Who lives here? Ooh I guess that'll be me then. Yep, that cosy top bunk was mine for the majority of 2009. But how on earth did I manage to take a picture of my homely prison cell? Surely that would have required access to some sort of camera device and a means to transmit the image wirelessly to a third party outside the jail. Perhaps something like... a camera phone? Contraband items such as cellular telephones in Scottish prisons? Surely not! Next thing you know they'll be smuggling drugs in as well.

Written on: Friday 13th February 2009

‘Here.’ I proffer the tooter to Huxley who looks up from the book he is reading. (Guns & Gangs, a history of black gun crime in Britain.) ‘Nah dude, you go first,’ he insists. I lean over the worktop and demolish a fat slug. Standing upright, I push a finger against my right nostril and snort, waiting for the cocaine hit to kick in. ‘Mash up, mash up!’ exclaims the stereo. I instinctively turn up Annie Mac and wait for the tune to drop. It builds up slowly, the beat repeating over and over as it builds towards the climax that is preceded by the inevitable pause. And then it drops. ‘Dun-du-du-du-du-dun’ goes the phat bassline. Fucking tune. Huxley reaches over and demolishes his rail. He is feeling good. So am I. The tunes are banging. It’s Friday nite, which can only mean one thing – Snafu. Knock back some Havana, straighten my hair, have another liney for the road and get ready to rock and roll. There is just one hitch; the front door is locked and I don’t have the keys. Neither does Huxley. As it stands, we ain’t going nowhere. Not tonite, not tomorrow, not even this month. Jail really fucks up your social life.
I jump onto my berth on the top bunk and glare at the resolute cell door, willing it to open. It doesn’t. It is of little consolation to know that we are not alone in our frustration. In cells the length and breadth of A-Hall, the cons are in a similar predicament. Only not all of them are as keen to leave as we are. It all depends on what they’ve been taking really – uppers or downers. On the second flat, a ghetto blaster has been cranked to the max and the bass is pumping out at ASBO-invoking levels. It shudders through the hall before escaping through the gaps in the window bars and out into the yard. That will be the Yardies, bringing the party as usual. One of them sourced some bicarb earlier and, after obtaining an eighth of Huxley’s powdery white goodness, set about trying to rock it up. By the sounds of it, his chemistry practical has been a success. They must be climbing the walls in there. In the adjacent cell, the neighbours are more placid. Indeed, they don’t seem remotely perturbed by the hard house vibrating through the bricks that separate them from the blacks on crack. That’s because they are smacked off their tits thanks to the parcel that one of them took in earlier at a visit. One swift kiss from his blonde, one almighty swallow and, back at the hall, one bout of induced vomiting. On the bottom flat, the YO’s are stoned as usual. But because the Young Offenders are young and offensive, they can’t just chill and enjoy the vibe like self-respecting potheads. No, they have to jump about like toddlers who’ve necked too much Sunny D, making animal sounds through the crack in the door, vandalising the window panes and shouting obscenities through the resulting holes. From the cell across the hallway, there comes a dull thumping. This is not another competing bassline but the sound of someone desperately trying to summon the screws. The thumper’s cellmate has spewed everywhere and then passed out. It transpires that the boy has lapsed into a coma after nailing his week’s allocation of vallies in a oner. Holding back one’s medication is a common jail practice that involves pretending to swallow your tablets in front of the nurse, only to spit them back up once out of sight. Save up a few days’ worth, bosh them all at once and you’ll get a proper dunt. That or just lapse into a coma. On the top flat, a similar incident is taking place. In the end cell, an inmate is convulsing, rolling about on the floor in a series of violent spasms. His cellmate presumes that the boy is just strung out and leaves him to rattle off the worst of the gear. The next morning, he learns that heroin had nothing to do with it for once; the guy was actually having a series of epileptic fits.
Back in cell 1-11, there is still no sign of the keys. Not only that, but I can’t seem to find the Havana or my straighteners. Oh well, I guess another liney will have to suffice. ‘Ready or not, here I come.’ The Fugees mash-up kicks in and I crank it up. It’s a tune. They all are. Perhaps I’ll just stay in after all and listen to the show. I can easily go clubbing some other time. I run my tongue across my teeth. My mouth is numb.