challenge.
I can write, but not for every hour of every day. With luck there’s a rugby match to watch on Saturday afternoon, and a visitor to look forward to seeing on Sunday. So, for the record:
DAY 123 SUNDAY 18 NOVEMBER 2001
6.11 am
After five weeks at NSC, you must be as familiar with my daily routine as I am so, as from today, I will refer only to highlights or unusual incidents that I think might interest you.
2.00 pm
You will recall that I’m allowed one visit a week, and my visitors today are Alan and Della Pascoe. I first met Alan when he was an England schoolboy, and even the casual observer realized that he was destined to be a star. He had a decade at the highest level, and if that time hadn’t clashed with Al Moses – the greatest 400m hurdler in history – Alan would have undoubtedly won two Olympic gold medals, rather than two silvers. We only ran against each other once in our careers; he was seventeen and I was twenty-six. I prefer not to dwell on the result.
Although I had the privilege of watching Della run for her country (Commonwealth gold medalist and world record holder), we didn’t meet until she married Alan, and our families have been close ever since. They remain the sort of friends who don’t run round the track in the opposite direction when you’ve been disqualified.
DAY 124 MONDAY 19 NOVEMBER 2001
5.30 am
The noise of three heavy tractors harvesting acres and acres of Brussels sprouts wakes me. If I’m up every day by five-thirty, what time must the farm labourers rise to be on their tractor seats even before I stir?
8.15 am
Matthew, as you will remember, was released last Friday, and has been replaced in the SMU by Carl.
Carl is softly spoken and well mannered. He’s the lead singer in the prison’s rock band, and has the striking good looks required for someone who aspires to that calling: around five foot eleven, slim, with wavy fair hair. He tells me that he has a fifteen-year-old daughter born when he was twenty (he’s not married), so he must be in his mid-thirties.
Carl arrives at eight-twenty, which is a good start, and as I run through our daily duties, he makes notes. Monday is usually quiet: no inductions or labour board, so I’m able to brief him fully on all personnel resident in the building and their responsibilities. He is a quick study, and also has all the women in the building coming into the kitchen on the flimsiest of excuses. In a week he’ll have everything mastered and I’ll be redundant.
Now of course you will want to know why this cross between Robbie Williams and Richard Branson is in prison. Simple answer, fraud. Carl took advances on property that he didn’t own, or even properly represent. A more interesting aspect of Carl’s case is that his co-defendant pleaded not guilty, while, on the advice of his barrister, Carl pleaded guilty. But there’s still another twist to come. Because Carl had to wait for the outcome of his co- defendant’s trial before he could be sentenced, he was released on bail for nine months, and during that time ‘did a runner’. He disappeared off to Barcelona, found himself a job and tried to settle down. However, after only a few weeks, he decided he had to come back to England and, in his words, face the music.
Carl was a little surprised not to be arrested when he landed at Heathrow. He spent the weekend with a friend in Nottingham, and then handed himself in to the nearest police station. The policeman at the desk was so astonished that he didn’t quite know what to do with him. Carl was charged later that day, and after spending a night in custody, was sentenced the following morning to three years. His co-defendant also received three years. His barrister says he would only have got two years if he hadn’t broken bail and disappeared off to Barcelona. Carl is a model prisoner, so he will only serve sixteen months, half his sentence minus two months with a tag.
2.30 pm
Mr New phones Spring Hill to enquire about my transfer, but as there’s no reply from Karen’s office, he’ll try again tomorrow. If I were back in my office, I’d try again at 3 pm, 4 pm and 5 pm, but not in prison. Tomorrow will be just fine. After all, I’m not going anywhere.
5.00 pm
David (murder) arrives with all my clothes neatly laundered. Lifers have their own washing machine and iron. Jeeves of Pont Street would be proud of him. I hand over three Mars Bars, and my debt is paid.
6.00 pm
I need to buy a plug from the canteen (30p) because I keep leaving mine in the washbasin. I’ve lost four in the last four weeks. When I get to the front of the queue they’re sold out. However, Doug tells me he has a drawer full of plugs – of course he does.
DAY 125 TUESDAY 20 NOVEMBER 2001
Many aspects of prison life are unbearable: boredom, confinement, missing family and friends. All of these might fade in time. But the two things I will never forget after I’m released will be the noise and the bad language.
When I returned to my room at 10 pm last night, the TV room next door was packed with screaming hooligans; the volume, for a the repeat of the world heavyweight title fight between Lennox Lewis and Hasim Rahman, was so high that it reminded me of being back at Belmarsh when reggae music was blaring out from the adjacent cell. I was delighted to learn that Lennox Lewis had retained his title, but didn’t need to hear every word the commentator said, or the accompanying cheers, screams and insults from a highly partisan crowd. In the end I gave up, went next door and asked if the volume could be turned down a little. I was greeted with a universal chorus of ‘Fuck off!’
10.00 am
Sixteen new inductees turn up for labour board, all clutching their red folders. The message has spread: if you
