Whilst presiding over the greatest wave of oppression ever to sweep over prisons, the ex Director General Martin Narey also announced what became known as the "decency agenda".
As I recall, he first mooted this idea at a conference of prison governors. He berated them for their sins, declaring that he was sick of having to apologise for the shameful state of some of their prisons. As this was in the wake of the revelations regarding the brutal regime at Wormwood Scrubs, his criticism was on solid ground. A few in the audience walked out.
The Decency Agenda is a simple idea relating to how prisoners should be treated. As Narey expressed it, ask yourself: how you would like your son or daughter, brother or sister to be treated whilst they were in prison?
A tiny fragment of this idea is that staff call us "Mister...", rather than merely our surname. The screws hate it, for the simple reason that it forces them to view us as people and not as scum.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Don't Interrupt
Some people assume that listening to music, with headphones, is a subtle invitation to be interrupted.
No matter where I park myself, no matter the obvious seclusion, when listening to music someone is bound to come and attempt to speak to me.
I have a method to deal with such people, or "idiots' as they may fairly be called. Without turning down the volume, I ask them, "Think carefully. Ask yourself if what you have to say can be more interesting than the music I am listening to?"
Remarkably, nearly all of them walk away. Even more remarkably, no one has bopped me on the nose.
No matter where I park myself, no matter the obvious seclusion, when listening to music someone is bound to come and attempt to speak to me.
I have a method to deal with such people, or "idiots' as they may fairly be called. Without turning down the volume, I ask them, "Think carefully. Ask yourself if what you have to say can be more interesting than the music I am listening to?"
Remarkably, nearly all of them walk away. Even more remarkably, no one has bopped me on the nose.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Heretical Politicians
In those short moments when HP's lift their snout from the teat of the public purse, just to take a quick breath, they could turn their attention to the pertinent substance of their existence -political ideas, policies, that sort of thing.
They could, but they don't. Well, not often. But for the venal and power-hungry, the prospect of losing it all has the effect of raising their gaze from the gutters to the stars. With a startling speed, the political class begins to wobble a little in sight of a General Election, particularly one where the nation stares bankruptcy in the face.
Ideas begin to sprout in odd, un-policed, corners of their brain. Some of these even see the light of day, even if they are later muffled in platitudes and assurances of continuity of thought.
Alan Duncan, the Shadow Home Secretary, has spoken the bleeding obvious. In denouncing that the bare policy of 'prison works' is political thought worthy of a primary school attendee, he has broken faith with his party’s policy of the last 15 years. Not since Douglas Kurd declared that 'prison is an expensive way of making bad people worse' has a significant Tory given the appearance of doing anything more cerebral than echo the Daily Mail leader.
Duncan's foray into the wilderness of truth has been swiftly echoed by John Redwood. Hardly a softy in the nest of Conservatism, Redwood suggests that non-violent offenders could be more properly dealt with without the necessity of high walls, bars and a huge bill to the taxpayer.
As with Hurd, these are likely to be brief intrusions into the normal course of events, though none the less remarkable for their brief existence. It demonstrates that, in times of crisis, politicians are capable of abandoning the chase for the adulation of the mob and actually attempting to think and to lead. With some gentle encouragement, this may even become a habit.
The prospect of election victory is obviously a marvellous fertiliser for policy. However, the central force behind these latest offerings is far more likely to be financial. The nation is broke and the arms race of promises to bang up ever increasing numbers of people is suddenly unaffordable.
Should we care whether the abandonment of stagnant political thought is driven by the lust for power, financial crisis or genuine belief? The latter would be nice, but I am a realist in these things. The prospect of strategic shifts in criminal justice thinking is welcome, no matter what the impetus. Cameron can take advice from the Goblins in his flowerbeds for all I care. If it leads to change, then there is potential for positive change and this must be grabbed firmly, nurtured with hope, and let us all cross our fingers - the party most strongly wedded to imprisonment may be the one that abandons it the fastest.
They could, but they don't. Well, not often. But for the venal and power-hungry, the prospect of losing it all has the effect of raising their gaze from the gutters to the stars. With a startling speed, the political class begins to wobble a little in sight of a General Election, particularly one where the nation stares bankruptcy in the face.
Ideas begin to sprout in odd, un-policed, corners of their brain. Some of these even see the light of day, even if they are later muffled in platitudes and assurances of continuity of thought.
Alan Duncan, the Shadow Home Secretary, has spoken the bleeding obvious. In denouncing that the bare policy of 'prison works' is political thought worthy of a primary school attendee, he has broken faith with his party’s policy of the last 15 years. Not since Douglas Kurd declared that 'prison is an expensive way of making bad people worse' has a significant Tory given the appearance of doing anything more cerebral than echo the Daily Mail leader.
