Balls shaved? Check. Hair spiked? Check. Last vestiges of prison clothing abandoned in a crumpled heap on the floor? Check. I pick up the HM Prison-stamped plastic bag containing my jail-worldly possessions and begin my final descent of the stairs. Up until now, everything has felt normal, or at least as normal as I could have expected it to feel given that I have never played the get-out-of-jail card before. I might be a liberation day virgin, but it’s as if I’ve been through the routine a thousand times before. Perhaps in a previous life I was a repeat offender, imprisoned and discharged from prison on a regular basis. In this life however I am still only a first offender, and yet I am thusfar handling my imminent release as calmly as a seasoned pro. It is only as I exit B-Hall and make my way along the corridor that everything finally kicks in; the nerves and the tension, the excitement and the anticipation, the reality and yet the unreality of it all.
As I enter the reception area, my vision starts to go blurry around the edges, like coming up on a pill or exhaling from a supercharged bong. From this moment onwards, my world moves out of focus and events appear to pass in fast forwarded slow motion. Is time speeding up, slowing down or standing still? I’m not sure. This is not what I had expected, for the denouement to be played out on a shaky handheld camcorder with me as both protagonist and voyeur. I am all alone in the picture house, surrounded by empty seats with only my silver screen doppelganger for company. To say that it feels like a dream would be clichéd; it’s more like an out of body experience, viewing myself from a third person perspective. It is an unsettling - and yet exhilarating - sensation to feel like I am passively watching myself, unable to control my own actions. The last time I felt like this was 13 and a half months previously, when I was ordered to stand up in the High Court to receive my sentence. As the judge uttered the words ‘I hereby sentence you to three years imprisonment’ my world turned to slow motion and low resolution, as at ten frames a second the Reliance guards rose to lead me out of the court and I turned to blow a final kiss to my pregnant girlfriend seated in the public gallery. If my life was turned into a biopic, this scene would have been shot in black and white and through a fisheye lens for dramatic effect. Now it’s black and white and restricted vision once again as I find myself stood in front of the prison reception desk, the same desk where I checked in upon my arrival one year previously. This time the process is reversed; instead of surrendering my belt for a piece of string and my dignity for a strip search, I am removing the shoe laces from my jeans and preparing to buckle up my belt again. The possessions I was wearing upon first arriving here are hung on a coat hanger beside one of the changing cubicles. It‘s just like being in a gents outfitters, only the two screws in attendance show no indication of wanting to assist me. I don the thick white leather belt (£80 from Pure, as Patrick Bateman would be swift to point out) but stuff the Hugo Boss jeans and shirt into my bag. There will be plenty of time for getting reacquainted with my wardrobe when I get home.
Earlier, I had spent my final morning of captivity in the education department. It was the annual Halloween quiz and my team won, just as they had the year before. Were it not for the fact that I was getting out of jail just hours later, this would have been the highlight of my day. While I would like to take all the credit for my team’s victory, I suspect it had more to do with the fact that half the questions had been asked in the previous year’s quiz. That I was the only convict to have attended both quizzes was nothing to boast about; it simply meant I had been in jail for longer than all the rest. As questions were shouted out, answers whisperingly conferred and then conspiratorially scribbled down on answer sheets amidst a general background cacophony that only 30 convicts with ADD can make, it occurred to me that there was something distinctly odd about the scene. Here I was, sitting with a gang of violent, crack-packing, trigger-happy Yardies, answering general knowledge questions, eating cake and sipping from Robinson’s juice cartons. The incongruous sight would have perfectly illustrated the rehabilitating effect of prison were it not for the fact that as soon as the quiz was over, the Yardies immediately returned to talking sex, drugs and violence. Not surprisingly, the question regarding Bob Marley’s birthplace was answered correctly by all Rastas in attendance.
