The Land of a Thousand Arseholes!

Who is King in the land of a thousand arsholes? It is six o’ clock and the screws are rattling keys and banging cell doors open. It is time to slop out. The cell door opens and I pick up the chamber pot and empty the contents into a bucket that is held by another prisoner. I am nearly sick looking at it and the smell is fucking awful. “Come on, sling it in lad and look sharp! The screw shouts in my ear hole, “I’ve got ta get me breakfast too ya know!”

I go down to the recess on the landing with my enamel jug to get water for washing. There is only one lavatory, and it is impossible to get in and use it with thirty or forty blokes queuing for water to rinse out the bottom of their chamber pots the crap that had not gone into the slop bucket. We then go back to our cells and wait for breakfast.

Breakfast consists of a tin of porridge with an ounce of sugar, six ounces of bread and a pat of margarine. Once more there is warm brown tea to help swill it down. After breakfast we have to clean our cells. Every morning the bed board, table and chair have to be scrubbed, and the black slate floor rubbed with soap to make it blacker still. All prisoners are issued with two bars of soap a week. It is the only thing we are never short of. When I have cleaned the floor, the blankets and sheets are laid out for inspection and my plate and mug are placed in a special way on the newly scrubbed table. After inspection I can have the morning bowel movement and not before.

On the Friday of my first week in prison a priest visited me.
“I see you have put down no religion – not a particularly wise move on your part.” He was smiling in a friendly fashion. I stood to attention by my bed and said nothing. He was a fat man and looked like a parish priest. The type you see atop a good horse on his way to the Hunt, along with the Governor, where he would no doubt fill his face with black velvet, and fart his way around the South Downs.

“I have learned over the years Dave that life here can be a little more convivial so to speak, if you leave your cell as oft times as possible, and what better way is there, other than pursuing the Word of God?” He spoke with a “Haw – old boy,” accent, the kind I had heard so many times in Chelsea from the public school toffs wishing to buy skag, simply because they were bored and it would be a hoot!

“I mean for example, you would get out twice on Sunday, once for Mass in the morning and then of course for Benediction in the evening…does that not appeal to you? I mean the Methodists and all of those other ones only get out once…” Again the smile, I slowly shook my head.

“ No sir. I think under the circumstances I would rather stop in here and stick to my principles.”
He nodded slowly, “From what I understand it will not be long before your trial. Have you thought about your trial? Have you thought to seek peace with God my child before you go to seek justice?”

A surge of irony ran through me. “Justice? Is that what you call it? I would have thought more a show trial.” He did not waver.

“You are facing very serious charges. I feel God could help you in your hour of need. You have offended God and you need to make amends my son.”
“ How is it possible to make amends to something or somebody that does not exist?”

The priest smiled a little. “Dave I will come back when I have more time, when we can discuss my role in your life more fully and talk of the Scriptures.”

With that he made the sign of the cross and gave a small incantation,
“There in Thine ear all trustfully, we tell our tale of misery. Sweet Sacrament of love, Sweet Sacrament of love.”

He tapped on the cell door and it was opened by a screw who came in looked around, scowled at me, and went out of the door with the priest before slamming it shut.

As yet time had not stood still. I was finding it hard to accommodate the bitterly limited space both physically and mentally. I tried sitting on my bed to meditate, with my legs crossed and the backs of palms resting on my knees. I stared at the wall and breathed deeply, letting out long exhalations through my mouth before slowly breathing in through my nose. I kept trying to think of Buddha on the hilltops of Nepal, but all I got was Buddha from Kentish Town laughing and saying, “Ya fucking nonce give us a toke…”

After breakfast on Saturday morning I made tentative comments to the screw about bacca. I did not know what would happen because he said little, but later my cell door was banged opened, and I was escorted down to the prison shop on my wing.

There I was told I had the princely sum of £1.50p to spend, this being the sum I would receive each week on a normal regime whilst in custody, unless I either got money sent in, or was given employment within the prison.

I rested my elbows on the ledge of the hatch and looked around the small dark room with its shelves packed with boxes. A half-ounce of Old Holborn cost £1.35 and a packet of papers cost 10p. Matches cost 4p and with the remaining penny I bought two black jack sweets. I was then marched back to my cell banged up, and smoked the greatest roll up a person as ever smoked.

Then to top it all, mid way through the afternoon they started opening cell doors for an exercise period. This comprised of us going out of a door on the ground floor into a large basketball court with wire netting over the top. There under a brooding blood red sky, we marched round in circles, our arms hanging down our sides, whilst screws stood in each corner with black guard dogs on leads and watched us mercilessly. I observed the twitchy fingers on the slip leads and noted the cold, expressionless stares, and got the feeling that they wanted to let go of the dogs.

I talked to nobody, and kept myself to myself, and thought of the goodies you could buy in the prison shop if you had the money. Lighters, assorted sweets and chocolate, ginger biscuits, cardboard cartons of flavoured milk, ball – point pens, paper, and jars of Brylcreem, though fuck knows which dinner and dance we would be going to.

Then in what seemed no time at all, a dull - pitched whistle was blown and we were ushered back to our cells. The mass banging of metal doors continued for about ten minutes, heavy keys rattled and screws shouted, and then like an orchestral conductor waving his baton at the end of a symphony - silence. Total silence.

The silences in nick were always strange. How abruptly they descended on the wing, the opening and closing of a musical box, to the tune of the Death March.

At about three – thirty we were given our last meal of the day this being a weekend. The next time the door would be opened would be the following morning for breakfast. On Sundays there was no slopping out, what was done would have to wait until Monday morning.

