Freedom and Censorship

Freedom is something longed for by those who lack it, yet a nebulous conception that slips through the gaps in the mind when one attempts to grasp it. Is Freedom the absence of constraints? Or a suppression of fundamental needs? Or is it more positive, is Freedom the ability to move in whatever direction one chooses?

I am driven to ponder the nature of freedom all the more now that I am "free". The parenthesis inevitably exists due to the legal nature of my freedom - Life Licence. My liberty is conditional. And this causes some difficulties, setting aside weekends in Cornwall or Spanish holidays.

Paragraph 5 of my Life License stipulates I must seek prior permission before engaging in any work, paid or unpaid. And this is causing some befuddlement among my Probation supervisors. It seems that few of their charges are called upon to "consult" for various people or organisations, or who blog, or who have the odd piece in The Guardian. That I do all of these things is the source of confusion, stretching what is usually regarded as being plain and simple "work" into new areas for my keepers. I cheekily asked as, during my last Probation chat I exchanged emails with a Guardian editor - just how many Lifers are in this situation?

The essence of the most pertinent dispute with Probation centres on my writing. I have never, ever asked permission to write a single word. And there were more than a couple of prison staff who felt that this stance was in some way offensive, as if they should hold control of my mind as well as my body. Regardless of the consequences, the subtle and not so subtle pressure, when I sat to write in my cell it was without a moment's regard for my keepers.

On the day of my release I continued this tradition. The Guardian commissioned a piece to be written that day and I obliged. A fee changed hands for this effort, a standard arrangement for any freelance writing. And in that casual, unthinking way I managed to breach my Licence within hours of release!

The latest comment piece raises the same issues. Writing for publication, whether paid or not, constitutes "work". And work must be agreed beforehand by my supervisors. I obviously think that this whole condition in Life Licences is a nonsense but in relation to writing it is dangerous nonsense.

Because what I am being asked to do (on pain of being recalled to prison) is to clear beforehand anything I may write for the public gaze. A more fraught potential for censorship I cannot imagine in a democratic society.

A Small Comparison

As Charlie the mastiff shot past me, I grabbed for his chain - and seriously aggravated old shoulder and elbow injuries. Several stone of excited dog are not something to get in front of!

After hours of suffering pain in the way only men can, the Editor dragged me to the local surgery. We had an emergency appointment and a prescription for opiate-based painkillers all in under 30 minutes.

When I had this injury back at the nick, it took two days to get Healthcare to even talk to me and the result was the standard Lazarus mixture of Ibuprofen and paracetamol.

The official line is that healthcare provision for prisoners is broadly equivalent to that received in the community. I can tell you now, with greater authority, that is a lie of monumental proportions.

The difference lays in two factors. Firstly, prison medical staff work on the assumption that we are all lying bastards just trying to pull some scam or other when we appear to be ill. And secondly, prison healthcare providers scheme with prison managers to avoid giving cons prescription drugs lest they make drug testing slightly more awkward.

Result? I sat there in miserable pain. I sit here slightly woozy but functional. This is better.

Cheese Index

In times of war, famine and other straightened circumstances there seems to be a premium on butter. The same applies in prison, although what is served as "butter" is stretching the term beyond reason.

Small square catering tubs about an inch square, filled with some vegetable derived spread of unknown constituents; these are portioned out as if they were sprinkled with some precious metal. Hence the perpetual call on the landings, "Has anyone got any butter...?" For being a hungry bunch and not fed well, buttered bread or crackers fill a gap for the night.

All of this came to me as a potent mark in my change of status as I stood in the kitchen making toast. With a full butter-dish I realised that I no longer had to spread the butter micrometers thick.

The daily life of the free man is comprised of a thousand unnoticed instances such as this.

Career Change

There are those days when time sometimes seems to disappear, vanish in the drudgery of "stuff". Today I awoke with a mental list of things needing to be done and those not involving work, money or writing stay in that part of my mind labelled "ah well, got to be done". Highlights on that list include the physiotherapist (my back) and then my weekly session with Probation. The physio tells me that I have to learn how to breath again in a different way...makes me wonder quite how I've stayed alive all these years.

Having said Nein, Nope, Never Gonna Happen, to my request for a long weekend in Cornwall then I didn't have high hopes for my plea to accept an invitation for a quiet few days up in the Spanish mountains....And I wasn't surprised by their response - "local policy" says no foreign travel in my first year. Hmmm, may take a quick legal opinion on that one! They did give me good news on whether I could take forward a job opportunity though, and I can say more about it late next week I hope.

