stereos and the two inmates
who go on shouting at each other all through the night. But not before I had
been asked to do so by several other prisoners on the spur. I got two
surprises: firstly, no one was willing to accompany me – they were all happy to
point out which cells they were in, but no more than that. The second surprise
was that all of the transgressors, without exception, responded favourably to
my courteous request with either, ‘Not me, gov,’ or, ‘Sorry, Jeff, I’ll turn it
down,’ and in one case. ‘I’ll turn it off at nine, Jeff.’ Interesting.
8.15 am
Breakfast. A prisoner in the queue
for the hotplate asks me if I’m moving cells today.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘What makes you think that?’
The name card outside your cell has disappeared, always the
first sign that you’re on the move.’
I laugh, and explain, ‘It’s been removed every day – a sort
of’
9.15 am
Gym. The treadmill is not working
again, so I start with the rower and manage 1,956 metres in ten minutes. I
would have done better if I hadn’t started chatting to the inmate on the next
rower. All across his back is tattooed the word MONSTER, though, in truth, he’s
softly spoken and, whenever I’ve come across him in the corridor, friendly. I
ask what his real name is.
‘Martin,’ he whispers, ‘but only my mother calls me that.
Everyone else calls me Monster.’ He’s managed 2,470 metres in ten minutes
despite chatting to me.
He tells me that in January, when he arrived at Wayland, he
weighed seventeen and a half stone. He is a taxi driver from Essex and admits
that it was easy to put on weight in that job. Now he tips the scales at
thirteen stone five pounds, and his girlfriend has to visit him every two weeks
just to make sure that she’ll still recognize him when he’s released. He was
sen-tenced to three years for transporting cannabis from one Ilford club to
another.
About a third of the men in this prison have been convicted
of some crime connected with cannabis, and most of them will say, I repeat say,
that they would never deal in hard drugs. In fact, Darren goes further and,
snarling, adds that he would try to dissuade anyone who did. If cannabis were to be legalized – and for most of the well-rehearsed
reasons, I remain unconvinced that it should – the price would fall by around
70 per cent, tax revenues would be enormous and prison numbers would drop
overnight.
Many young prisoners complain, ‘It’s your lot who are
smoking the stuff, Jeff. In ten years’ time it won’t even be considered a
crime.’ Jimmy admits that he couldn’t meet the demand from his customers, and
that he certainly never needed to do any pushing. Darren adds that although he
and Jimmy covered roughly the same territory in Ipswich they hadn’t come across
each other until they ended up in jail, which will give you an idea of just how
large the market is.
Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still in the gym. Monster
leaves me to join Darren and Jimmy on the bench press, where he manages to pump
ten reps of 250 pounds. I also turn to the weights where I achieve ten curls at
50 pounds. This is followed by a spell on the bicycle, where I break the world
record by peddling three miles in twelve minutes and fifty-four seconds. Pity
it’s the world record for running.
Mr Maiden, the senior gym instructor, reintroduces me to the
medicine ball, which I haven’t come in contact with since I left school. I
place the large leather object behind my head, raise my shoulders as in an
ordinary sit-up, and then pass it up to him. He then drops it back on top of
me. Simple, I think, until I reach my fifth attempt, by which time I’m
exhausted and Mr Maiden is unable to hide his mirth at my discomfort. He knows
only too well that I haven’t done this exercise for over forty years, and what
the result would be.
‘We’ll have you doing three sets of fifteen with a minute
interval between sets before you’re released,’ he
who go on shouting at each other all through the night. But not before I had
been asked to do so by several other prisoners on the spur. I got two
surprises: firstly, no one was willing to accompany me – they were all happy to
point out which cells they were in, but no more than that. The second surprise
was that all of the transgressors, without exception, responded favourably to
my courteous request with either, ‘Not me, gov,’ or, ‘Sorry, Jeff, I’ll turn it
down,’ and in one case. ‘I’ll turn it off at nine, Jeff.’ Interesting.
8.15 am
Breakfast. A prisoner in the queue
for the hotplate asks me if I’m moving cells today.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘What makes you think that?’
The name card outside your cell has disappeared, always the
first sign that you’re on the move.’
I laugh, and explain, ‘It’s been removed every day – a sort
of’
9.15 am
Gym. The treadmill is not working
again, so I start with the rower and manage 1,956 metres in ten minutes. I
would have done better if I hadn’t started chatting to the inmate on the next
rower. All across his back is tattooed the word MONSTER, though, in truth, he’s
softly spoken and, whenever I’ve come across him in the corridor, friendly. I
ask what his real name is.
‘Martin,’ he whispers, ‘but only my mother calls me that.
Everyone else calls me Monster.’ He’s managed 2,470 metres in ten minutes
despite chatting to me.
He tells me that in January, when he arrived at Wayland, he
weighed seventeen and a half stone. He is a taxi driver from Essex and admits
that it was easy to put on weight in that job. Now he tips the scales at
thirteen stone five pounds, and his girlfriend has to visit him every two weeks
just to make sure that she’ll still recognize him when he’s released. He was
sen-tenced to three years for transporting cannabis from one Ilford club to
another.
About a third of the men in this prison have been convicted
of some crime connected with cannabis, and most of them will say, I repeat say,
that they would never deal in hard drugs. In fact, Darren goes further and,
snarling, adds that he would try to dissuade anyone who did. If cannabis were to be legalized – and for most of the well-rehearsed
reasons, I remain unconvinced that it should – the price would fall by around
70 per cent, tax revenues would be enormous and prison numbers would drop
overnight.
Many young prisoners complain, ‘It’s your lot who are
smoking the stuff, Jeff. In ten years’ time it won’t even be considered a
crime.’ Jimmy admits that he couldn’t meet the demand from his customers, and
that he certainly never needed to do any pushing. Darren adds that although he
and Jimmy covered roughly the same territory in Ipswich they hadn’t come across
each other until they ended up in jail, which will give you an idea of just how
large the market is.
Just in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still in the gym. Monster
leaves me to join Darren and Jimmy on the bench press, where he manages to pump
ten reps of 250 pounds. I also turn to the weights where I achieve ten curls at
50 pounds. This is followed by a spell on the bicycle, where I break the world
record by peddling three miles in twelve minutes and fifty-four seconds. Pity
it’s the world record for running.
Mr Maiden, the senior gym instructor, reintroduces me to the
medicine ball, which I haven’t come in contact with since I left school. I
place the large leather object behind my head, raise my shoulders as in an
ordinary sit-up, and then pass it up to him. He then drops it back on top of
me. Simple, I think, until I reach my fifth attempt, by which time I’m
exhausted and Mr Maiden is unable to hide his mirth at my discomfort. He knows
only too well that I haven’t done this exercise for over forty years, and what
the result would be.
‘We’ll have you doing three sets of fifteen with a minute
interval between sets before you’re released,’ he
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