The power of paper in prison is immense. It causes far more damage than any blade or bludgeon. And staff use it with a vengeance.
Before every parole hearing, staff submit reports making their recommendations. A favourite way to screw a man over is to make a recommendation that he does some 'offending behaviour course'. It's too late to do it before the parole hearing, so the parole board will then insist the man remains in prison to complete this course. Job done, stitch-up implemented.
You may think that this recommendation for psychological treatments is not unreasonable when applied to people who have committed horrible crimes. And I would see where you're coming from.
But it is all in the timing. If a man has served, say, 15 years and been in this prison 3 years, to pull a new course out of the hat just before a parole hearing begs the question.
If he needs it, why was it not recommended before? So, were staff incompetent then, or malicious now? And this is merely one of the many ways our progress to release is frustrated.
So those who wonder how the hell I've managed to serve 30 years, may I gently suggest that a fair chunk of it results from being arsed about by prison staff.
And I am merely one amongst thousands. This is costing you lot a fortune.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Unusual Offer, Again
Perhaps I ought to confess to succumbing to what I call "Lifer's paranoia". This involves looking for, and suspecting, a Grand Plan being formed behind the scenes by staff. It's not an affliction that I'm often afflicted with; any urge to see non-existent patterns in managerial behaviours is offset by my unfailing belief that the people who run my life couldn't organise a shag in a brothel.
And so, having had a second meeting with the relevant manager, I am actually persuaded that some small amount of goodwill may be emanating from the necessary quarters. It's been so long since that's happened that I didn't recognise it.
In principle, then, I have agreed to take the offer of doing my research "in-cell". Now the hard negotiating begins to try to minimize the part of the deal that involves me being banged-up all day. I do rather fancy seeing the sun at some point over the next few months. Gaining a PhD would have the edge taken off it if it's accompanied with rickets!
And so, having had a second meeting with the relevant manager, I am actually persuaded that some small amount of goodwill may be emanating from the necessary quarters. It's been so long since that's happened that I didn't recognise it.
In principle, then, I have agreed to take the offer of doing my research "in-cell". Now the hard negotiating begins to try to minimize the part of the deal that involves me being banged-up all day. I do rather fancy seeing the sun at some point over the next few months. Gaining a PhD would have the edge taken off it if it's accompanied with rickets!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Parole Update (2)
Editor's note: Since writing this, Ben has heard he has been listed for a parole hearing on November 11th - 3 months later than promised!
Better late...
Better late...
Parole Update
So, August came and went without being bothered by my parole hearing. The Parole Board are now breaking the law - the Crime (Sentences) Act 1997, Sec.28.
I won't be holding my breath for an apology, let alone any explanation or compensation. Such is the contempt the bureaucracies that govern our lives harbours for the people in their care. And they have a problem with MY attitude...
I won't be holding my breath for an apology, let alone any explanation or compensation. Such is the contempt the bureaucracies that govern our lives harbours for the people in their care. And they have a problem with MY attitude...
Monday, September 27, 2010
Silly Games
The staff are playing games. They are unlocking us slightly later at every opportunity. This is part of their work-to-rule, a manifestation of their perpetual bitching about pay and conditions.
It winds us up. We have a limited amount of time unlocked and chipping away at it bugs us. The staff know this. It bugs us even more when, as bang-up time arrives, they want us behind our door on the dot.
Quite what they think this is going to achieve, I don't know. It doesn't bother management one bit. Perhaps this is a manifestation of the Prison Officer's Association ancient tactic - wind up the cons and hope we kick off, allowing the screws to then claim we are unstable animals and they deserve more money for doing their job?
It winds us up. We have a limited amount of time unlocked and chipping away at it bugs us. The staff know this. It bugs us even more when, as bang-up time arrives, they want us behind our door on the dot.
Quite what they think this is going to achieve, I don't know. It doesn't bother management one bit. Perhaps this is a manifestation of the Prison Officer's Association ancient tactic - wind up the cons and hope we kick off, allowing the screws to then claim we are unstable animals and they deserve more money for doing their job?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Unusual Offer
It was a meeting described to me as looking like a conversation between a Mafia don and his mistress... that's my panama hat again!