Duncan's foray into the wilderness of truth has been swiftly echoed by John Redwood. Hardly a softy in the nest of Conservatism, Redwood suggests that non-violent offenders could be more properly dealt with without the necessity of high walls, bars and a huge bill to the taxpayer.
As with Hurd, these are likely to be brief intrusions into the normal course of events, though none the less remarkable for their brief existence. It demonstrates that, in times of crisis, politicians are capable of abandoning the chase for the adulation of the mob and actually attempting to think and to lead. With some gentle encouragement, this may even become a habit.
The prospect of election victory is obviously a marvellous fertiliser for policy. However, the central force behind these latest offerings is far more likely to be financial. The nation is broke and the arms race of promises to bang up ever increasing numbers of people is suddenly unaffordable.
Should we care whether the abandonment of stagnant political thought is driven by the lust for power, financial crisis or genuine belief? The latter would be nice, but I am a realist in these things. The prospect of strategic shifts in criminal justice thinking is welcome, no matter what the impetus. Cameron can take advice from the Goblins in his flowerbeds for all I care. If it leads to change, then there is potential for positive change and this must be grabbed firmly, nurtured with hope, and let us all cross our fingers - the party most strongly wedded to imprisonment may be the one that abandons it the fastest.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Oops!
Visits are hugely important for prisoners, giving us the only real way to connect with our families and friends. They are brief moments when we can touch, an isolated oasis in which we can again be a lover, father, son, brother; anything but 'prisoner'.
And so we tend to take them seriously, making sure that we dress in our best clobber. Before we had any of our own clothing, it was a case of trying to get a prison-issue striped shirt slightly tailored and ironed, along with dark grey trousers instead of jeans. We want to look our best for 'our people' visiting.
One hot summer’s afternoon I needed a pee. We only had small plastic chamber pots (piss-pots) then and mine was nearly full. Drink three gallons a day and it comes out at some point...
The only solution I could see was to empty my piss-pot out of the window, then work on refilling it. A very practical plan in the circumstances.
If only I had given it more thought. As I poured two pints of stale piss out of the window to fall three storeys, there was an instant uproar of abuse.
The lads on their way to the Visits Room were passing beneath my window, carefully dressed in their finery. Our families forgive us a lot, but not turning up stinking of piss.
At the time, no one worked out which window the deluge emanated from and so I have escaped until this day. If there is anybody who was in that crowd still around - sorry, mate!
And so we tend to take them seriously, making sure that we dress in our best clobber. Before we had any of our own clothing, it was a case of trying to get a prison-issue striped shirt slightly tailored and ironed, along with dark grey trousers instead of jeans. We want to look our best for 'our people' visiting.
One hot summer’s afternoon I needed a pee. We only had small plastic chamber pots (piss-pots) then and mine was nearly full. Drink three gallons a day and it comes out at some point...
The only solution I could see was to empty my piss-pot out of the window, then work on refilling it. A very practical plan in the circumstances.
If only I had given it more thought. As I poured two pints of stale piss out of the window to fall three storeys, there was an instant uproar of abuse.
The lads on their way to the Visits Room were passing beneath my window, carefully dressed in their finery. Our families forgive us a lot, but not turning up stinking of piss.
At the time, no one worked out which window the deluge emanated from and so I have escaped until this day. If there is anybody who was in that crowd still around - sorry, mate!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Scum
An eternally good prison film that retains its edge, watching Scum kept me up late last night. It was a couple of hours full of resonances.
Such as the green jackets that Young Prisoners (YPs, i.e. under 21) had to wear to distinguish us from the big boys. I recall arriving at a new prison and presenting at the clothing hatch for my kit. The con behind the counter flatly refused to give me my green jacket, insisting that I could never be a YP. In fairness, even at that tender age I sported a beard that Rasputin would be proud of and looked like a middle-aged biker.
And the meeting with the Kitchen screw, who tried to excuse serving fish which was 'off' with a tale of how they were 'the new Atlantic fish'. It took me straight back to an incident when we were served sour milk at breakfast, which had the Kitchen screw insisting that the taste was due to the 'cows eating a different sort of grass'.
And, best of all, the character of Archer. It was like watching myself in a slightly distorted mirror. Archer was educated and verbally agile, with the view that the system would not break him down. And so he annoyed the hell out of the Governor by becoming a Vegan, refusing to wear leather boots, and going about barefooted. The perpetual struggle for individuality and dignity are comprised of such small efforts. It was a joy to watch.
The film was made in 1979, before I even entered prison. So many years have passed and yet it retains so many echoes of the prisoners experience. That has to be a mark of a good enterprise.