And I left Probation with a conundrum. When is "work", "work"? Because even voluntary work I do has to be okayed by them. So when someone threw me some paperwork and asked for my opinion, (no fee!), and I unthinkingly said I'd be pleased to pitch in.....turns out I may be in breach of my Licence. Oops. So can I help the neighbours mow their lawn, or is that "work"? Or answer any of the phonecalls and emails asking for this or that, free out of my large store of opinions? Probation are getting back to me on this. Can't wait. They may get me out of some housework!

This lot having taken a large chunk out of my working day I was looking forward to getting home, logging on and being productive. Along the way I picked up a DVD player and a large raincloud which hampered my every attempt to make a rollup.

After a mile walk from the bus in the rain I found myself standing, dripping and befuddled, at my door. The key wouldn't work. Twisting and turning, jiggling and bobbing, the damn thing just wouldn't unlock. Feeling rather miffed as well as sorry for myself I rang the Editor. "It just takes some jiggling and patience", she said and so I continued to bob and weave with Chubbs finest. It was, Dear Reader, a porky - as she left, the Editor had locked the door with the secondary lock, the one I thought we had stopped using.

Hmm. Faced with a locked door and pouring rain I retreated to the pergola for a fag and a ponder. I sat dripping and smoking, with Henley the cat seeming to share my broad disgust with the situation as he sheltered from the rain under my chair. Again I called the Ed., suggesting I climb through a particular window. She was adamantly against. And I was equally certain that sitting in the rain until she returned in 6 hours time was really, really not ideal.

To the neighbours. The only person in the immediate vicinity who knows my identity, she was more than happy to cough up a ladder, knife, and assurance to back me up if someone saw me and called the Old Bill. Armed and desperate, the ladder against the wall and I assaulted the bedroom window... Have you ever tried to break into your own house but look as if you are doing something completely innocent? It isn't easy...

Prodding, poking, writhing and twisting, I finally persuaded the window to open and squeezed myself into the house and out of the rain. And decided I was far too ancient and lazy to opt for a career in housebreaking.

"Hello, I'm Frances..."

Travelling across the country on a tight timetable and limited budget took some thought. Coach was the obvious solution to get to London but I didn't fancy the pre-8am service! My first "real" job interview...

Obviously I set out booted and suited. The details I left to The Editor, one of whose many roles in my life is to ensure that I don't leave the house looking like Coco The Clown. I still smuggled my bush-hat out to help with the rain... Blackberry charged, netbook swinging under my arm, off we went to catch the coach.

The last time coaches featured in my life was "on the National", the weekly movements of prisoners around the nation on hired buses. Dreary wagons, as I recalled, and the prospect of 3 hours to Victoria did not fill me with joy.That I wouldn't be handcuffed to the person sitting next to me eased my concerns somewhat. In the event, I decided I like coach travel, the modern type with loo and power-socket at least. Even if mine wasn't working...

The journey to the Big City ended at Victoria bus station which I exited and promptly got myself lost. Having dumped a foot in a puddle that would startle even Dr Foster, I retraced my steps and went on my way to the relevant Tube. Popping up several miles away I found myself late, disorientated and scrabbling to find the right bus connection. A flurry of phonecalls to inform the Editor of my progress and the Howard League of my intent to arrive, I continued, pausing here and there to ask shopkeepers the way. Bless 'em, no one sent me the wrong way!

I arrived at the Howard League looking like a drowned rat and substantially late.Hitting the entry buzzer to plead for sanctuary, Frances Crook rolled up, skipped over the pavement and let me in. "I'm Frances", she said, offering her hand. "I know", I grinned, "I'm Ben Gunn". "I know", she smiled.

The interview panel was hoiked back from whither they had wandered and put me through a brisk Q&A for about fifteen minutes. Given the opportunity to ask a question of my own, I had the temerity to ask, "Are you giving me an interview just to get me off your backs, or is this a genuine opportunity?" That was, I thought, a ballsy move if not a daft one!

The Main Man took it well, saying he was half expecting that question. Reassured that this was not a mere patina of interest, interview over I retreated back onto the mean streets of London...

Coach trips taken in the dark have a profoundly different quality to those in the harsh daylight. There is a subdued, even intimate atmosphere, with hushed conversations and careful rustling as people tried to settle for a long journey. Approaching the West, I found myself barracking the driver as he made periodic stops - "At least give us a clue where we are mate!" My destination found, I exited outside of a local pub bursting for a pee.

