind and rain. The heat from the radiator, too hot to touch, would mysteriously vanish out of the gaps in the windows and through the ridiculously large expanse of window pane. Many times during the night the cold would waken me, only to go to sleep after putting on an extra blanket which I kept rolled up in my pillow case, owing to the shortage of pillows. Normally inmates had three blankets and a bedspread each. The blankets were of low quality. Before the new boiler house was built, inmates had to sit on the radiators, during the winter, to keep warm.

In my cell at nights, the rain would lash against the windows but fail to remove the shite off them. On the outside, the dirt on them usually consisted of food dropped from the upper floors when the windows were left open. On the inside of the windows the dirt usually consisted of dried urine, resulting from inmates throwing their piss pots against the window bars. During my stay at Risley I saw the exterior walls of the hospital painted twice, and the windows cleaned pathetically on a couple of occasions. In truth the windows were never clean. Maybe the people outside did not want to see the human garbage looking out. Nobody it appears, wanted to see the interior of the hospital painted. There were only four coats of paint on the walls of one cell I was in. They had not been painted for years, whilst the discolouring of the plastic window panes, probably caused by sunlight, added to the depressing atmosphere.

The days past by quickly or slowly depending on the mood I was in, and also whether I was preoccupied with enough work. In addition to helping to pass the time, there were other advantages to working;

1. I could use the toilets when I wished.

2. It gave we a sense of achievement.

3. It stopped me from talking to myself, since I would be talking more to staff and other inmates.

4. I would be simply too busy to feel depressed.

Working would have been an even greater therapy had it been less disgusting and hopefully more technically demanding.

On this particular day Scotty had gone to court after blocking up the sluice with newspapers, excreta and cigarette packets. Naturally it fell to me to unblock it, after breakfast. Using rubber gloves I put the cigarette packets in the dustbin, then flushed the loo, whilst giving the blockage a helping hand, always remembering to hold my breath. After cleaning the wash room with a mop, I swept the landing. Standing next to me was Peter. He occupied the cell opposite mine. He was none too pleased that morning as he said that someone had stolen his Biro and book. At first he thought that I had taken it, as I was the only one not locked up. It was clear to me that Peter was mentally disturbed, but which mental illness he suffered from, I did not know..

Usually it was impossible to tell what illness an inmate suffered from as most inmates had their symptoms suppressed by drugs, and of course their past medical history was not known to me. Peter and I seemed to get on all right. In his present state he was not the violent type, rather sorrowful really. Like many inmates he had difficulty in speech, not that speech was of much use on the ground floor, since few inmates believed the stories of others. Many of the inmates had not the intelligence to make up a good story, whilst I was never in the mood to listen to a load of gibberish. Peter was finally locked away in his cell, whereupon I got on with mopping the landing.

I had almost finished mopping when activity around stripped cell number thirteen became apparent. The staff opened the double overlapping doors. As the radio played Art Garfunkel's 'Bright Eyes' the hospital officers entered the cell. They read out the riot act to the inmate, who refused to be impressed. The inmate was then unceremoniously dragged from the cell, one officer to each arm, whilst the third officer pulled at the long black hair of what appeared to be a naked ape. They dragged him along the landing to the bathroom. Amid cries of protest and much splashing of water, the naked ape was seemingly transformed into a water baby. Still protesting, the bright eyed victim was dragged back to cell thirteen, but this time instead of pulling on his wet hair, the third officer pulled on a twisted towel wrapped around the inmate's neck. The inmate's legs banged against the cell door as he was dragged into the unfurnished room, which I had in the meantime cleaned out. He had evidently protested to the end, for instead of using the cardboard potty he crapped on his paper plate, which befell me to dispose of. It was also my task to mop out the bathroom.

There were three cells that needed cleaning that day, cells one, two and three. The floors and walls up to a height of two metres were cleaned with a mop. The beds were stripped of blankets, sheets and pillowcases, then remade with clean bedding. Few inmates on the ground floor knew how to make a bed, and those that I made were usually a jumbled mess by the end of the day.

Cell number two, normally occupied by Scotty, was the filthiest. I emptied his plastic chamber pot, b ut the urine had hardened around the side, which even a lavatory brush could not remove. This was quite normal, for all the chamber pots were replaced after a few months. Chamber pots stank just as much empty as when full. On the cell floor there were food scraps and cutlery everywhere. The room stank, whilst the dim sunlight penetrating through the dirty windows presented an aura of decay. There were large areas of cell wall where all the paint had come off. I bundled up the bed sheets and prison clothes, keeping them at arms length, so as not to foul mine. These I would deposit at the entrance to the ward where the laundry lads, wearing plastic gloves, would later collect them. His slippers, caked inside with excrement, I placed quickly in the dustbin, always remembering to hold my breath.

