filled up with tears. He was pleased for me but he would miss me. I knew that I would miss Steve and a few others, but it was a godsend to me. I gave him my suit – the one I’dgot married in. He was made up with it. I also gave him some chocolates to give to John Boy every now and again.
The morning I left I took a last look through the hatch at John Boy. He was sitting up, shit all over him, poor sod. I thought to myself, Who’s the lucky guy who is going to bath him today?
Before I left, I shouted to Steve, ‘Don’t forget to wash behind John Boy’s ears!’
The time I spent in Rampton will remain in my head for ever. I’m told Rampton has changed, but I’ll always remember it how it was.
On 20 November 1979, as I was passing through the Nottinghamshire countryside in the van, I reflected on this so-called hospital. My final opinion is that it was a hell-hole on earth, a god-forsaken pit of human misery. I still carry the scars.
Still, I was glad that I was finally getting out of the place. I left Rampton a very sick and disturbed inmate, thinking that Broadmoor couldn’t be any worse.
Little did I know.
CHAPTER FIVE
Broadmoor is known as ‘the end of the road’.
It is perhaps the most infamous mental institution in Great Britain. Broadmoor is legendary.
All the top-security mental hospitals – Rampton, Broadmoor and Ashworth – have been trying to shake off their terrible image in the last few years. They now call their inmates ‘patients’, ‘clients’ and ‘service users’. But they still fuck up.
Reality stops at the gates of these institutions. Broadmoor, to me, is simply an institution for the criminally insane. Behind these Victorian walls liestories that would turn your hair white overnight – stories of madness, pain, anguish, torture, murder, suicides, escapes, sieges, protests, drug abuse, force feedings, electric shock treatments, brutality, sex crimes.
The place is riddled with horror. It is a monster’s paradise and a psychiatrist’s dream. This was to be my home for the next five years.
Broadmoor is situated on top of a small hill in the Berkshire countryside, in a village called Crowthorne. It houses both male and female inmates. Some have been locked up since the Second World War. Thirty years is not an unusual stay in Broadmoor.
From the second the gates opened and let us in, I felt a strange sensation. I could smell the madness. The place was full of despair, full of souls that were lost. I could sense the broken hearts, the dreams that never were.
For the first time in my life I felt fear, a fear that I would never be free again. This was reality. I was now a Broadmoor patient.
I was taken to reception, which was the opposite of Rampton. The staff seemed decent; they didn’t intimidate me. It all seemed relaxed. I was led to ‘Somerset House’ and given a plastic mug of tea and some sandwiches. They told me about the place and what they expected of me. They said I could do it any way I wanted – easy or hard. Either way, I would do it! Broadmoor could be heaven or hell, they said. If I behaved, I would have an easy ride – TV, snooker, social events. On the other hand, if I messed about I would have a bare cell for a very long time.
As they told me all this, I thought one thing: Fuck Broadmoor!
They started asking me questions … name, date of birth and so on. No way was I going to accept all thisshit – no way. I told them to read my file if they wanted to know anything. After all, it was as big as a tea chest!
After my bath and something to eat, they locked me in my cell. It was bare except for a bolted-down bed and a piss-pot, but at least it was warm. I lay in bed, nice and relaxed, thinking. I thought about how many lunatics had slept in this cell. I also thought about my past and my present. There was no future that I could see for myself.
All I felt was a big black hole. There was no light. Just a big, black, bottomless pit. A lot of inmates die
The morning I left I took a last look through the hatch at John Boy. He was sitting up, shit all over him, poor sod. I thought to myself, Who’s the lucky guy who is going to bath him today?
Before I left, I shouted to Steve, ‘Don’t forget to wash behind John Boy’s ears!’
The time I spent in Rampton will remain in my head for ever. I’m told Rampton has changed, but I’ll always remember it how it was.
On 20 November 1979, as I was passing through the Nottinghamshire countryside in the van, I reflected on this so-called hospital. My final opinion is that it was a hell-hole on earth, a god-forsaken pit of human misery. I still carry the scars.
Still, I was glad that I was finally getting out of the place. I left Rampton a very sick and disturbed inmate, thinking that Broadmoor couldn’t be any worse.
Little did I know.
CHAPTER FIVE
Broadmoor is known as ‘the end of the road’.
It is perhaps the most infamous mental institution in Great Britain. Broadmoor is legendary.
All the top-security mental hospitals – Rampton, Broadmoor and Ashworth – have been trying to shake off their terrible image in the last few years. They now call their inmates ‘patients’, ‘clients’ and ‘service users’. But they still fuck up.
Reality stops at the gates of these institutions. Broadmoor, to me, is simply an institution for the criminally insane. Behind these Victorian walls liestories that would turn your hair white overnight – stories of madness, pain, anguish, torture, murder, suicides, escapes, sieges, protests, drug abuse, force feedings, electric shock treatments, brutality, sex crimes.
The place is riddled with horror. It is a monster’s paradise and a psychiatrist’s dream. This was to be my home for the next five years.
Broadmoor is situated on top of a small hill in the Berkshire countryside, in a village called Crowthorne. It houses both male and female inmates. Some have been locked up since the Second World War. Thirty years is not an unusual stay in Broadmoor.
From the second the gates opened and let us in, I felt a strange sensation. I could smell the madness. The place was full of despair, full of souls that were lost. I could sense the broken hearts, the dreams that never were.
For the first time in my life I felt fear, a fear that I would never be free again. This was reality. I was now a Broadmoor patient.
I was taken to reception, which was the opposite of Rampton. The staff seemed decent; they didn’t intimidate me. It all seemed relaxed. I was led to ‘Somerset House’ and given a plastic mug of tea and some sandwiches. They told me about the place and what they expected of me. They said I could do it any way I wanted – easy or hard. Either way, I would do it! Broadmoor could be heaven or hell, they said. If I behaved, I would have an easy ride – TV, snooker, social events. On the other hand, if I messed about I would have a bare cell for a very long time.
As they told me all this, I thought one thing: Fuck Broadmoor!
They started asking me questions … name, date of birth and so on. No way was I going to accept all thisshit – no way. I told them to read my file if they wanted to know anything. After all, it was as big as a tea chest!
After my bath and something to eat, they locked me in my cell. It was bare except for a bolted-down bed and a piss-pot, but at least it was warm. I lay in bed, nice and relaxed, thinking. I thought about how many lunatics had slept in this cell. I also thought about my past and my present. There was no future that I could see for myself.
All I felt was a big black hole. There was no light. Just a big, black, bottomless pit. A lot of inmates die
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