Barreling through their door I found myself sharing the floor with an ageing rocker wielding a fearsome guitar and apocalyptic amplifier. Loo found and dealt with, I decided against remaining for the show for fear of being blown through the wall with every chord matey struck on his axe. On the pavement outside I tried to keep warm, smoking furiously and watching the pubs windows rattle in their frames. The rain began to fall with more purpose and I wandered the road. Finding a quieter pub,I nipped in for a Fosters and sat in the warm, yet again pondering the chasm between my life a mere few weeks ago and today. Home called.

The Big Interview

I hasn't even made it home when my Blackberry buzzed - an Email from the Howard League to say that I had scraped through the first hurdle and made it through to the final round. My first reaction was, bugger, how can I afford the return trip in less than 48 hours?! My second was - get in!

My family having yet again bailed me out, I set off for London. This time, I was deeply nervous, probably more so than when I faced my last Parole Panel. This was all new and I couldn't but wonder if I could accept the position if it was offered - and whether I could do the job. It would mean staying in London 4 nights a week - and persuading my Probation officer to agree to that. Hmmm!

The journey was so much simpler by train, to Tube, to bus, to feet.... Navigating the transport system of London doesn't seem to faze me overly much, given this was only my second attempt to conquer the city by myself. My usual strategy of "if you don't know, ask someone who does" seems to be paying dividends when travelling.

I was so successful that I found myself near the Howard League building with a full hour in hand, and bone dry to boot. Still extremely nervous I parked myself in a small neighbourhood cafe and sank a few cups of coffee, resisting the fleeting thought of diving into the pub across the road for a pint to settle my nerves.

Thirty minutes in hand I wandered down the road and up to the top floor. Causing a brief consternation with my electric fag, I settled in to plot on the opposition for the job. There were two, or three...we were staggered in time and so I am no wiser. Settling into a soft, if uncomfortable, chair I briefly chatted to one of the other candidates. An impossibly pretty Bright Young Thing who seemed to provide a steady source for the Howard, I had serious doubts as to my situation - did I belong here?

The interview was split into two parts, the first being a written exercise. While all around me others had their fingers flying with frightening competence across their keyboards, I hacked in my usual fashion with two fingers. Still, I completed my task with five minutes in hand...and was called in to the interview itself.

Decorum suggests that I draw a veil over what was a private meeting, save to say that Francis herself chaired proceedings and took me by surprise in her stance on a particular issue - it was more radical than my own! As with my first interview, the talking bit was where I felt more at ease, settling into the discussion. All too soon, it was over and I took a long meandering wander in the general direction of homeward bound.

Fortunately I had the opportunity to meet friends for supper. Unfortunately, this meant negotiating the Tube during rush hour.... Despite the heaving masses, I found myself in very good company and being presented with my first proper steak. It did not survive the encounter. This being London, the meal was served on wooden squares and I had to fight the urge to ask if they needed a few quid to buy proper china?

Devoured, drank and talked, then into the night to return to Paddington. It is a constant source of amusement to the Editor that I assume that everywhere in London is but a few minutes walk away, and I am continually reminded that the city is the size of a county. And, I learned, I had transversed the lot of it, meaning a long trip beneath the surface to reach the train home.

Along the way I felt the urge for caffeine and nicotine - my main forms of sustenance - and popped to the surface at Canada Waters. It was dark, crisp, the station seemed to me to be a temple to the capabilities of modern engineering, a marvel. Alas, one that failed to incorporate a coffee dispensing service... I wandered onto the streets, my pleas for coffee being met by strangers with vague gestures pointing to distant parts...across bridges, alongside water and ducks, the vista sparsely populated. Parts of cities look so much more ethereal by night.

Still bereft of coffee I continued along to Paddington, to be met by a shambolic information screen that ordered me to "ask information" - with the Information Desks unmanned. Grrrrr. Having missed one train, my last possible transport began at 11.30 pm. And then They decided it would grind to a halt halfway home and turn into a bus service. Frantic calls to the Editor, who booked a taxi to meet me at the nearest station at my ETA - 1.30 am, yawn.

Which is where I duly presented myself, in the cold drizzle, the whole town seemingly abandoned. To be called by the taxi company, "sorry, we can't come, the driver decided to go home..." Hope he slept well, the git! More phonecalls and another taxi was found. I rolled into bed at 2.30 am.

I would have slept in but was awaiting The Call. This time, I didn't get the job. Boo! But the whole experience was fascinating and I appreciate that my many talents do not extend to having extensive experience of office life. Another "thing" is in the offing, though....

NO!