Mopping out the three cells was hard work, especially Budgie's. I had to change the water in the mop bucket several times, before finally in mid-afternoon the task was complete. It was obvious to me that these cells had not been cleaned for many weeks. Since cleaners were not paid, and few inmates saw hard work as a means of keeping fit, the likelihood of finding a suitable cleaner to replace me eventually, looked slim. I somehow doubted whether the inmates whose cells I had cleaned, would be grateful for what I had done, when they returned from court that evening.

As I lay on my bed exhausted, after all that cleaning, a large brown envelope arrived for me. I thought it was one of my magazines, which my mother forwarded onto me each week. To my disbelief, I discovered that it contained details of a life insurance policy. What insurance company in their right mind would want to insure me in these surroundings? I, who ran the risk of picking up one of any number of diseases. As I lay there on my bunk in the evening, I would listen to the radio squawking away at the far end of the landing, whilst watching my twinkling wandering companion, Venus, traverse across the night sky eclipsed by successive bars on my cell window, as the Earth slowly rotated on its axis. It was a quiet but visible indication of my sentence slowly dissipating away. During those moments I would often think of my wife and Fluff, whether they too were looking up at that solitary light, and wondering if I too was watching it from some far off place.

Friday, March 8th, 1985, the start of another day. My first cleaning duty was stripped cell thirteen. Unlucky for some. The water baby who normally occupied that cell, had been taken to court first thing that morning. As I opened the blue double doors the usual stench greeted me. On the red floor lay his dirty foam mattress, covered by grey rip proof sheets. Our friend obviously had an artistic talent, which he felt needed expressing to good effect, for on the cream coloured walls were two drawings which looked like the sides of multi-storey buildings. A third figure looked like a letter 'T', with a circle above it. Our friend had lacked the usual painting materials, but being undeterred he used the first material to come to hand, his own nauseating brown shit.

Mr.Pardon told me not to clean the walls of cell thirteen as the occupant would be returning later that day. Personally, I did not like the idea of not cleaning it, as the excrement would harden, making it more difficult to remove later. Also, although the other inmates could not see the cave art, they could certainly smell it, and did not like it, any more than I. I however, obeyed instructions, cleaning only the floor. I could not do more without a mask. The only ventilation was through four small grills which proved totally inadequate. After cleaning the stripped cell I began cleaning the landing, then returned to my cell.

Budgie was at his cell door, talking to me from a distance. As he did so he spat out a pip from an orange he was eating. At that moment a screw walked past, on the way to the YP's wing.

"Are you spitting at me?" asked the prison officer.

Budgie, being simple minded did not know what to say. The screw demanded an apology and when he did not get it, produced his keys, unlocked Budgie's cell door and marched in. A couple of seconds later he marched back out again, presumably when he saw the orange in Budgie's hand. In Risley, most of the doors could be opened with one or two keys. I was surprised that prison officers were allowed in the hospital. let alone had access to the cells. After all, they were not trained in medical matters and therefore failed to understand the limitations of some of the hospital's inmates.

After the usual cleaning, I also cleaned the two other stripped cells. One of these had been occupied by our Mick Jagger look-alike. He had just had a bath, and had now been allocated an ordinary cell. He had certainly improved his appearance since his arrival. In his vacated stripped cell was the usual cardboard potty full of urine and excrement. The bowl was ripped and leaked fluid as I carried it to the wash room for disposal. In the corners of the cell were four large pools of urine, whilst high up on the wall and in the middle of the ceiling, were two large pieces of turd, baked hard by the suffocating heat.

I learned later that day that I was to be sent back to A ward. The inmate I had had an argument with almost two weeks before, was now in the cells in the other closed ward, so my return to A ward would hopefully be painless. No sooner was I in A ward however, than I was called back downstairs, by Mr.Pardon. Evidently our artist friend from cell thirteen would not be returning, as the magistrate had let him off with a small fine. I was therefore obliged to clean the cell. I was not in a lenient mood at that moment, as I could not help thinking that if magistrates and judges were obliged to clean the cells of the inmates who came before them, then I was quite certain they would get a clearer understanding of the accused. Mulling over in my mind was also the thought that Mr.Pardon could have proved his worth by cleaning the cell himself. I fumed to myself. There he stood, wearing his immaculately starched shirt, fashionable beatle crushers, and expertly knotted clip-on tie. Next he'll want me to wipe his arse for him, I thought.

I was in A ward only four days, when the doctor decided that I was too depressed, so I had to go back downstairs. In reality, the staff on duty in A ward had tried to get me to talk about my problems. As far as I was concerned my problems were personal and as nothing good could come from talking about them, it was best to leave things in peace. At this time I was deeply troubled by the divorce proceedings. I had written to my wife every couple of months. More than that I thought, her sister would give her too much earache. I never received a reply to my letters. I never expected any, as she could only print and did not know how to post a letter. Once, when I got back home from my TOPS course, I found three letters in envelopes with stamps on them, in her handbag. They were addressed to me. She had forgotten to post them, or simply did not know how. I opened the envelopes and read each letter. They were all the same, and so easy to remember.