Last Friday afternoon, sunny, warm, and sitting out around the pond in the yard. Sorry, "community garden". Why aren't we working? As a cost cutting measure last year, the "core regime" across the prison estate abandoned Friday afternoons, leaving us banged up or on association.
Leaving the Admin block, the manager took a diagonal path across the yard and approached my gaggle of mates. "Can I have a word?" We adjourned to a picnic table. I was conscious of a yard full of eyes watching us.
She made me an offer. That I do "in cell" education and get paid a tenner a week. But, unlike everyone else on in-cell ed, I have to be locked up all day. The No.l governor had already signed off on this deal.
We bantered over some details, such as access to the library, before we decided to resume in a few days time. I went back to my mates and we watched her walk away. "Definitely a thong", one groaned wistfully, "no VPL".
I bounced the offer off them and they were divided. A tenner was better than being unemployed, yet agreeing to being banged-up was a downer. None of us could unravel what was behind this turn of events.
And it is a strange and unexpected development. For two years I've been neglected, left behind my door, and any suggestion that I be employed on in-cell education flatly refused. Why, then, was this offer made? What prompted it? And why now?
Three weeks ago I applied to attend education on a very part-time basis. The application has sat in their office since then, being treated like Kryptonite. That education management don't want me in the department could be an impetus to make this new offer, essentially a bribe to keep me away. But do they dislike me that much? Possibly... Or it could be some external impetus that has freed up management thinking, maybe my university, maybe the visitor with powerful friends I've received of late. Or did I sting them with something I've written here?
This mystery will probably never be solved. Management are like the iceberg, most of their activity occurs beneath the surface and indiscernible. But without knowing the reasons for this offer, I cannot judge my bargaining power.
It is a baffling offer. Paying me to study in my cell does have the advantage of seeing me get a few shekels, and its a deal only those too infirm to attend the education department are normally permitted. So this is movement indeed. And yet; everyone else on in-cell education is left unlocked all day. Why, then, the insistence that I be firmly sealed behind my door? And given the time of year, this would see me deprived of daylight until next spring.
Should I take this deal? And if I don't, will it be spun against me?
Last Friday afternoon, sunny, warm, and sitting out around the pond in the yard. Sorry, "community garden". Why aren't we working? As a cost cutting measure last year, the "core regime" across the prison estate abandoned Friday afternoons, leaving us banged up or on association.
Leaving the Admin block, the manager took a diagonal path across the yard and approached my gaggle of mates. "Can I have a word?" We adjourned to a picnic table. I was conscious of a yard full of eyes watching us.
She made me an offer. That I do "in cell" education and get paid a tenner a week. But, unlike everyone else on in-cell ed, I have to be locked up all day. The No.l governor had already signed off on this deal.
We bantered over some details, such as access to the library, before we decided to resume in a few days time. I went back to my mates and we watched her walk away. "Definitely a thong", one groaned wistfully, "no VPL".
I bounced the offer off them and they were divided. A tenner was better than being unemployed, yet agreeing to being banged-up was a downer. None of us could unravel what was behind this turn of events.
And it is a strange and unexpected development. For two years I've been neglected, left behind my door, and any suggestion that I be employed on in-cell education flatly refused. Why, then, was this offer made? What prompted it? And why now?
Three weeks ago I applied to attend education on a very part-time basis. The application has sat in their office since then, being treated like Kryptonite. That education management don't want me in the department could be an impetus to make this new offer, essentially a bribe to keep me away. But do they dislike me that much? Possibly... Or it could be some external impetus that has freed up management thinking, maybe my university, maybe the visitor with powerful friends I've received of late. Or did I sting them with something I've written here?
This mystery will probably never be solved. Management are like the iceberg, most of their activity occurs beneath the surface and indiscernible. But without knowing the reasons for this offer, I cannot judge my bargaining power.
It is a baffling offer. Paying me to study in my cell does have the advantage of seeing me get a few shekels, and its a deal only those too infirm to attend the education department are normally permitted. So this is movement indeed. And yet; everyone else on in-cell education is left unlocked all day. Why, then, the insistence that I be firmly sealed behind my door? And given the time of year, this would see me deprived of daylight until next spring.