When prizes were handed out to the winning team, I gave mine away to the others, for where I was going, I could buy all the sweets and shower gel I wanted. The only item I kept was the deodorant, a spray can of the new Adidas 3. Having only been permitted roll-on deodorant while in jail, this was one prize I couldn’t bear to part with. Sadly, the spray can was in my possession for all of five minutes before I was relieved of it, not by one of my thieving fellow cons but by the teacher upon realising that aerosol cans weren’t allowed in the jail in case they be deployed as flame-throwers or buzzed for cerebral retardation. The last thing the screws needed was a bunch of twisted firestarters running amok in the jail, off their heads on Adidas 3 fumes. I quickly sprayed some deodorant under my arms before reluctantly surrendering my last remaining prize. By the time I arrived back in B-Hall, it was most almost lunchtime. With liberation just 30 minutes away, bringing with it the freedom to sample whatever fare took my fancy, I opted to skip the SPS slops and instead set about making final preparations for departure. It was with great pleasure that I removed my prison t-shirt for the last time, replacing it with Poison The Well, before shaving and styling my hair. Then the key turned in the lock and my door swung inwards, bringing with it a plague of locusts. Within minutes, the swarm had stripped the cell bare; towels, toiletries, bedding, posters, stickers and furniture were spirited away like some supermarket sweep, the bargain hunters returning again and again to fill their arms with plunder. By the time they had finished, cell 3-5 was barer than the naked rambler’s wardrobe.
‘Right, we just need you to sign a few forms’ says one of the screws, motioning to the desk in front of him. I scrawl my name in triplicate without even bothering to read what I am agreeing to. Caught at such an inopportune time, a man would gladly sign away his inheritance and his vital organs if it would get him out of jail a few seconds quicker. 'I think you’ve got a few other things of mine as well’ I note, remembering all the items that have previously been confiscated by jobsworth officers. The screw reaches under the desk and lifts out a large envelope with my name on. It’s just like the last day of term, when teacher returns all the contraband that has been impounded during the semester. Inside the envelope is all manner of forbidden treasure, sent to me in the post but confiscated for spurious reasons. I reach inside and pull out a copy of Four Four Two and Fly Fishing Monthly from Elwood, appropriated for fear there may be drugs stuck between the pages. There weren’t - or at least I don’t think there were - but I never got a chance to check. The mags - and any drugs sealed within them - are now a year out of date. I bin them. Reaching inside the large envelope again, I pull out a series of smaller envelopes, each one sealed inside the other like Russian dolls. I open one to discover a pair of black panties, property of my girlfriend, forwarded to me for my wanking pleasure but confiscated by the screws, presumably in case I fashion them into a rope and use them to escape from my cell. (Not that my girlfriend’s pants are that large, you understand.) Then there is the mix tape sent in by Caroline, confiscated because home recordings aren’t allowed in the prison in case…well, they just aren’t, right? I gather up the rest of the contraband and bundle it into my bulging bag of possessions.
The screw hands me an envelope containing my lib grant - all £57 of it - and I follow him across the courtyard, struggling to keep up under the weight of my belongings. I want to get out of this wretched place as quick as I can but my cumbersome load won’t permit me to move any faster. It doesn’t help that my trousers are falling down, just as they were when I first entered the jail, handcuffed and relieved of my belt. For the return journey my belt is in place but it makes little difference; my trousers are too baggy, my waist too skinny and my hands too full to pull them up. Were I in the company of my girlfriend, I’d have asked her to do the honours. I decide against asking the screw if he will reach around and pull my jeans up past my cock. Just because he’s frisked my crotch on countless occasions before doesn’t mean he wants to wrestle with my oversize balls once again, not even for old time‘s sake. If those highly-charged sacks were to go off just as he got in about them, the poor guy could lose an arm in the resulting magma explosion. I shuffle onwards, following the screw through a door set into a large vehicular gate, across another, smaller courtyard, through yet another door and across a hallway to my final port of call - the main reception desk, the departure gate to the first reception’s check-in desk. All I need do is show my boarding card - a printout of my mugshot, issued at the previous reception - and I’m free to go. The screw escorting me out of the prison - a jovial character I’ve always assumed to be gay - counts out my lib grant to make sure it’s all there. It is. Just as I’m placing the pecuniary sweetener in my pocket and preparing to exit through the final set of doors, another door opens from the side and in walks my nemesis - Willy Milne. I realise then that I am in a movie after all and will be required to take on my adversary in a tense fight to the death. I wait for him to lay down the challenge; ‘Kai…going somewhere? [Evil cackle.] Not without these you’re not. [Fingers keys attached to his belt.] I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but your electronic tagging order has been rescinded. Please accompany me back to B-Hall immediately to serve out the rest of your sentence. Unless…but no, forget it, you’d never agree.’ ‘Unless what?’ ‘Unless you want to fight me, right here, right now. The winner gets to walk out those gates, the loser gets shipped to Barlinnie.’ ‘You’re on’ I reply firmly, or at least I go to reply only there is no challenge forthcoming. Instead, the edges of Willie Milne’s mouth appear to be straining in what could be a nascent smile. I can only assume that he is simply glad to see the back of one of his detested charges.
