castle. This place looked evil; I felt a warning sign pass through my veins like a shot of adrenalin. The van drove slowly through the open gates. I spotted the reception area where a dozen or more screws with big shiny boots were waiting. As I got out of the van, followed by the six screws who were with me, theother screws came marching over. One of them said, ‘This is the fucker.’ It was pure intimidation; they were set for trouble.
I was taken through the tunnel that led to the punishment block. There were a dozen cells with beds outside the doors and I was led into a cell where they began taking off my handcuffs. It was all eye-to-eye contact. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
‘Right, sonny boy, strip off.’
I told them, ‘Bollocks.’
They never asked again.
They were on me like a ton of bricks, kicking, punching, tearing at my clothes until they left me naked, locked up in a freezing, dirty, stinking cell, with no furniture, no bed. There was just a Bible, a piss-pot, a jug of water and a lot of aches, pains and bruises. I’d arrived at Armley Jail, Leeds.
The next two years, from 1975 to 1977, were like a bloody merry-go-round: from Armley to Wakefield; to Wandsworth then Parkhurst; Wandsworth again, up to Walton, back to Wandsworth, and on again to Parkhurst.
Counting bricks in a cell will drive any man mad, so it was at Armley where I started my fitness régime, a discipline which kept me occupied and in good fighting shape for years to come.
My days at Armley were long, boring and totally soul-destroying. The Governor came down soon after I arrived to ask if I would behave myself. I told him, ‘I’ve done nothing – but just look at the state of me.’
He said I was to remain in the block on ‘good order and discipline’ for as long as I stayed in Armley. When I asked him why, he replied simply, ‘Because you’re too dangerous to mix.’
So here I was, locked up in the block, still no letters from Irene, and living the life of a hermit. I would go out on the exercise yard for my one-hour- a-day walk, then be locked up for 23 hours. Those days, even a radio wasn’t allowed. I had to plan a routine to survive.
I worked out in my cell every day but Sunday – press-ups, sit-ups, squats, step-ups, shadow boxing. During my hour on the yard, I jogged.
At first, they said I wasn’t allowed to jog. I told them, ‘Bollocks. What the fuck are you going to do, break my legs? Go and fuck off!’ They left me alone to jog after that.
I only got one shower a week, so I used to strip-wash two or three times a day in my cell.
I still do that to this day. I get up at 7.00am, run the cold tap, and bung my head under for as long as I can before washing.
Night-times at Armley, I would have my light turned off by 7.00pm and I’d just switch off completely. I used to plug my ears, cover my eyes and go into myself. Deep thoughts; some good, some bad, some evil. I went through a period of searching myself.
I never found out a lot! I was just a mixed-up, confused young man with so much energy. I hoped my training routine would at least take the edge away and relax me enough to stop me becoming violent. I could never build up too much muscle, not with the diet I was on. It was swill. It seemed an eternity since I’d chewed a decent piece of meat or had a cool drink of milk. Prison food is mostly stodgy, uncooked plates of filth. Even the porridge is pig feed, but you become accustomed to it. Two pieces of fruit a week, when I used to eat eight pieces a day outside.
At times I felt fatigued and faint when I worked out, but I pushed myself to the limit. I persevered – I had to, as I had so much tension inside. I was given one letter a week to write out. I had stopped writing to Irene, so I mostly wrote to my parents.
It was pretty quiet in this block, but the blockcleaner was a complete toe-rag, a filthy grass. I actually heard him grass up a con who smuggled in some tobacco. I waited for the
I was taken through the tunnel that led to the punishment block. There were a dozen cells with beds outside the doors and I was led into a cell where they began taking off my handcuffs. It was all eye-to-eye contact. You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.
‘Right, sonny boy, strip off.’
I told them, ‘Bollocks.’
They never asked again.
They were on me like a ton of bricks, kicking, punching, tearing at my clothes until they left me naked, locked up in a freezing, dirty, stinking cell, with no furniture, no bed. There was just a Bible, a piss-pot, a jug of water and a lot of aches, pains and bruises. I’d arrived at Armley Jail, Leeds.
The next two years, from 1975 to 1977, were like a bloody merry-go-round: from Armley to Wakefield; to Wandsworth then Parkhurst; Wandsworth again, up to Walton, back to Wandsworth, and on again to Parkhurst.
Counting bricks in a cell will drive any man mad, so it was at Armley where I started my fitness régime, a discipline which kept me occupied and in good fighting shape for years to come.
My days at Armley were long, boring and totally soul-destroying. The Governor came down soon after I arrived to ask if I would behave myself. I told him, ‘I’ve done nothing – but just look at the state of me.’
He said I was to remain in the block on ‘good order and discipline’ for as long as I stayed in Armley. When I asked him why, he replied simply, ‘Because you’re too dangerous to mix.’
So here I was, locked up in the block, still no letters from Irene, and living the life of a hermit. I would go out on the exercise yard for my one-hour- a-day walk, then be locked up for 23 hours. Those days, even a radio wasn’t allowed. I had to plan a routine to survive.
I worked out in my cell every day but Sunday – press-ups, sit-ups, squats, step-ups, shadow boxing. During my hour on the yard, I jogged.
At first, they said I wasn’t allowed to jog. I told them, ‘Bollocks. What the fuck are you going to do, break my legs? Go and fuck off!’ They left me alone to jog after that.
I only got one shower a week, so I used to strip-wash two or three times a day in my cell.
I still do that to this day. I get up at 7.00am, run the cold tap, and bung my head under for as long as I can before washing.
Night-times at Armley, I would have my light turned off by 7.00pm and I’d just switch off completely. I used to plug my ears, cover my eyes and go into myself. Deep thoughts; some good, some bad, some evil. I went through a period of searching myself.
I never found out a lot! I was just a mixed-up, confused young man with so much energy. I hoped my training routine would at least take the edge away and relax me enough to stop me becoming violent. I could never build up too much muscle, not with the diet I was on. It was swill. It seemed an eternity since I’d chewed a decent piece of meat or had a cool drink of milk. Prison food is mostly stodgy, uncooked plates of filth. Even the porridge is pig feed, but you become accustomed to it. Two pieces of fruit a week, when I used to eat eight pieces a day outside.
At times I felt fatigued and faint when I worked out, but I pushed myself to the limit. I persevered – I had to, as I had so much tension inside. I was given one letter a week to write out. I had stopped writing to Irene, so I mostly wrote to my parents.
It was pretty quiet in this block, but the blockcleaner was a complete toe-rag, a filthy grass. I actually heard him grass up a con who smuggled in some tobacco. I waited for the
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