Should I take this deal? And if I don't, will it be spun against me?
Friday, September 24, 2010
Passing Words
My new, antidepressant-fuelled routine sees me sitting out on the yard as soon as we are unlocked in the morning. Picking a bench, I try to radiate an air of solitude.
Jug of coffee, tobacco and notebook at hand, I spend the next half an hour jotting down ideas for future posts.
At most, a dozen others are dotted around, most sitting near the pond or walking around the perimeter in a deliberate attempt to stave off the temptation to slump into a carbohydrate heavy sloth.
Those walking are either solitary and purposeful, or more leisurely in company. As they pass my bench, I catch glimpses of their conversations.
An odd sentence here and there, a few brief words before they pass out of hearing. This morning, people mentioned the plants in the pond, the increasing size of a screwess’s arse, the politics between the lads who man the wing servery, and the 'end of history' theory proposed by Francis Fukiyama.
"All human life..."
Jug of coffee, tobacco and notebook at hand, I spend the next half an hour jotting down ideas for future posts.
At most, a dozen others are dotted around, most sitting near the pond or walking around the perimeter in a deliberate attempt to stave off the temptation to slump into a carbohydrate heavy sloth.
Those walking are either solitary and purposeful, or more leisurely in company. As they pass my bench, I catch glimpses of their conversations.
An odd sentence here and there, a few brief words before they pass out of hearing. This morning, people mentioned the plants in the pond, the increasing size of a screwess’s arse, the politics between the lads who man the wing servery, and the 'end of history' theory proposed by Francis Fukiyama.
"All human life..."
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Offensive Comments Policy
The comments on this blog are, overwhelmingly, a testament to the ability of people to be thoughtful. On occasion, though, a crass and offensive comment is made. What to do...?
My view is strict. Short of libel, which could see the blog shut down, then all comments should remain as posted. Some will find this objectionable.
Consider, if the criteria for allowing a view to be aired was whether it was judged to be offensive, this blog itself would not exist. Many believe that my physical existence, let alone my electronic one, is an affront.
As individuals and as a society we progress through the clash of ideas and views. To suppress the offensive is to demean our ability to discriminate, it affords the offensive view a greater weight in our consciousness than it deserves.
So the crass, offensive and downright mad comments should remain. Let the world see them for what they are, and let readers judge them forever. The most effective way to deal with offensive views is to hold them in the light and allow the rest of us to shred them.
My view is strict. Short of libel, which could see the blog shut down, then all comments should remain as posted. Some will find this objectionable.
Consider, if the criteria for allowing a view to be aired was whether it was judged to be offensive, this blog itself would not exist. Many believe that my physical existence, let alone my electronic one, is an affront.
As individuals and as a society we progress through the clash of ideas and views. To suppress the offensive is to demean our ability to discriminate, it affords the offensive view a greater weight in our consciousness than it deserves.
So the crass, offensive and downright mad comments should remain. Let the world see them for what they are, and let readers judge them forever. The most effective way to deal with offensive views is to hold them in the light and allow the rest of us to shred them.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Murder, Responsibility, Remorse
We killers tend not to talk about the effect of our crimes on ourselves. It is a private as well as a public tragedy and rarely for public display, and risks appearing self-indulgent. There are few of us who intended to kill, and even fewer who defend what they did. We can explain, but cannot excuse.
It is a perpetual burden, feeling one step away from the human community. It is a sore that cannot be healed and a wrong that cannot be righted. As only the victim can forgive, then there can never be any solace in absolution.
Each of us deals with it in a different way. Some sink into self loathing. Some kill themselves. Some spend the rest of their lives trying to hold together a fractured psyche. And some try to fill the void with external distractions, drink, drugs.
I was repelled by that part of myself and spent years trying to explore my psyche and repair it, and I outwardly challenge analogous behaviours - abuses of power. Non-violence is now a lodestone.
And yet, despite our crimes, even the most depraved of us still feels human - and maintain all human sensibilities.
It is a perpetual burden, feeling one step away from the human community. It is a sore that cannot be healed and a wrong that cannot be righted. As only the victim can forgive, then there can never be any solace in absolution.