Ho hum. The Editor and myself asked for permission to take a short break in Cornwall. Since my release we have both been pretty busy and some time together bonding in front of a log fire would be so good. Probation have refused permission.

http://www.facebook.com/ben.gunn.750

Perspectives

Of course I am hardly unique in having a perspective on prison life. Each prisoner has his views and those views are shaped by his experience. And the way that imprisonment is felt by each person is different. In that sense, perhaps, my voice is unique. That I was the only one to have the gumption to blog adds another layer of uniqueness. That I was the only man I knew who served from ages 14 to 47, yet another unique feature. That along the way I developed an academic bent, yet another. But my voice may, because of this history, be unique but that should never imply that it has some special standing. As I said, each person who passes through the Gates develops his or her own view.

The weight of imprisonment, the "pains" are differentialy felt. A short term prisoner feels the eight less. If he has a ready supply of Private Cash (moneys sent in), even less so. He is able to sit back and take advantage of the improved physical conditions of prison whilst ticking down his calendar to his certain release. His world is a small one, concerned with his neighbours and his TV schedule. Whatever irks him can be endured easier because of the certainty of his release date.

The view of such prisoners is that prison has vastly improved over the past couple of decades. And physically, this is true. TV's, showers, in cell toilets, being called Mr by staff. The patina of civilisation has indeed grown thicker with the passing of time and on this surface, facile, understanding then some prisoners may be tempted to revert to a silly holiday camp comparison.

The reality for those who serve more than a passing sentence is far different, for they invariably become enmeshed within the modern bureaucracy of control that grew up alongside the improved physical conditions. The IEP system, for example, is a charter for staff bullying. Why risk a career by being violent when you are able to strip a prisoner of a meaningful existence with a few strokes of a pen? And the second great burden is Offender Behaviour Programmes, a perpetual cycle of demands without end, each course leading to further "problems" being uncovered that lead to...the next course.

There are those prisoners whose horizons fail to stretch further than their TV or toilet. They fail to appreciate, for instance, that the latter means that they eat and sleep in their own private loo. The voices of these are as pertinent as my own; though whether their insights can, or should, have as much weight is for their audience to decide.

Prison has changed. It invariably changes with the social and political structures within which it is situated. On the surface this can appear to be a genuine improvement. But the essence of imprisonment remains constant, and any who claim otherwise are speaking from blinkered ignorance.

Big Ears

One after the other my life is currently a tapestry of new experiences. Last night the Editor and I went out for dinner - at the proprietor's invitation - and spent a happy few hours spooning each other various taste sensations. A candlelit dinner was a first for me!

At a nearby table there was what I can only describe as a LoudMan, who was content to declaim on any subject from the morality of MP's to the global economy. That he did so without once managing to reveal any insight or knowledge only added to the entertainment. I daresay we all know such people?

LoudMen exist in every corner of our world, including on the prison landings. But sitting in a public place and having to listen to this guy declaim about "holiday camp" prisons was a first for me. If anyone on the landings started down that road I would cheerfully insert myself into the conversation, especially if it was a screw.

In my new life I have to suffer overhearing the half-baked and ill-informed along with the rest of you. Social convention prevents me leaning over and whispering in his ear, "mate, you're full of it...". Decorum and all that...

Yet this is the type of person that I most need to reach, to engage with. God forbid, I do believe that I need a column in the Daily Mail....

Days unlike prison

I have returned to Facebook after a brief hiatus.

I have been banned by prisonofficer.org.uk from posting there, without explanation. Obviously they are free to comment here as censorship is rather repulsive to me.

My Blackberry decided to give up the digital struggle and has joined the great mound of circuitboards in the sky, leaving me sans a mobile.

Oh yes, and I applied for the position of Policy Officer at the Howard League - and have made it to the shortlist! My interview is on Monday.

I never had days so rich in the texture of living and all of its complexity whilst in prison and the contrast still shocks me.

Thanks

It is taking me a little while to settle into my new existence. And that means that the place of the blog in my daily routine is uncertain, mainly because I have yet to find that routine! Your patience in returning is encouragement enough to continue blogging and I do hope that the usual, near daily, service will resume very soon.

I am also considering adding some video blogging stuff here, if the tech works. Any appeal in that?

Until then....

A Disreputable Discourse

There comes a time in every prison debate where the assertion is made, "If you can't do the time..." This, and its linguistic analogues, is often made in response to some prisoner's complaint. And it is a disgusting, cowardly response whose sole intent is to absolve all those involved in criminal justice - from the lowest screw to the highest policy maker - for any decision that they make.

Brutality in prison? Don't commit crime, then. Crap food? Then don't commit crime. Shocking resettlement services? Tough - don't commit crime. The trouble with this broad argument is that it attempts to blame every criminal for every malign, incompetent or plain malicious act or decision made by, for example, prison staff. Somehow, their limited vision and poorly delivered service is the fault of their charges. "If you can't do the time..."