Such as the green jackets that Young Prisoners (YPs, i.e. under 21) had to wear to distinguish us from the big boys. I recall arriving at a new prison and presenting at the clothing hatch for my kit. The con behind the counter flatly refused to give me my green jacket, insisting that I could never be a YP. In fairness, even at that tender age I sported a beard that Rasputin would be proud of and looked like a middle-aged biker.
And the meeting with the Kitchen screw, who tried to excuse serving fish which was 'off' with a tale of how they were 'the new Atlantic fish'. It took me straight back to an incident when we were served sour milk at breakfast, which had the Kitchen screw insisting that the taste was due to the 'cows eating a different sort of grass'.
And, best of all, the character of Archer. It was like watching myself in a slightly distorted mirror. Archer was educated and verbally agile, with the view that the system would not break him down. And so he annoyed the hell out of the Governor by becoming a Vegan, refusing to wear leather boots, and going about barefooted. The perpetual struggle for individuality and dignity are comprised of such small efforts. It was a joy to watch.
The film was made in 1979, before I even entered prison. So many years have passed and yet it retains so many echoes of the prisoners experience. That has to be a mark of a good enterprise.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Meanderings on my Meanderings
I do seem to have abrogated my remit to entertain of late. Writing this is a difficult balance, I always intended to be educational, provocative and entertaining in broadly equal measure.
There are periods, though, when I pass through phases of seriousness, when my attention is all wrapped up in the politics of imprisonment. You have had to bear the burden of that focus in recent weeks and those of you who just enjoy prison adventure stories have been left out. Sorry.
With the election on the horizon then the prisoners vote case is taking on some urgency and that has coloured my writing. The drivel that politicians spout also takes on an added weight - these witless gits could be calling the shots on prisons for the next few years and so they are important in my little world.
And I am embroiled in my usual prison politics, debating within the small community of radicals whether my position as head of the prisoners union - and its agenda - is radical enough. That we are trying to force the government to comply with a legal judgement that they have ducked for five years is pretty important in the scheme of things, especially as we plan to screw a bucket load of compensation out of them. Your money, I'm afraid.
We did explore trying to injunct the general election, to prevent it happening at all until the prisoners votes issue was resolved but the intricacies of our constitutional arrangements stymied that plan. It is the Sovereign who dissolves parliament and sparks an election, not the government, and the Queen can't be sued. So we are looking at a compensation claim instead and after the election we will challenge its legality. There are also petitions and claims before the Committee of Ministers at the Council of Europe. This is something I spend a lot of time on as, apart from anything else, it's rather important that the government that locks me up also complies with the law.
End result, not very entertaining stuff for you to read! And somewhere amongst all of this activity, a campaign to shift me towards the gates a bit quicker has quietly began.
I took a decision when I began this blog that it would not be particularly focused upon me and my case. Obviously, I would intrude in the sense of illustrating some broader point through my own experience, but I was not going to start a 'free Ben blog'. It is far more important to start a wide debate about prisons than to plead my own case.
That said, a kindly soul on far flung shores did begin the Free Ben Facebook page and I am very grateful for that support! And the Ministry of Justice has had the sense to leave it unmolested. What we need now are people to fire into the Chair of the Parole Board, demanding that they give me the hearing they have been promising for months on end. But the blog will not focus on these personal things, as I fear it would then become self-serving and lose any wider relevance. So to keep an eye on how I and my progress are developing (or not), keep an eye on the Facebook pages. That said, the Editor will post short updates here and there on the blog.
The Donate button wasn't my idea either, honest! The Ministry of Justice takes a dim view of prisoners earning money (unless it is for the Ministry...) and so when it was brought to my attention that some people wanted to help me out, I avoided the issue. The Editor took a more robust line and legal advice is that, if people want to donate me a few quid, then it's all legit.
And it's very welcome. Having been unemployed for a year I'm scraping the bottom of the bin for stale bread and the like. Stamps and stationery alone cost a small prison fortune. I thank all of you who have helped in this way. Be reassured that you are not funding a perpetual party but rather my stationery, caffeine and nicotine addictions and the odd foray into indulging in a packet of biscuits on rare occasions.
I am truly grateful to all who are supporting me in their own ways, and particularly who support my release. This is all more than I hoped for when I began writing - I was just hoping that someone would read this now and then!
There are periods, though, when I pass through phases of seriousness, when my attention is all wrapped up in the politics of imprisonment. You have had to bear the burden of that focus in recent weeks and those of you who just enjoy prison adventure stories have been left out. Sorry.
With the election on the horizon then the prisoners vote case is taking on some urgency and that has coloured my writing. The drivel that politicians spout also takes on an added weight - these witless gits could be calling the shots on prisons for the next few years and so they are important in my little world.
