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11.45 am
When I return to my spur after chapel, I find that it has been locked off and we are unable to get into our cells. A small crowd is gathering at the entrance of the spur, and I am informed by Darren that our cells are being searched for phonecards. It seems that one of the prisoners has shaved off the silver lining on the top of his card as this allows him to have a longer period for each unit. Not a great crime you might consider, remembering that we’re in a den of thieves. But what you won’t realize is that the next person who makes a phone call will find that BT automatically retrieves those stolen units. Result: the next prisoner will be robbed blind.
The next inmate on the phone that morning turned out to be a voluble West Indian called Carl (GBH) who, when his last ten units were gobbled up in seconds, never stopped effing and blinding all the way to the PO’s office. The spur was closed down in seconds, and Carl had unwittingly given the ‘prison search team’ an excuse to go through everyone’s personal belongings.
When the gate to the cells is eventually unlocked, a team of three officers comes out carrying a sackful of swag. My bet is that the offending phonecard is not among their trophies, but several other illicit goods are. I return to my cell to find that nothing of mine has been touched. Even my script lies in exactly the same place as I left it. I take this as a compliment.
12 noon
Lunch. England have progressed to 40 for 1, but the ominously dark clouds that appear over Wayland are also, it seems, unpaid visitors at the Oval. I turn my attention to the Sunday papers. The Sunday Mirror, that bastion of accuracy, tells its readers that I defended myself from another inmate with a cricket bat. I gave you a full ball-by-ball summary of that match, and the only thing I tried to threaten - and not very successfully - was the ball. The article then goes on to say that I am paying protection money to a prisoner called Matthew McMahon. There is no inmate at Wayland called Matthew McMahon.
They add that payment is made with PS5 phonecards. There are no PS5 phone-cards. The funny thing is that some inmates are shocked by this: they had assumed the papers reported accurately, and it wasn’t until I took up residence that they realized how inaccurate the press can be.
2.00 pm
Exercise. We are allowed out for an hour, rather than forty-five minutes, which is a welcome bonus. As we walk round, I get teased by a lot of prisoners who say they are willing to protect me if I’ll give them a PS5 phonecard. Some ask how come you have a PS5 phonecard when the rest of us only have PS2 phone-cards. Others add that I can hit them with my cricket bat whenever I want to. I confess that this wouldn’t be so amusing if Jimmy and Darren were not accompanying me. Certainly, being the butt of everyone’s humour inside, as well as outside, begins to tell on one. Jimmy has also read the story in the Sunday Mirror and what worries him is who to believe in the latest row between Ken Clarke and Iain Duncan Smith concerning immigration. I tell Jimmy that only one thing is certain: although the result of the leadership election will not be announced for another two weeks (12 September), 70 per cent of the 318,000 electorate have cast their votes, and I assure him that IDS is already the next leader of the Tory party.
‘Can I risk a bet on that?’ asks Darren.
‘Yes, if you can find anyone stupid enough to take your wager.’
The spur bookie is offering 1-3 on Duncan Smith.’
Those are still good odds, because you can’t lose unless he drops down dead.’
The bookie or Iain Duncan Smith?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Either’ I reply.
‘Good,’ says Darren. Then I’ll put three Mars bars on Duncan Smith as soon as we get back to the spur.’
4.00 pm
I visit Sergio in his cell to be given a lesson on emeralds. I’ll let you know why later. Sergio takes his time telling me that emeralds are to Colombia what diamonds are to South Africa. When he’s finished his tutorial, I ask him if it would be possible for his brother to find an emerald of the highest quality. He looks puzzled.
‘What sort of price do you have in mind?’ he asks.
‘Around ten thousand dollars,’ I tell him.
He nods. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He looks at his watch and adds, ‘I’ll speak to my brother immediately.’
5.00 pm
Sunday supper is always a bag of crisps and a lemon mousse. However, this evening we are offered two lemon mousses because, I note, the sell-by date on the lid is 25 August.
7.00 pm
At last there’s something worth watching on television. Victoria and Albert with a cast to kill for. Nigel Hawthorne, Diana Rigg, Peter Ustinov, Jonathan Pryce, David Suchet, John Wood and Richard Briers.
It only serves to remind me how much I miss live theatre, though at times I feel I’m getting enough drama at the Theatre Royal, Wayland.
DAY 40 - MONDAY 27 AUGUST 2001
6.08 am
Forty days and forty nights, and, like Our Lord, I feel it’s time to come out of the wilderness and get on with some work, despite the fact it’s a bank holiday. I write for two hours.
8.15 am
Breakfast. Corn Pops (for a change), UHT milk, a slice of bread and marmalade. I stare at the golly on the jar. I read yesterday in one of the papers that he’s no longer politically correct and will be replaced by a character created by Roald Dahl and illustrated by Quentin Blake. I like golly, he’s been a friend for years. As a man without an ounce of prejudice in him, I am bound to say I think the world has gone mad.