Each of us deals with it in a different way. Some sink into self loathing. Some kill themselves. Some spend the rest of their lives trying to hold together a fractured psyche. And some try to fill the void with external distractions, drink, drugs.
I was repelled by that part of myself and spent years trying to explore my psyche and repair it, and I outwardly challenge analogous behaviours - abuses of power. Non-violence is now a lodestone.
And yet, despite our crimes, even the most depraved of us still feels human - and maintain all human sensibilities.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Thanks, Logie Baird.
You will be surprised how time can expand and contract when it is you and four walls. Trying to keep ourselves occupied was a major preoccupation, just finding any way to kill the hours and days which were, in turn, killing us. Sleeping was the main method, with adepts developing the knack of being able to sleep as much as 23 hours a day. Close behind came a radio addiction, followed by tape cassettes. Until there came that wondrous day in the 1990’s when luck and circumstance saw some televisions officially finding their way into prisoners’ hands.
Standing in the old prison shop at Horfield, we watched as a screw hoisted a whole tray of PP batteries and headed for the door. "What’s that all about, guv?". No one ever needed a rack of PP's unless you were starting a war - their reputation as a bludgeon, when inserted in a hefty sock, was legendary.
The screw confessed that he was heading for the punishment block, as they had been bought by a con on a lie-down from a Dispersal...to power his television. The ripple of excitement ran through us; if one man can have a TV, then this is the perfect lever to move management to allow the rest of us.
And he did, without much of a fight either. We were allowed to buy battery operated Casio handheld TV’s, with a tiny screen. Only a handful did. The cost of the TV, the licence and then the expense of running it was frightening. But it broke the principle.
A couple of years later, we were allowed any type of battery powered TV and a friend of mine had a 5" coloured - coloured! - TV. I was writing lots of letters for him at the time, helping with his campaign of innocence, and in return I could borrow his telly for one night a week.
Smuggling the telly between our cells, hiding it until the screws had passed, setting it up, tuning it in...the anticipation was immense. And staying up until dawn, watching anything really, just to grab as much of this marvel as possible. I just can't pin this year down in my memory, but Spin City was one of my favourite programmes, Channel 4 evening primetime if I recall.
Ever since, TVs have infiltrated our lives, in some ways to our detriment. But filling the empty hours has become far less of a struggle.
Standing in the old prison shop at Horfield, we watched as a screw hoisted a whole tray of PP batteries and headed for the door. "What’s that all about, guv?". No one ever needed a rack of PP's unless you were starting a war - their reputation as a bludgeon, when inserted in a hefty sock, was legendary.
The screw confessed that he was heading for the punishment block, as they had been bought by a con on a lie-down from a Dispersal...to power his television. The ripple of excitement ran through us; if one man can have a TV, then this is the perfect lever to move management to allow the rest of us.
And he did, without much of a fight either. We were allowed to buy battery operated Casio handheld TV’s, with a tiny screen. Only a handful did. The cost of the TV, the licence and then the expense of running it was frightening. But it broke the principle.
A couple of years later, we were allowed any type of battery powered TV and a friend of mine had a 5" coloured - coloured! - TV. I was writing lots of letters for him at the time, helping with his campaign of innocence, and in return I could borrow his telly for one night a week.
Smuggling the telly between our cells, hiding it until the screws had passed, setting it up, tuning it in...the anticipation was immense. And staying up until dawn, watching anything really, just to grab as much of this marvel as possible. I just can't pin this year down in my memory, but Spin City was one of my favourite programmes, Channel 4 evening primetime if I recall.
Ever since, TVs have infiltrated our lives, in some ways to our detriment. But filling the empty hours has become far less of a struggle.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Unbelievable
Many moons ago, when I was welcome in Education Departments, I signed up for a class in Personal and Health Education just to round off my timetable.
Walking into the classroom, standard long prison tables and god awful chairs, I saw the doll resting on the teacher’s desk. Very lifelike, I thought, and wandered over to look closer. Extremely lifelike. I gently poked it... It was a dead baby.