And I am embroiled in my usual prison politics, debating within the small community of radicals whether my position as head of the prisoners union - and its agenda - is radical enough. That we are trying to force the government to comply with a legal judgement that they have ducked for five years is pretty important in the scheme of things, especially as we plan to screw a bucket load of compensation out of them. Your money, I'm afraid.
We did explore trying to injunct the general election, to prevent it happening at all until the prisoners votes issue was resolved but the intricacies of our constitutional arrangements stymied that plan. It is the Sovereign who dissolves parliament and sparks an election, not the government, and the Queen can't be sued. So we are looking at a compensation claim instead and after the election we will challenge its legality. There are also petitions and claims before the Committee of Ministers at the Council of Europe. This is something I spend a lot of time on as, apart from anything else, it's rather important that the government that locks me up also complies with the law.
End result, not very entertaining stuff for you to read! And somewhere amongst all of this activity, a campaign to shift me towards the gates a bit quicker has quietly began.
I took a decision when I began this blog that it would not be particularly focused upon me and my case. Obviously, I would intrude in the sense of illustrating some broader point through my own experience, but I was not going to start a 'free Ben blog'. It is far more important to start a wide debate about prisons than to plead my own case.
That said, a kindly soul on far flung shores did begin the Free Ben Facebook page and I am very grateful for that support! And the Ministry of Justice has had the sense to leave it unmolested. What we need now are people to fire into the Chair of the Parole Board, demanding that they give me the hearing they have been promising for months on end. But the blog will not focus on these personal things, as I fear it would then become self-serving and lose any wider relevance. So to keep an eye on how I and my progress are developing (or not), keep an eye on the Facebook pages. That said, the Editor will post short updates here and there on the blog.
The Donate button wasn't my idea either, honest! The Ministry of Justice takes a dim view of prisoners earning money (unless it is for the Ministry...) and so when it was brought to my attention that some people wanted to help me out, I avoided the issue. The Editor took a more robust line and legal advice is that, if people want to donate me a few quid, then it's all legit.
And it's very welcome. Having been unemployed for a year I'm scraping the bottom of the bin for stale bread and the like. Stamps and stationery alone cost a small prison fortune. I thank all of you who have helped in this way. Be reassured that you are not funding a perpetual party but rather my stationery, caffeine and nicotine addictions and the odd foray into indulging in a packet of biscuits on rare occasions.
I am truly grateful to all who are supporting me in their own ways, and particularly who support my release. This is all more than I hoped for when I began writing - I was just hoping that someone would read this now and then!
Monday, February 22, 2010
Institutionalisation, 2
Prisons are, considering, remarkably rich in sociological depth. Many, if not most, of the activities that take place out there have an analogue in here.
There are friends and enemies, workplaces, neighbours, an economy, a social structure. If you can function well within this social milieu, clearly you are not incapable. There are a small number of what are labelled "poor copers", and I suspect that these individuals would have difficulty coping in any situation.
Of course there are differences. I don't have to pay rent or buy two meals a day. That aside, any idea that we have no financial obligations or that our economic life can't be quite sophisticated is quite wrong. The difference in prison is, if you fail to meet your obligations the outcome isn't a rude letter from the bank, it is to get your face kicked in. Or cut open.
The essential activities of life are to have a home, a job and some social life. All of these are replicated here. Granted, we don't wander down the pub of an evening but the essentials remain.
What is institutionalisation? My perception of it is that it is a matter of attitude and perception. If cons listened to the perpetual refrain that we are somehow incapable, limited and stunted people than we may begin to believe it. Faced with the prospect of entering a modern, complex society, if you believe that you can't cope then you won't.
When I had my day out in 1995, it was just before a mate of mine did the same. He was in his forties and had lived a reasonably successful life for 30 years before he entered prison. On paper, he should have found it a doddle and I should have been the one who found it hard. As it transpired, he stepped out of the taxi and collapsed with panic and had to be brought back to the nick.
For me, then, institutionalisation isn't some organic mental process but rather a sense of self-belief.
This rather freaks out my keepers, it is officially "a problem" that I don't worry about release. I do try to explain my view but they are so wedded to the idea of prisoners being inherently incapable that they are deaf.
Of course I haven't lived an independent life outside, had a job and the whole range of social obligations. But then, no one does those things until they do them. So let's view me as, say, an average 17 year old. Except add the fact that I have listened and learned from the accumulated experiences of thousands of people who have lived long and productive lives outside.
So I will have to find a job and a place to live. Like millions of young adults have done, year in and year out. So why assume that I would find it any more difficult? Why assume that, faced with a landlord or an employer my brain will somehow go into meltdown?