So, would you recommend this place to your friends?’ he asks. ‘Only the ones I don’t like’ I reply, a little taken aback by his uncharacteristic loquacity. ‘Well if you’ve got any complaints about the jail, I’m sure you can write about them on your website’ replies Milne. It shouldn’t surprise me to learn that Willie Milne is a Trash Whore regular, but it does, and I feel a twinge of guilt for the character assassination he will shortly be subjected to when my scathing critique of him is posted online. But then I remember that the reason Milne was singled out for excoriation in the first place was because he was a complete cunt the whole time I was in jail, and that just because he can manage a smile as I’m walking out the door doesn’t excuse him. (My original diagnosis is reaffirmed upon getting home and discovering, among my previously confiscated property, a letter from my girlfriend that had contained an SAE for me to write back to her. Appended to the back was the following directive: ‘TO PROPERTY NOT FOR ISSUE BY ORDER OF MANAGER W.MILNE’.) I mutter something to the odious boss screw about being sure to follow his advice and record any complaints in my blog. A witty retort would have been preferable but this is neither the time nor the place for engaging in badinage; I’m fevered to the max and my head is already on the other side of the final locked door separating me from freedom. With Willie Milne dealt with, I pick up my bag of possessions and head for the exit. The effete screw turns the key and I walk through it, straight into the embrace of my girlfriend and the firm handshake of Jamesy, my designated driver. The film is still playing out in slow-mo, grainy sepia images flashing before my eyes. As the door slams shut behind me however, the screen fades to black and the end credits start to roll. I clasp my girlfriend’s hand tightly and together we exit the auditorium. It’s time to go home.
As I enter the reception area, my vision starts to go blurry around the edges, like coming up on a pill or exhaling from a supercharged bong. From this moment onwards, my world moves out of focus and events appear to pass in fast forwarded slow motion. Is time speeding up, slowing down or standing still? I’m not sure. This is not what I had expected, for the denouement to be played out on a shaky handheld camcorder with me as both protagonist and voyeur. I am all alone in the picture house, surrounded by empty seats with only my silver screen doppelganger for company. To say that it feels like a dream would be clichéd; it’s more like an out of body experience, viewing myself from a third person perspective. It is an unsettling - and yet exhilarating - sensation to feel like I am passively watching myself, unable to control my own actions. The last time I felt like this was 13 and a half months previously, when I was ordered to stand up in the High Court to receive my sentence. As the judge uttered the words ‘I hereby sentence you to three years imprisonment’ my world turned to slow motion and low resolution, as at ten frames a second the Reliance guards rose to lead me out of the court and I turned to blow a final kiss to my pregnant girlfriend seated in the public gallery. If my life was turned into a biopic, this scene would have been shot in black and white and through a fisheye lens for dramatic effect. Now it’s black and white and restricted vision once again as I find myself stood in front of the prison reception desk, the same desk where I checked in upon my arrival one year previously. This time the process is reversed; instead of surrendering my belt for a piece of string and my dignity for a strip search, I am removing the shoe laces from my jeans and preparing to buckle up my belt again. The possessions I was wearing upon first arriving here are hung on a coat hanger beside one of the changing cubicles. It‘s just like being in a gents outfitters, only the two screws in attendance show no indication of wanting to assist me. I don the thick white leather belt (£80 from Pure, as Patrick Bateman would be swift to point out) but stuff the Hugo Boss jeans and shirt into my bag. There will be plenty of time for getting reacquainted with my wardrobe when I get home.
