Prison Staff

To talk about "prison staff" is an invitation to fall into the same trap that catches those who talk of "prisoners". There is no homogeneous group to which particular characteristics can be ascribed, either when talking about staff or prisoners. Each collective comprises a disparate amalgamation of types, personalities, interests, needs and intentions.

That said.....The place of prison officers in the debates around reoffending is that of bystander. I have yet to see any mention of the role or influence of staff in the discussion, they are treated as an irrelevance. And yet wing staff - the archetypal screw - are the authority figures which have the most dealings with prisoners and so could be said have the potential to influence their charges.

Some may recall my brief appearance on the (illegal!) blog run by anonymous prison staff. in good faith I was hoping to generate debate, to tease out any strands of common humanity that may exist between staff and cons. As ever, I was challenging but never abusive, playing the argument and not the man.

This was a dismal failure. I was bombarded by abuse, banned from the site and was followed by some screws who take advantage of my anti-censorship stance to post abuse here on my blog. And even though i failed to create dialogue, the attempt was instructive in the sense of gaining an insight into the outlook and belief systems of some staff. And I stress that caveat, "some staff". Generalising from those posting on their blog is as meaningless as generalising about prisoners from my blog.

There is a mindset amongst some staff that lags somewhat behind the research.....Crime is simply a matter of free choices and crims make such choices deliberately. And it follows from such views that prison staff have no role to play in reducing reoffending; it is nothing to do with them.

Of course, such a view of criminality is far removed from the reality, where crime is committed by the stupid, desperate, addicted, drunk, mentally ill....and the selfish. To suggest that prison staff have no role is to reduce them to being very expensive turnkeys.

The divide between some staff and prisoners may be important in shaping the view that the crim has of society as a whole. As a carrier of societies attitudes, as a barometer of authority, then being dealt with by staff who believe that you are "scum" or "vermin" (as said here and on their blog) inevitably colours your view of society - and then your view of whether it is either possible or sensible to try to live a straight life.

The role of Probation staff, Education staff and Psychology staff within prisons is debated and they are attributed with a place in reducing offending. it is strange that the staff most in contact with prisoners, then, is relegated to a sidenote, a caricature, and that this is allowed to pass unchallenged.

That some staff embrace a view of indifference to any role in reoffending is an abrogation of professional as well as social responsibility. we pay the price for it, both in their healthy terms of employment and in terms of future victims.

Prison staff should be challenged, not only for any wrongful acts they commit (brutality at Dartmoor, Scrubs and Frankland are low-lights of such) but for their deliberate refusal to engage with those they call "vermin". Because they have immense opportunities to change attitudes and to encourage the exploration of new, pro social, paths in life and the neglect of this potential is itself criminal.

The Turning of The Screw

Staff are beginning to notice this tiny corner of the web. Perhaps their home life is so dull that surfing is their escape, or maybe they have so little to do on duty that perusing my waffle is one way to fill the hours.

This has had consequences. After a somewhat spiky encounter a couple of weeks ago, one screw asked if he'd done enough to get a mention here? Search for "silverback" to find that answer.. And this morning, a Senior Officer paused during locking me up to take me task for always referring to "prison officers" as "screws". He was politely offended, insisting that he was a professional man, a prison officer...not a screw.

The origin of the word, screw, is disputed. The most favoured explanation is that it comes from the early Separate system. Each cell was equipped with a box with a crank handle, and the prisoner had to turn the handle so many thousand revolutions per 8 hour day. Prison staff could make the turning of the handle easier or harder by adjusting a screw...

We use the term "screw" in a not particularly pejorative way, much as staff refer to us as "cons". That is, "convicted prisoners". No insult is intended; we have other terms for screws we don't like, the most common being "a dog". And so, much though this Senior Officer doesn't like it, I'm sticking to "screw". Sorry guv!
And in passing, a manager I've cheerfully baited for the last few years mentioned that he read the blog and that I "sound quite reasonable" at times. Two things struck me about that. Firstly, it shows just how much they would really know me if they actually bothered to engage with me. And more worryingly, where have I gone wrong if Governors think I'm reasonable??

Master of Go

I have been trying to play the game of Go for twenty years. This isn't helped by my only ever meeting a handful of other prisoner who had even heard of it and only one who could actually play.