This is not to say that life is going to be easy. It rarely is, but then it isn't in prison either. But to leap from that to some vague idea that I'm as helpless as an infant is a jump that I can't make. That worries Them.
There are friends and enemies, workplaces, neighbours, an economy, a social structure. If you can function well within this social milieu, clearly you are not incapable. There are a small number of what are labelled "poor copers", and I suspect that these individuals would have difficulty coping in any situation.
Of course there are differences. I don't have to pay rent or buy two meals a day. That aside, any idea that we have no financial obligations or that our economic life can't be quite sophisticated is quite wrong. The difference in prison is, if you fail to meet your obligations the outcome isn't a rude letter from the bank, it is to get your face kicked in. Or cut open.
The essential activities of life are to have a home, a job and some social life. All of these are replicated here. Granted, we don't wander down the pub of an evening but the essentials remain.
What is institutionalisation? My perception of it is that it is a matter of attitude and perception. If cons listened to the perpetual refrain that we are somehow incapable, limited and stunted people than we may begin to believe it. Faced with the prospect of entering a modern, complex society, if you believe that you can't cope then you won't.
When I had my day out in 1995, it was just before a mate of mine did the same. He was in his forties and had lived a reasonably successful life for 30 years before he entered prison. On paper, he should have found it a doddle and I should have been the one who found it hard. As it transpired, he stepped out of the taxi and collapsed with panic and had to be brought back to the nick.
For me, then, institutionalisation isn't some organic mental process but rather a sense of self-belief.
This rather freaks out my keepers, it is officially "a problem" that I don't worry about release. I do try to explain my view but they are so wedded to the idea of prisoners being inherently incapable that they are deaf.
Of course I haven't lived an independent life outside, had a job and the whole range of social obligations. But then, no one does those things until they do them. So let's view me as, say, an average 17 year old. Except add the fact that I have listened and learned from the accumulated experiences of thousands of people who have lived long and productive lives outside.
So I will have to find a job and a place to live. Like millions of young adults have done, year in and year out. So why assume that I would find it any more difficult? Why assume that, faced with a landlord or an employer my brain will somehow go into meltdown?
This is not to say that life is going to be easy. It rarely is, but then it isn't in prison either. But to leap from that to some vague idea that I'm as helpless as an infant is a jump that I can't make. That worries Them.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Victims, again.
The powerful emotions that wrack those who are victims of serious interpersonal crime have the ability to elevate or degrade. Some victims, rarely given media space, are inspirational in their ability not only to forgive on a personal level, but in their ability to use their emotions to impel them to work to reduce the harm that comes from crime.
More commonly heard of are those victims who are bitter and angry, not unusually constantly tormented by the media to cling to the grief as it poisons their spirit. These particular people are elevated in the popular culture.
Each of these reactions to some horrible loss or injury is human and understandable. Each reveals the emotional, psychological and spiritual complexity of what it means to be human. It is not for anyone to deny the pain of the victim.
However... And you just knew there would be a however! As I have pointed out in previous writing, the status of 'victim’ should not automatically be elevated to that of being a spokesperson, expert or political guru. Emotional pain endows no great insight into criminological problems.
The figure of Sarah Payne, mother of murdered Sara and now the government’s 'Victims Champion', is an illustrative nexus of the problem that comes when victims become campaigners. All the more so when the campaign is wedded to a media campaign and populist stupidity.
Her campaigning has led to dangerous political ideas, the most repellent of which is the belief that criminal justice is weighted in favour of criminals. It follows, automatically, in the popular mind, that victims are therefore being neglected.
This is a strange idea. Criminal justice isn't meant to serve either criminals or victims, it is meant to serve both. If victims have been historically been neglected - an unchallenged fact - then the solution doesn't lie in reducing the safeguards to fair trials.
This is become a poisonous idea, a set of beliefs that are constantly eroding the procedural barriers that are, rightly, intended to make it difficult for the State to place its full weight on its citizens. If history tells us anything, it is that government agents, such as the police, will happily indulge themselves in taking every advantage of a weakened safeguard.
Such a system isn't related to 'justice'. It risks being a 'conviction at any cost’ system, a set of checks and balances deliberately weighted so that it is easier for victims to carry the day. A criminal justice system should be concerned with punishing the guilty and exonerating the innocent, no more and no less.
More commonly heard of are those victims who are bitter and angry, not unusually constantly tormented by the media to cling to the grief as it poisons their spirit. These particular people are elevated in the popular culture.
Each of these reactions to some horrible loss or injury is human and understandable. Each reveals the emotional, psychological and spiritual complexity of what it means to be human. It is not for anyone to deny the pain of the victim.