Earlier, I had spent my final morning of captivity in the education department. It was the annual Halloween quiz and my team won, just as they had the year before. Were it not for the fact that I was getting out of jail just hours later, this would have been the highlight of my day. While I would like to take all the credit for my team’s victory, I suspect it had more to do with the fact that half the questions had been asked in the previous year’s quiz. That I was the only convict to have attended both quizzes was nothing to boast about; it simply meant I had been in jail for longer than all the rest. As questions were shouted out, answers whisperingly conferred and then conspiratorially scribbled down on answer sheets amidst a general background cacophony that only 30 convicts with ADD can make, it occurred to me that there was something distinctly odd about the scene. Here I was, sitting with a gang of violent, crack-packing, trigger-happy Yardies, answering general knowledge questions, eating cake and sipping from Robinson’s juice cartons. The incongruous sight would have perfectly illustrated the rehabilitating effect of prison were it not for the fact that as soon as the quiz was over, the Yardies immediately returned to talking sex, drugs and violence. Not surprisingly, the question regarding Bob Marley’s birthplace was answered correctly by all Rastas in attendance.
When prizes were handed out to the winning team, I gave mine away to the others, for where I was going, I could buy all the sweets and shower gel I wanted. The only item I kept was the deodorant, a spray can of the new Adidas 3. Having only been permitted roll-on deodorant while in jail, this was one prize I couldn’t bear to part with. Sadly, the spray can was in my possession for all of five minutes before I was relieved of it, not by one of my thieving fellow cons but by the teacher upon realising that aerosol cans weren’t allowed in the jail in case they be deployed as flame-throwers or buzzed for cerebral retardation. The last thing the screws needed was a bunch of twisted firestarters running amok in the jail, off their heads on Adidas 3 fumes. I quickly sprayed some deodorant under my arms before reluctantly surrendering my last remaining prize. By the time I arrived back in B-Hall, it was most almost lunchtime. With liberation just 30 minutes away, bringing with it the freedom to sample whatever fare took my fancy, I opted to skip the SPS slops and instead set about making final preparations for departure. It was with great pleasure that I removed my prison t-shirt for the last time, replacing it with Poison The Well, before shaving and styling my hair. Then the key turned in the lock and my door swung inwards, bringing with it a plague of locusts. Within minutes, the swarm had stripped the cell bare; towels, toiletries, bedding, posters, stickers and furniture were spirited away like some supermarket sweep, the bargain hunters returning again and again to fill their arms with plunder. By the time they had finished, cell 3-5 was barer than the naked rambler’s wardrobe.
‘Right, we just need you to sign a few forms’ says one of the screws, motioning to the desk in front of him. I scrawl my name in triplicate without even bothering to read what I am agreeing to. Caught at such an inopportune time, a man would gladly sign away his inheritance and his vital organs if it would get him out of jail a few seconds quicker. 'I think you’ve got a few other things of mine as well’ I note, remembering all the items that have previously been confiscated by jobsworth officers. The screw reaches under the desk and lifts out a large envelope with my name on. It’s just like the last day of term, when teacher returns all the contraband that has been impounded during the semester. Inside the envelope is all manner of forbidden treasure, sent to me in the post but confiscated for spurious reasons. I reach inside and pull out a copy of Four Four Two and Fly Fishing Monthly from Elwood, appropriated for fear there may be drugs stuck between the pages. There weren’t - or at least I don’t think there were - but I never got a chance to check. The mags - and any drugs sealed within them - are now a year out of date. I bin them. Reaching inside the large envelope again, I pull out a series of smaller envelopes, each one sealed inside the other like Russian dolls. I open one to discover a pair of black panties, property of my girlfriend, forwarded to me for my wanking pleasure but confiscated by the screws, presumably in case I fashion them into a rope and use them to escape from my cell. (Not that my girlfriend’s pants are that large, you understand.) Then there is the mix tape sent in by Caroline, confiscated because home recordings aren’t allowed in the prison in case…well, they just aren’t, right? I gather up the rest of the contraband and bundle it into my bulging bag of possessions.