In solitary, board-games are not really facilitated and I felt the deprivation. Endless hours and nothing to fill the time.

So I decided to make a Go board and pieces (stones). The board, a 19 X 19 grid, was easily scraped on the floor. The stones were made of wads of wet toilet paper, using a biro to stain one half black. There are 361 stones in Go.

Every time I went out on exercise, the screws would sneak into my cell and scrub out the board and steal the stones. Each day I made a new set.

I didn't get any better at Go, but I did fill the endless empty hours.

Professionalsim

Prison staff hate to be called "warders". No, they insist that they are called "prison officers", a professional class.

Some of the terms they have for prisoners include: scrotes, mongs, numpties, cons, creatures, beasts, animals, and my favourite, bodies.

Professionalism. Ain't it grand?

Helpful Screws

In a fit of absent mindedness I seem to have overlooked mentioning screws so far. This may seem strange, in that the staff who are in the front line of regulating my daily life should be the ones who have the greatest effect. Far more of an effect than management.

This varies by prison and regime. This place, being tiny and all lifers, is extremely laid back. I am generally left well alone, with the most substantial interaction with staff being as they tick me off as I pick up my meals.

Even so, there are significant differences between staff. There are those who are plain lazy and to be worked around when things need doing. There are those who are efficient, taking a professional pride in doing a job. These tend to be swamped, as we go to these staff rather than the lazy ones.

Then there are the staff we happily call 'dogs'. And many of them are proud of the label. Staff who are dogs are particularly strict, their lodestone in life is the rulebook. I have always felt that these staff lack a sense of confidence, they have an inability to use their judgement according to the circumstances or the individuals involved. They are a pain in the arse.

And then there are 'sensible' staff. They do possess self confidence, they do appreciate that there is more to life than rules and their lodestone tends to be to get things done, and doing things which avoid raising tensions unnecessarily.

These are the staff that can make or break a prison regime. The proportions of these various types of staff are a key factor in whether a prison is a 'good' one or a 'bad' one.

This is by way of showing my appreciation for a couple of staff who have recently been presented with a situation and dealt with it with flexibility and common sense. But I won't be making a habit of this! And if only governors could be so sensible...

Urinal Fishing

It could be the title of a new, rather strange, game invented by men with too much time on their hands.

It's funnier than that. A Principle Officer, £40,000 quid’s worth of prison service talent, believes a con has been grabbing a sly fag in the education loo.

Rather than dish out a ticking off, the PO decides to equip himself with gloves and evidence bags and go trawling for fag ends down the bog. This is CSI on a budget.

Surreally, when the PO then presented these at the disciplinary hearing in their little baggies (he pressed a charge), he didn't claim that any of them belonged to the miscreant. 

Perhaps he was just a little attracted to the smell of pee?  Or is there just a very strong fan base of CSI amongst screws?

PS the charge was thrown out.

A Little Night Entertainment

I had a mouse. Or rather, a mouse decided to move in whilst I wasn't looking. It took a little while for me to realise, until there were too many glimpses of hairy lumps flitting about to allow me a state of blissful denial. It was fine by me. We lived alongside each other in a spirit of non-interference, except for the occasional biscuit I'd leave in an accessible point.

Until I went rummaging through my mail. The little bastard had made his home in a box of letters, shredding the lot into little pieces to make himself comfortable. He just had to move on.

Ever tried to catch a mouse? The cell was only 7 feet square, a bed, table, chair and locker. And still he ran me ragged, flitting from one obstacle to another, giving me the beady eye along the way. The only time I got close earned me a bite on my thumb. It turns out that mice have needle-sharp teeth.

One night the little bugger was keeping me awake and it seemed sensible to execute a major assault. I am in the habit of sleeping naked, but I put on socks as mittens to protect me from being bitten again. Armed with a 12 inch ruler to prod the bugger from under the furniture, I set about the hunt. From corner to corner, bed to locker, the little sod ran me ragged as I crawled around the cell. Having my knackers waving in the breeze only made me more determined. Mousey won the day. He skipped past me, flattened himself, and slid under the cell door, never to return.

The next morning I was given a message from the night-patrol staff. They had sneakily been watching this fiasco through the door's Judas-hole and just wanted to say “thanks for the entertainment”.