However... And you just knew there would be a however! As I have pointed out in previous writing, the status of 'victim’ should not automatically be elevated to that of being a spokesperson, expert or political guru. Emotional pain endows no great insight into criminological problems.
The figure of Sarah Payne, mother of murdered Sara and now the government’s 'Victims Champion', is an illustrative nexus of the problem that comes when victims become campaigners. All the more so when the campaign is wedded to a media campaign and populist stupidity.
Her campaigning has led to dangerous political ideas, the most repellent of which is the belief that criminal justice is weighted in favour of criminals. It follows, automatically, in the popular mind, that victims are therefore being neglected.
This is a strange idea. Criminal justice isn't meant to serve either criminals or victims, it is meant to serve both. If victims have been historically been neglected - an unchallenged fact - then the solution doesn't lie in reducing the safeguards to fair trials.
This is become a poisonous idea, a set of beliefs that are constantly eroding the procedural barriers that are, rightly, intended to make it difficult for the State to place its full weight on its citizens. If history tells us anything, it is that government agents, such as the police, will happily indulge themselves in taking every advantage of a weakened safeguard.
Such a system isn't related to 'justice'. It risks being a 'conviction at any cost’ system, a set of checks and balances deliberately weighted so that it is easier for victims to carry the day. A criminal justice system should be concerned with punishing the guilty and exonerating the innocent, no more and no less.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
People love Murder
If murder is so reprehensible, why is it the perpetual staple content of all types of entertainment?
Friday, February 19, 2010
Harsh Truths
The so-called Sarah's Law, allowing random passers-by to quiz the police about the antecedents of others, is a fraud on a massive scale.
It is a scam that the population quite happily goes along with, an exercise in mass-delusion that projects the danger to children as being 'out there'.
It isn't. The next time you gather with your family, realise that it is amongst them that the greatest danger to your kids resides. Not the dodgy bloke outside, not the ice-cream seller or the sports coach, but your own friends and family.
If we really want child protection then it must follow that it is parents - and potential parents - that must be examined by the State. Everybody.
But we cannot allow that to happen. It is a soporific delusion that we buy into, refusing to see the danger as being anything other than the rare stranger. That we ourselves pose the greatest risk to kids is a fact that we just cannot allow to enter our heads. We just stick our fingers in our ears and stamp our feet, anything to drown out the shout of reason, and all the while pointing the fingers at someone else.
This is not an exercise in child protection at all. It is an exercise in self-delusion and denial, an outbreak of stupidity on a monumental scale. This is a matter more for the psychiatric profession than the criminological one.
It is a scam that the population quite happily goes along with, an exercise in mass-delusion that projects the danger to children as being 'out there'.
It isn't. The next time you gather with your family, realise that it is amongst them that the greatest danger to your kids resides. Not the dodgy bloke outside, not the ice-cream seller or the sports coach, but your own friends and family.
If we really want child protection then it must follow that it is parents - and potential parents - that must be examined by the State. Everybody.
But we cannot allow that to happen. It is a soporific delusion that we buy into, refusing to see the danger as being anything other than the rare stranger. That we ourselves pose the greatest risk to kids is a fact that we just cannot allow to enter our heads. We just stick our fingers in our ears and stamp our feet, anything to drown out the shout of reason, and all the while pointing the fingers at someone else.
This is not an exercise in child protection at all. It is an exercise in self-delusion and denial, an outbreak of stupidity on a monumental scale. This is a matter more for the psychiatric profession than the criminological one.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Institutionalisation
About a century ago, some MP stood up and declared that once prisoners had served ten years, then they were institutionalised and mentally frazzled.
What the hell, random MP's spouting random thoughts with little connection to reality is a perpetual event. But this declaration has entered prison mythology, quoted by cons and staff alike as if it had the same status of fact as the gravitational constant. It provides yet another official excuse to treat us like idiots.
This is beautifully illustrated by a passage in the Lifer Manual. It warns staff that, should they take us out the prison, we may need their help to cross the road. I'm sorry, but no matter how many years you have spent inside you'd have to be afflicted with physical brain damage before you were unable to deduce that a couple of tons of metal moving at 30 mph could hurt if you stood in front of it. This is spectacularly patronising but does provide a vision of Lifers being mowed-down by the gross as they wander, dazed, through the streets.
These trips are meant to help us to keep up to date, to reintegrate us. So out of date is the prison service, though, that we are expected to visit a range of banks to get leaflets about various services. That may be how it works in the wilder reaches of Outer Mongolia, but don't people in Britain tend to explore financial services through the wonders of the Web nowadays??
