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‘Politics is like prison,’ I suggest. ‘You mustn’t assume anything, as the exact opposite often turns out to be the reality.’
5.00 pm
‘Back to your cells,’ bellows a voice.
I leave the lifers and return to my cell on the top floor to be incarcerated until nine tomorrow morning – sixteen hours. Think about it, sixteen hours. That’s the length of time you will spend between rising in the morning and going to bed at night.
Just as I arrive at my door, another lifer (Doug) hands me an envelope. ‘It’s from a prisoner on Block Two,’ he says. ‘He evidently told you all about it yesterday when you were in the exercise yard.’ I throw the envelope on the bed and switch on the radio, to be reminded that it’s the hottest day of the year (92°). I open my little window to its furthest extent (six inches) to let in whatever breeze there is, but I still feel myself sweating as I sit at my desk checking over the day’s script. I glance up at the cupboard behind my bed, grateful for the clean clothes that Mary sent in this morning.
6.00 pm
Supper. I can’t face the hotplate, despite Tony’s recommendation of Spam fritter, so I have another portion of grated cheese, open a small tin of coleslaw (41p) and – disaster – finish the last drop of my last bottle of Highland Spring. Thank heavens that it’s canteen tomorrow and I’m allowed to spend another £12.50.
During the early evening, I go over my manuscript, and as there are no letters to deal with, I turn my attention to the envelope that was handed to Doug in the yard. It turns out to be a TV script for a thirty-minute pilot set in a women’s prison. It’s somehow been smuggled out of Holloway and into Belmarsh (no wonder it’s easy to get hold of drugs). The writer has a good ear for prison language, and allows you an interesting insight into life in a women’s prison, but I fear Cell Block H and Bad Girls have already done this theme to death. It’s fascinating to spot the immediate differences in a women’s prison to Belmarsh. Not least the searching procedure, the fact that lesbianism is far more prevalent in female prisons than homosexuality is in male establishments, and, if you can believe it, the level of violence is higher. They don’t bother waiting until you’re in the shower before they throw the first punch. Anywhere, at any time, will do.
It’s a long hot evening, and I have visits from Del Boy, Paul, Fletch and finally Tony.
Tony (hotplate, marijuana only, escaped to Paris) started life as a B-cat prisoner, and was transferred after three and a half years to Ford Open (first offence, no history of violence). After eight blameless months they allowed him out on a town visit, so he happily set off for Bognor Regis. But after four visits to that seaside resort during the next four months, he became somewhat bored with the cold, deserted beach and the limited shopping centre. That’s when he decided there were other towns he’d like to visit on his day off.
When they let him out the following month, he took the boat-train to Paris.
The prison authorities were not amused. It was only when he moved on to Spain, two years later, that they finally caught up with him and he was arrested. After spending sixteen months in a Spanish jail waiting to be deported (canteen, fifty pounds a week, and no bang-up until nine), they sent him back to the UK. Tony now resides in this high-security double A-Category prison, from where no one has ever escaped, and will remain put until he has completed his full sentence (twelve years). No time was added to his sentence, but there will be no remission (half off for good behaviour) and he certainly won’t be considered for an open prison again. This fifty-four-year-old somehow keeps smiling and even manages to tell his story with self-deprecating humour.
Tony leaves me with a copy of the Sunday Mirror. Although it’s not a paper I’m in the habit of reading, I am at least able to bring myself up to date on the county cricket scores, not to mention who among the fighting fit will find a place in the England team for the third Test against Australia on Thursday. My beloved Somerset are in second place in the county championship and doing well in their current fixture against Glamorgan. On the England front, the Mirror’s cricke
t correspondent is suggesting it’s time to bring back Tufnell. I did an auction for Phil during his testimonial year, and although he’s not always popular with the selectors, the packed banqueting hall at the Dorchester proved the regard in which he is held by the Middlesex supporters. It seems that Thorpe, Hussain, Vaughan and Croft are all injured and will not make the starting line while a reluctant Atherton will be called on once again to skipper the side. It doesn’t seem to improve his batting.
Meanwhile, Australia fields the same team that so roundly defeated us at Lords. I always thought it was the visiting side that was meant to have injury problems.
I finally finish The Moon’s a Balloon, which left me with the distinct feeling that Mr Niven must have lived a charmed life. I only met him once, and that was at a literary luncheon in Yorkshire, where he was on the circuit with Bring on the Empty Horses, the sequel to the book I’ve just finished reading. It was an occasion I shall never forget, because the other author was James Herriot of It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet fame. I was there to launch my first effort, Not A Penny More, Not A Penny Less, and was naturally delighted to be among such illustrious company. After the speeches had concluded, the authors were each escorted to a table, so that they could sign copies of their books.
Mr Niven’s queue stretched across the dining-room floor and out of the front door, while Mr Herriot’s fans were almost as legion. In my case, I didn’t have a single customer. When the signing was over, Mr Niven graciously came across to my table, purchased a copy of Penny, and told me he would read it on the flight back to Los Angeles the following day. He turned out to be one of the three people who paid for the book. A generous gesture, which many people have since told me was typical. But imagine my surprise when a few days later I received a handwritten letter from the Bel Air Hotel.
Dear Jeffrey,
Much enjoyed Penny, have no doubt it will sell even more copies than Horses by the time you’re my age.
Yours ever
David
10.00 pm
Bang on ten, the rap music begins blasting out.
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead
Gunshot to the head, pussyboy gets dead…
Have you ever stopped at a traffic light to find yourself next to an open car with its radio full on? Do you then allow the offending driver to accelerate away? Imagine being in a cell with the music blasting out on both sides of you, but you can’t accelerate away.