Walking into the classroom, standard long prison tables and god awful chairs, I saw the doll resting on the teacher’s desk. Very lifelike, I thought, and wandered over to look closer. Extremely lifelike. I gently poked it... It was a dead baby.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Room Service
We have a prison laundry that, amongst all the institutional products, will also deal with our personal clothing. Shove everything into a string bag, along with a list of contents, and chuck it in a trolley on a set day. Next day, voila, it returns.
And I never, ever make use of this facility. One of the major reasons that I believe I may still retain a vestige of sanity and dignity is that I have always adopted an attitude of being "semi¬detached" from the institution.
One small way of doing this has been by doing my own laundry. A bucket, washing power, and a little effort is all that is needed. Drying it is a pain, but that my cell looks like a collision between a laundry and a stationers is not something I care about.
It must be far too easy to sink into complete apathy and allow oneself to lean on the prison for everything. Of course, in many things we have little choice. Even then, it is a matter of attitude. Being dis-empowered is one thing; losing the sense of that is quite another.
And I never, ever make use of this facility. One of the major reasons that I believe I may still retain a vestige of sanity and dignity is that I have always adopted an attitude of being "semi¬detached" from the institution.
One small way of doing this has been by doing my own laundry. A bucket, washing power, and a little effort is all that is needed. Drying it is a pain, but that my cell looks like a collision between a laundry and a stationers is not something I care about.
It must be far too easy to sink into complete apathy and allow oneself to lean on the prison for everything. Of course, in many things we have little choice. Even then, it is a matter of attitude. Being dis-empowered is one thing; losing the sense of that is quite another.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Just Another Day.
Since I began taking antidepressants (Citalopram) in an attempt to shake off the trough I've been in for months, my sleeping pattern has improved. Asleep by 1 a.m,, awake around 7:30.
Reach for my specs and make a roll-up. The first few moments of the day are crucial, setting the tone for the endless hours. If nothing hugely positive hoves into mind, it's best not to think ahead at all or the day could look quite bleak.
I hear a screw making his way along the landing, peeking through the observation slit. The day shift doing their headcount, just in case the night staff got too lazy to keep us all safely tucked away.
Decide to move. Wash, dress, choosing carefully in the knowledge that the building is now getting chilly and will grow colder from now.
Sit in my chair. Turn on the TV, flick across BBC and ITV for the weather and headlines, appreciating Christine Blakeley’s legs along the way. Turn the sound off, leaving the telly as a visual wallpaper for a while, a glowing companion of ultimate emptiness.
My jug of coffee from last night is still mostly full and I drink it. Stone cold. Waste not... Reach for my events diary and cover the last few days. Mail sent, received, conversation with manager, the casual detritus that falls upon our lives. Find a book of stamps within the pages, thanks very much!
The screws charge around and unlock us at 8:15. They are slightly late. People hit the showers, empty their bins, some head for the gym. Opening my window wide, the draught pulls the door open to air my cell. A combination of bedroom, lounge, dining room and toilet, a morning airing is always advisable no matter how cold it leaves the cell.
Stick my head out to take the piss out of the cleaner who is furiously hoovering the stairs. "Oi,you, there's unemployed trying to sleep up here!" Without a pause, "f off", and he carries on. Such is the social oil that smooths our daily interactions...
Bob passes, sees my door ajar and enters. Sits on the end of my bed and starts bemoaning the fact he doesn't have a mobile phone, he wants to see if the GP crash and death is on You Tube. I complain that it’s sad that no government ever passes a law requiring pretty women on telly to always appear naked. We talk about the offer management are making me regarding employment. Such is life. He wanders off.
At 8:45, the call goes out to move to "activities", i.e. work. The wing quickly empties, leaving the cleaners, retired, ill and the unemployed. The next few minutes is spent in a state of mild, bemused suspense. Will any screw take the effort to follow management’s diktat and shlep all the way up to my cell to bang me up? Today, yes. She had the decency to ask me if I "had everything", e.g. hot water, before locking me in.
I flick the TV to the Wright Stuff. It's one of the few programmes to give prison issues in the news a fairish going over. Nothing of interest, sound back off...now to fill the next few hours behind my door.
There's a stack of mail to deal with, it's been festering and growing during my mental slump. There's a piece I'm working on about the balance between punishment and rehabilitation to be offered to the Guardian. Why do their commentators always savage me so? Odd bunch. A pile of books and papers to read and annotate. Or...write this blog post! It's now 10 am.