I was deeply moved by those letters. They were the only love letters I had ever received from anyone.

I was deeply disappointed by the thought of divorce. I felt that so much time and effort would soon prove to have been wasted. In my letters to my wife I kept my disappointments to myself, presenting a cheerful front, in the hope that she would change her mind. In March 1985 I received a letter from my solicitor, stating that there was no way of stopping the divorce. In a place full of mad hatters, I had to face reality and print one final letter to my wife, in words that I hoped she would understand.

Well that, was that. The end of a dream. The end of a meaning to my life. What sort of a future was there for both of us, alone?

Soon after returning to my old cell. Peter was moved out, and a young chap I will call Howler, moved in. Every inmate had a card with their name and number on it, together with their sentence. These cards were displayed above the cell door. Most people including myself had a white one. Howler had a red card. I use to think that red cards were handed out to trouble makers, as many of them were, including Howler. One day I was given a red card and felt most upset about it.

"Why have I got a red card?" I asked.

"Oh, we've run out of white ones," replied Mr.Porky.

"But why red?" I asked.

"Red stands for Roman Catholic, white for protestants and blue for everything else," explained Mr.Porky.

"I've got my white card here," I soon announced.

"Well give us it here then," said Mr.Porky, replacing the red card with the white.

I felt greatly relieved at knowing that I had not been demoted in some way, after all, in Risley RC's were known as left footers or rat catchers.

There were many rat catchers in the remand centre, most of whom came from Merseyside and were descendants of Irish immigrants, who failed to follow their kith and kin by migrating further, to the Americas. One such person was Jim O'Hare, in the cell next to Howler. He looked disturbingly like my next door neighbour at Gwalchmai, Gwilym Owen. There was however one great difference, Jim would talk, talk, talk, without one stutter. I made a point therefore of not listening to him, and of not looking at him for fear of triggering off this symptom.

On this particular day, someone was exercising his democratic right of protest, by banging on the cell door of a stripped cell, shouting for the boss, over and over again. It was lunchtime, so the boss was out.

"Boss! Boss!" Bang, bang, bang, bang, "Boss! Boss!"

"Shut up!" shouted the relief officer sitting at the landing table, looking at page three.

"I want the boss!" the stripped cell occupant screamed.

"No," shouted O'Hare, taking over from the relief officer.

"I want a piss pot," shouted the man in the stripped cell.

"You can't have one," replied O'Hare, obviously enjoying his new role in talking to a captive conversationalist.

Now the man in the stripped cell obviously thought that 0'Hare was a member of staff, as he carried on shouting to him.

"I want a fucking piss pot!" he screamed again whilst banging on the cell door.

"No you definitely can't have one," said O'Hare in his Irish accent.

"Why not?" asked the stripped cell occupant.

"Because I can't give yea one," replied O'Hare, which was perfectly true since he was also locked up.

"Fucking shut up the lot of yea!" yelled the relief officer, obviously feeling the strain.

I carried on reading my magazine, 'BAe set for INMARSAT order' read one title, whilst another read 'Europe leads research into optical computing.' It all seemed worlds away. The radio news came on. Both sides in the Iran-Iraq war were claiming victories. It all sounded reminiscent of the claims in the year long miner's strike, which ended a week previously, in 'victory' for the National Coal Board. After the noise from the stripped cell had subsided, we could hear pop songs coming over the loud speaker, but this time it appeared to be in rather nerve shattering stereo. The inmate in the cell opposite mine finally earned his nickname. In a pathetic attempt at stardom, his howling to the tunes on the radio went on and on. I found it unbearable. Upstairs it was television from 1pm to 10pm, whilst downstairs its bloody radio from 8am to 3pm. There was never a moments peace, with banging doors, clanking locks, thudding boots along the landing, and now imitations of a basset hound. My teeth grated together as my heart pounded. My knuckles went white as I suddenly lashed out with my right fist, during another fit. I felt hot all over my face and chest as I breathed heavily. At the next meal I will kill the bastard, I thought. How can I keep my sanity when he goes on and on, howling.

That day I was escorted across the square to a small room adjacent to the chapel where I had my mug shots taken, one full face and one profile. After ten and a half months in Risley, I thought that I was about to move on, but none of the staff appeared to know when. That night I crapped in my piss pot for the first time. I had found the call of nature too loud. The round plastic bowl did not appear to be big enough for both functions to be performed at the same time, so I had to anticipate what would flow next, or end up with a stinking cell floor. I eventually discovered that no matter what the degradation, a human being could quickly get use to it,,,,,at least I could, I thought.

A few days later I was returned to A ward.