I have been out and about a couple of times, on average once every 15 years. These are called Town Visits. People of sufficiently low risk get to wander around some shopping precinct with a few quid in their pocket and a screw following their every move.
My first trip was in 1995 and I went into Exeter town. As soon as the taxi stopped, I was diving into the newsagent to stock up on tobacco. We are constantly lectured on how "everything has changed, it's all different now", but the reality is that the essential activities of life really haven't changed much. Shopping, I discovered, was still a matter of selecting an item and handing over currency. The only changes from 1980 to 1995 were the increased selection of goods and the introduction of a hand-held barcode scanner. Whilst I hardly recognised any model of car (they all look so alike), that I shouldn't stand in front of a moving one was still a broad principle to be adhered to. A day spend poking around Exeter raised my pulse not a beat. The only thing that took me by surprise was that I was unable to finish the fry-up we bought in a small cafe; I'd underestimated what 'real world' portions were like.
My second trip was last year (or the year before - remember my lack of time perspective), wandering around a small local town. I won't name it, it may freak out the locals if they knew they were brushing shoulders with murderers on a weekly basis.
And in those 14 years, what had changed since 1995? Yup, pretty much nothing. Of course, commercial activities had developed. Just for the hell of it, I forked out for a tall Americano coffee in some coffee chain, and sat amazed as I drank it, wondering why anyone would pay so much when they could, for the same money, buy a jar of Gold Blend that would last a week. If it had been Kapa Luak, on the other hand...
We wandered in and out of various shops, large and small, until we ran into the self-service checkout as some supermarket. Tesco? This was my first genuinely new experience and I had to give it a go. Turns out, my escort hadn't used this before either. We joined the gaggle of determined, slightly baffled, folks who were pressing buttons and trying to look competent. All went well, though self-service checkouts may speak to the rise in shoplifting.
It seems the world hasn't changed that much, technology aside. Most of our social interactions are - I hope - still based around people. And people are still people.
What the hell, random MP's spouting random thoughts with little connection to reality is a perpetual event. But this declaration has entered prison mythology, quoted by cons and staff alike as if it had the same status of fact as the gravitational constant. It provides yet another official excuse to treat us like idiots.
This is beautifully illustrated by a passage in the Lifer Manual. It warns staff that, should they take us out the prison, we may need their help to cross the road. I'm sorry, but no matter how many years you have spent inside you'd have to be afflicted with physical brain damage before you were unable to deduce that a couple of tons of metal moving at 30 mph could hurt if you stood in front of it. This is spectacularly patronising but does provide a vision of Lifers being mowed-down by the gross as they wander, dazed, through the streets.
These trips are meant to help us to keep up to date, to reintegrate us. So out of date is the prison service, though, that we are expected to visit a range of banks to get leaflets about various services. That may be how it works in the wilder reaches of Outer Mongolia, but don't people in Britain tend to explore financial services through the wonders of the Web nowadays??
I have been out and about a couple of times, on average once every 15 years. These are called Town Visits. People of sufficiently low risk get to wander around some shopping precinct with a few quid in their pocket and a screw following their every move.
My first trip was in 1995 and I went into Exeter town. As soon as the taxi stopped, I was diving into the newsagent to stock up on tobacco. We are constantly lectured on how "everything has changed, it's all different now", but the reality is that the essential activities of life really haven't changed much. Shopping, I discovered, was still a matter of selecting an item and handing over currency. The only changes from 1980 to 1995 were the increased selection of goods and the introduction of a hand-held barcode scanner. Whilst I hardly recognised any model of car (they all look so alike), that I shouldn't stand in front of a moving one was still a broad principle to be adhered to. A day spend poking around Exeter raised my pulse not a beat. The only thing that took me by surprise was that I was unable to finish the fry-up we bought in a small cafe; I'd underestimated what 'real world' portions were like.
My second trip was last year (or the year before - remember my lack of time perspective), wandering around a small local town. I won't name it, it may freak out the locals if they knew they were brushing shoulders with murderers on a weekly basis.
And in those 14 years, what had changed since 1995? Yup, pretty much nothing. Of course, commercial activities had developed. Just for the hell of it, I forked out for a tall Americano coffee in some coffee chain, and sat amazed as I drank it, wondering why anyone would pay so much when they could, for the same money, buy a jar of Gold Blend that would last a week. If it had been Kapa Luak, on the other hand...
We wandered in and out of various shops, large and small, until we ran into the self-service checkout as some supermarket. Tesco? This was my first genuinely new experience and I had to give it a go. Turns out, my escort hadn't used this before either. We joined the gaggle of determined, slightly baffled, folks who were pressing buttons and trying to look competent. All went well, though self-service checkouts may speak to the rise in shoplifting.