Reach for my specs and make a roll-up. The first few moments of the day are crucial, setting the tone for the endless hours. If nothing hugely positive hoves into mind, it's best not to think ahead at all or the day could look quite bleak.
I hear a screw making his way along the landing, peeking through the observation slit. The day shift doing their headcount, just in case the night staff got too lazy to keep us all safely tucked away.
Decide to move. Wash, dress, choosing carefully in the knowledge that the building is now getting chilly and will grow colder from now.
Sit in my chair. Turn on the TV, flick across BBC and ITV for the weather and headlines, appreciating Christine Blakeley’s legs along the way. Turn the sound off, leaving the telly as a visual wallpaper for a while, a glowing companion of ultimate emptiness.
My jug of coffee from last night is still mostly full and I drink it. Stone cold. Waste not... Reach for my events diary and cover the last few days. Mail sent, received, conversation with manager, the casual detritus that falls upon our lives. Find a book of stamps within the pages, thanks very much!
The screws charge around and unlock us at 8:15. They are slightly late. People hit the showers, empty their bins, some head for the gym. Opening my window wide, the draught pulls the door open to air my cell. A combination of bedroom, lounge, dining room and toilet, a morning airing is always advisable no matter how cold it leaves the cell.
Stick my head out to take the piss out of the cleaner who is furiously hoovering the stairs. "Oi,you, there's unemployed trying to sleep up here!" Without a pause, "f off", and he carries on. Such is the social oil that smooths our daily interactions...
Bob passes, sees my door ajar and enters. Sits on the end of my bed and starts bemoaning the fact he doesn't have a mobile phone, he wants to see if the GP crash and death is on You Tube. I complain that it’s sad that no government ever passes a law requiring pretty women on telly to always appear naked. We talk about the offer management are making me regarding employment. Such is life. He wanders off.
At 8:45, the call goes out to move to "activities", i.e. work. The wing quickly empties, leaving the cleaners, retired, ill and the unemployed. The next few minutes is spent in a state of mild, bemused suspense. Will any screw take the effort to follow management’s diktat and shlep all the way up to my cell to bang me up? Today, yes. She had the decency to ask me if I "had everything", e.g. hot water, before locking me in.
I flick the TV to the Wright Stuff. It's one of the few programmes to give prison issues in the news a fairish going over. Nothing of interest, sound back off...now to fill the next few hours behind my door.
There's a stack of mail to deal with, it's been festering and growing during my mental slump. There's a piece I'm working on about the balance between punishment and rehabilitation to be offered to the Guardian. Why do their commentators always savage me so? Odd bunch. A pile of books and papers to read and annotate. Or...write this blog post! It's now 10 am.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Twisted Thoughts
I appreciate that I do rub some people up the wrong way, sometimes by my insistence on merely existing and sometimes because I do tend to tweak the tiger’s tail. But then there are those who seem to be intent on persuading themselves to dislike me, regardless of anything I say and do.
If I express remorse, these people say I'm playing to the gallery. If I write a piece that doesn't begin with a trail of tears, them I'm a heartless bastard. If I mention victims, I'm callous. If I don't, I'm self pitying. If I started walking on water and healing lepers, these are the ones who would complain I was disturbing the fish and practising medicine without a license.
There is, then, a constituency which can't be pleased. And so I'm not going to bother to try. They do interest me, though, from a psychological perspective. Their need to keep me as the Other, to twist and turn in their own minds until they can produce a representation of me that suits them, is really quite fascinating.
If I express remorse, these people say I'm playing to the gallery. If I write a piece that doesn't begin with a trail of tears, them I'm a heartless bastard. If I mention victims, I'm callous. If I don't, I'm self pitying. If I started walking on water and healing lepers, these are the ones who would complain I was disturbing the fish and practising medicine without a license.
There is, then, a constituency which can't be pleased. And so I'm not going to bother to try. They do interest me, though, from a psychological perspective. Their need to keep me as the Other, to twist and turn in their own minds until they can produce a representation of me that suits them, is really quite fascinating.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