The screw hands me an envelope containing my lib grant - all £57 of it - and I follow him across the courtyard, struggling to keep up under the weight of my belongings. I want to get out of this wretched place as quick as I can but my cumbersome load won’t permit me to move any faster. It doesn’t help that my trousers are falling down, just as they were when I first entered the jail, handcuffed and relieved of my belt. For the return journey my belt is in place but it makes little difference; my trousers are too baggy, my waist too skinny and my hands too full to pull them up. Were I in the company of my girlfriend, I’d have asked her to do the honours. I decide against asking the screw if he will reach around and pull my jeans up past my cock. Just because he’s frisked my crotch on countless occasions before doesn’t mean he wants to wrestle with my oversize balls once again, not even for old time‘s sake. If those highly-charged sacks were to go off just as he got in about them, the poor guy could lose an arm in the resulting magma explosion. I shuffle onwards, following the screw through a door set into a large vehicular gate, across another, smaller courtyard, through yet another door and across a hallway to my final port of call - the main reception desk, the departure gate to the first reception’s check-in desk. All I need do is show my boarding card - a printout of my mugshot, issued at the previous reception - and I’m free to go. The screw escorting me out of the prison - a jovial character I’ve always assumed to be gay - counts out my lib grant to make sure it’s all there. It is. Just as I’m placing the pecuniary sweetener in my pocket and preparing to exit through the final set of doors, another door opens from the side and in walks my nemesis - Willy Milne. I realise then that I am in a movie after all and will be required to take on my adversary in a tense fight to the death. I wait for him to lay down the challenge; ‘Kai…going somewhere? [Evil cackle.] Not without these you’re not. [Fingers keys attached to his belt.] I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but your electronic tagging order has been rescinded. Please accompany me back to B-Hall immediately to serve out the rest of your sentence. Unless…but no, forget it, you’d never agree.’ ‘Unless what?’ ‘Unless you want to fight me, right here, right now. The winner gets to walk out those gates, the loser gets shipped to Barlinnie.’ ‘You’re on’ I reply firmly, or at least I go to reply only there is no challenge forthcoming. Instead, the edges of Willie Milne’s mouth appear to be straining in what could be a nascent smile. I can only assume that he is simply glad to see the back of one of his detested charges.
So, would you recommend this place to your friends?’ he asks. ‘Only the ones I don’t like’ I reply, a little taken aback by his uncharacteristic loquacity. ‘Well if you’ve got any complaints about the jail, I’m sure you can write about them on your website’ replies Milne. It shouldn’t surprise me to learn that Willie Milne is a Trash Whore regular, but it does, and I feel a twinge of guilt for the character assassination he will shortly be subjected to when my scathing critique of him is posted online. But then I remember that the reason Milne was singled out for excoriation in the first place was because he was a complete cunt the whole time I was in jail, and that just because he can manage a smile as I’m walking out the door doesn’t excuse him. (My original diagnosis is reaffirmed upon getting home and discovering, among my previously confiscated property, a letter from my girlfriend that had contained an SAE for me to write back to her. Appended to the back was the following directive: ‘TO PROPERTY NOT FOR ISSUE BY ORDER OF MANAGER W.MILNE’.) I mutter something to the odious boss screw about being sure to follow his advice and record any complaints in my blog. A witty retort would have been preferable but this is neither the time nor the place for engaging in badinage; I’m fevered to the max and my head is already on the other side of the final locked door separating me from freedom. With Willie Milne dealt with, I pick up my bag of possessions and head for the exit. The effete screw turns the key and I walk through it, straight into the embrace of my girlfriend and the firm handshake of Jamesy, my designated driver. The film is still playing out in slow-mo, grainy sepia images flashing before my eyes. As the door slams shut behind me however, the screen fades to black and the end credits start to roll. I clasp my girlfriend’s hand tightly and together we exit the auditorium. It’s time to go home.
1 comment:
If it were a 70s kung-fu movie, he'd make you fight his top henchman, Chuck Norris, in a bloody fight to the death, before taking you on himself.
Post a Comment