It seems the world hasn't changed that much, technology aside. Most of our social interactions are - I hope - still based around people. And people are still people.
Parole
From Ed: a parole hearing in May would indeed be a good thing, but if you read on, it is only a possibility. And it should have been November. A little encouragement directed at the parole board would not go amiss!
Thank you for your kind comments. I will pass them on to him.
Thank you for your kind comments. I will pass them on to him.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Ed's note
This blog really saddened me. Bit of a reality check on how it must be after 30 years of groundhog day. If you too are moved, and want to help, please click on the facebook link. There are lots of things you can do to support the 'freeprisonerben' campaign.
Depression
It is 11am; I have been up and out of bed since before 9. Hardly slept last night. All I can do is sit here, flicking through all of my posts to date. I'm listening to Leonard Cohen loudly through earphones, endlessly repeating 'Hallelujah' from his Live in London concert. Time after time.
Some desperado has just encroached and been sent on his way, disgruntled. He wanted to scrounge a cigarette. "Mate", I told him, "I'm trying to get by on £1.50 a week and have done for the last year. Of the 80 people on this wing, 79 are a better prospect to scrounge off than me." And he still stood there, looking sad. He finally got the hint. Today is pay day, and I will have to juggle like a clown on LSD to square everything by the end of the night.
The world looks bleak today. Last night, in the early un-sleeping hours, I had a terrible portent that I am destined to remain in this limbo forever. Near to release, never quite making it, sitting here as the years grind away and having to watch people drift away, all that is built up being eroded by perpetual disappointment. Do I deserve to be released? Not a legal or bureaucratic question, but a moral one? I have never been able to answer the simple question of "what should be the penalty for murder?"
There is not a single positive thing in my head. Looking back at previous posts, from the very beginning, I'm persuading myself that my writing is deteriorating, that it's hardly worth the trip down to the office to mail it out.
Christ knows what's for lunch. Whatever, is it worth the endless blasted queue?
Depression has afflicted me for decades. Of late it has become sharper and more frequent. It can hit me within minutes. I can literally sense the serotonin being sucked from my brain, the skin on my face tightening and my patience and calm being swamped by a profound sense of loss and anxiety.
Nothing settles me. If I have the energy I will shut my door and pace, four steps forward, four back. The steel door and ancient stone wall at either turn reinforces my perception of my endless existence. Without energy, I just sit here, smoking, drenched in misery that seeps from my very bones.
The energy to deal with people vanishes. Even the easiest person in the world to deal with becomes hard work, having to listen to their concerns and formulate responses takes vital effort best spent on balancing on some mental pinnacle, trying not to fall off.
It will pass in a day or so, it always does, leaving me feeling completely wrung out, physically weak. Until next time.
PS. It was sandwiches. Still listening to Hallelujah.
Some desperado has just encroached and been sent on his way, disgruntled. He wanted to scrounge a cigarette. "Mate", I told him, "I'm trying to get by on £1.50 a week and have done for the last year. Of the 80 people on this wing, 79 are a better prospect to scrounge off than me." And he still stood there, looking sad. He finally got the hint. Today is pay day, and I will have to juggle like a clown on LSD to square everything by the end of the night.
The world looks bleak today. Last night, in the early un-sleeping hours, I had a terrible portent that I am destined to remain in this limbo forever. Near to release, never quite making it, sitting here as the years grind away and having to watch people drift away, all that is built up being eroded by perpetual disappointment. Do I deserve to be released? Not a legal or bureaucratic question, but a moral one? I have never been able to answer the simple question of "what should be the penalty for murder?"
There is not a single positive thing in my head. Looking back at previous posts, from the very beginning, I'm persuading myself that my writing is deteriorating, that it's hardly worth the trip down to the office to mail it out.
Christ knows what's for lunch. Whatever, is it worth the endless blasted queue?
Depression has afflicted me for decades. Of late it has become sharper and more frequent. It can hit me within minutes. I can literally sense the serotonin being sucked from my brain, the skin on my face tightening and my patience and calm being swamped by a profound sense of loss and anxiety.
Nothing settles me. If I have the energy I will shut my door and pace, four steps forward, four back. The steel door and ancient stone wall at either turn reinforces my perception of my endless existence. Without energy, I just sit here, smoking, drenched in misery that seeps from my very bones.
The energy to deal with people vanishes. Even the easiest person in the world to deal with becomes hard work, having to listen to their concerns and formulate responses takes vital effort best spent on balancing on some mental pinnacle, trying not to fall off.
It will pass in a day or so, it always does, leaving me feeling completely wrung out, physically weak. Until next time.
PS. It was sandwiches. Still listening to Hallelujah.
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