This is truly contemptible. Most prisoners accept responsibility for their crime. Lifers, for instance, have a remarkably high rate of Guilty pleas. We accept the personal destruction and social damage that we caused. Those who parrot the "well don't go to prison, then" in response to any criticism of the penal system are adopting a completely converse stance.

Unlike prisoners, they refuse to accept any responsibility for their decisions or their actions. If they batter a con in Frankland block; if they serve a feeble diet; if they enforce policies which break up families; even if they follow practices which they know will increase the rats of reoffending - they blame the prisoners.

This is truly the argument of last resort for the dishonourable and dishonest, for those who take the taxpayer's shilling and then run a shoddy enterprise which they know full well produces future criminals. Whilst they bleat about caring about victims, they daily insist on running a prison system which is almost guaranteed to produce future social harm.

To blame the criminals and the prisoners for the decisions and practices springing from prison staff is repugnant. It is made worse by it being a mantra for those who then willfully refuse to examine their consciences or flex whatever neurons they posses.

Anybody who says, "don't commit the crime, then..." as an excuse for their own professional shortcomings is morally bankrupt and intellectually feeble. And they certainly should have no authority over other human beings.

The Resettlement Joke and Reoffending

I had no illusions about release. Life was not going to unroll before me like a hand-woven carpet lined by topless angels waving spliffs rolled with fifty quid rizlas. If nothing else, there would be the small matter of my having dealings with the various bureaucracies that comprise a modern society.

Having been enmeshed in the most potent of bureaucracies all of my adult life, I have a profound appreciation of bureaucracy and the individuals whose collective efforts shape them. They can be scary. Bureaucracies that are intended to "help" us mere mortals in some way are perhaps the scariest of all.

Having no existence but as an occupant of a cell, a number on the Roll Board and an entry on the PNC then I would inevitably be visiting more bureaucracies In Freedom than most. And let's be perfectly clear here - I am exceptionally fortunate as ex cons go in the level of support that I have. Friends, family and The Editor all surround and support me.

Just as well. For I was discharged with the statutory £46 quid, intended to last until either a job or benefits arrived. Being one of the leper class, a job was not high on the list of probable miracles to occur.And again, I am luckier than most, with several things "in the pipeline" as media folk would say.

Sans employment, I report myself to the Jobcentre. One of the many and varied of my new experiences and I was comforted by the design and furnishings.My mental picture of Jobcentres rests on a sketch in a 1960's comedy, so the soft chairs and PC's were a slight surprise. The service on offer was less so.

This is the moment when it should crystallise with some people (all of us who give a damn) that a con being released is in a profoundly difficult place in life. He may well have lost his family support as well as his job and home. He leaves prison with zero social capital, or any other sort of capital. If he has an address to go to, he gets -as I did - a discharge grant of GBP46. If homeless, that doubles.

This money has to cover all and any expenses. Food, clothing, rent, transport, all that life requires. It must last until either wages or benefits arrive. Which returns me to the Jobcentre...

I applies for Jobseekers Allowance weeks ago. And now I am told that it is unlikely to arrive until I have my National Insurance Number. Which I cannot get until I attend an interview to prove my identity. Which cannot take place for another few weeks. And I have no identity documents!

With friends, family and the Editor I am assured of food and a bed. I am fortunate. Many of the nearly 100,000 who pass out of the prison gates each year do not have such support and are thrown to lean on the benefits system.

And with, at most, GBP96 in their pocket which may have to last a month - and find a room for that! - then all of a sudden the reoffending rate becomes more comprehensible. For it is not what is done within prisons which has the greatest impact but what happens at the prison gate.

To be frank, if I had nothing when I left and the prospect of sod all for weeks ahead, then dusting off the Jemmy and balaclava may appear to be more by way of a sensible economic option as opposed to some personality flaw.

I have to ask. Does society have the reoffending rate it deserves?

Alienation

My 22 days in freedom, so far, have largely gone exceptionally well. Emotionally I am dealing with a range of new demands and a stream of new experiences.

Until....the other day I was sitting in one of the many enticing squares in the city of Bath, cafes on all sides, piggybacking on their WiFi. I looked around me and took a breath... It hit me like a tsunami. The contrast between this part of my life and the last 32 years suddenly became too great and I felt a profound sense of alienation.

Was this my world? I felt estranged from it, unconnected to all the other souls enjoying the space and the sun in that moment. The Editor arrived; I felt settled again.