I woke quite early. It was almost joyous to hear noise after the long period of silence. The doors were opening and shutting and coming nearer and nearer. I stood with my pot by the door, waiting to get rid of it. During the week everyone tried to get a couple of shits in during the daytime when they were working in the workshops sewing mailbags, that way they would only use the pots for pissing in, but now after being banged up for the best part of two days that had not been possible.

The smell that hit me that first Monday morning when my cell door was opened was so overpowering I started retching. The screw stood there barking at me, “Come on! come on! get it done, we’ve not got all day!” Coughing and spluttering I emptied my pot into the brimming bucket and joined the rest at the recess to rinse it clean at the tap.

Coming back along the landing to my cell I looked down at the two landings beneath me, and up at the one landing above me, and felt in that yellow light of dawn streaming through the glass dome way on high, a gripping, hopeless, despair.

For the first time since I had been there, the inhumanity of it all hit me. It was only then that I realised how terrible my predicament really was, and what it did to people, including the snarling, bitter, screws. It was like playing out some part in a Koestler novel, only I was a cheap crook, not some political bigwig. I was not at deaths door for treason. My intellectual reasoning did not direct my thoughts or feelings about where I was or for that matter why. I could not afford to let such reasoning enter my mind if I was to survive this place.

It was no use pleading my innocence to those who only see varying degrees of guilt. To them we are all worthy of beatings and the strap, and if possible hanging as well. Most screws lament the passing of the gallows and the accompanying fear it instilled in the condemned man. I knew that somewhere in that prison there was still an operable gallows just in case the “hang ‘em all” lobby should get elected and win a referendum, and the screw cracking his knuckles as he stood on the gantry watching us pass probably thought how easy we all have it now. ‘In my day lad there was much more pain!’

They banged me up in my cell once more and I was issued a blank letter on headed note - paper and given a pen. I sat there for what seemed like ages unable to decide whom to write to. Overall it had been just under two weeks since my arrest, and I was certain Toni would be becoming quite frantic at the lack of any form of contact. But I also considered that the screws would make a note of all addresses I sent mail to and would no doubt form a picture of known associates. Whether they would now act upon any of this information was difficult to know, because generally thinking I assumed they had all the evidence they needed, but despite the racking of my brains as to the whys and wherefores of writing, or not writing, I had to make contact with someone out in the world to let them know where I was.

EL5215 Portillo David
C – Wing
HMP Wandsworth
PO Box 757
Heathfield Road
London SW18 3HS
September 18th 1988
Dearest Toni,
Greetings. I was thinking of having a house warming party and would be most grateful if you could invite Ronnie Barker on my behalf. Well I never quite made it. I guess the new start in a foreign land was not to be, and after a somewhat agonising excursion I’ve landed up here.

Firstly, do not worry everything is coming under control. The thing is darling I’m to be tried for the attempted manslaughter of a copper, which I know, seems ridiculous. I cannot belief they are serious about it really and until I’m presented with some facts from my barrister I do not know where I stand. Also could you let Neil know what’s happened because I’m sure he will feel let down by my not turning up? Give him my love and tell him one day!

I do hope everything is all right with you. As you can imagine these past few weeks I’ve been through hell and high water, but no matter what they say I’ve done it is certainly not as bad as all that. I never tried to kill him it was an accident and I will swear to whoever to get that point across. Anyway look I’ll enclose a visiting order when I get sorted and get to know the ropes, and maybe you can bring the babies down for a visit.

I would just like to say that physically I’m a lot better now than I have been for a long time. The prison doctor examined me on Wednesday. He stuck a thingy me jigs against me chest and the old ticker is just fine, so don’t go getting too concerned I’m not brown bread yet.

Keep a watch out for my trial taking place. I will try to keep you informed as to when it goes ahead, but you know what these places are like, they usually give you so little notice. I’m sorry for lumbering you with all this mess it seems so difficult to get going at times.

It is of course no use me feeling sorry for myself but sitting here in this cell there have been long periods when I have felt tremendously isolated and cut off from every existence except my own. I have suffered atrociously in this world of total strangers. But things are getting better and I’m getting stronger, because I believe it is not forever, and that keeps me going in one sense. I know in Spain they have a saying that a man grows old when he starts brooding about his own death, and there is wisdom in that. So I will try not feeling trapped forever and live in hope.

I know its foolish to say don’t worry because I know you always will, but when I look around me and see those others experiencing the same thing, I don’t feel so distressed. The uniformity of our condition seems to lend support to each of us and that’s one thing the screws will never be able to take away. I feel quite calm now that I’ve managed to write to you, and despite the lack of news this end, I’m sure things will resolve themselves one way or the other. So keep your pecker up and just tell the kids I’ve got a job in prison looking after bad men I’m sure they will understand.
Tender hugs all round Dave xxx

The Catholic priest came round again last night. He was waiting for me when I got back from court. I went through the reception once more where I was strip – searched to see if I had acquired any weapons or means to hurt others, or myself. Then I had to lift my arms above my head, whilst the screw looked me all over.

He put his hands through my hair, looking for cigarettes. Lastly, he made me bend over while he opened my back passage with his fingers and looked up there, with the aid of a pencil torch. It was a normal part of prison routine for all prisoners returning, but what he hoped to find up my jacksy was totally beyond me. Maybe a pneumatic road drills perhaps?

I then put on my cloths, and was ready for the walk back to my cell, but before doing so I was weighed. I suppose this was to determine whether I had eaten any metal chisels, and was planning to chisel my way out thorough the bars.

I was then marched through the prison between two screws, one of which I was handcuffed to. We walked through darkness, our footsteps echoing down the corridors. Doors were unlocked and locked after us. Eventually we stood in a huge, high hall, dimly lit, gloomy, and full of the heavy smell of well – washed stuffiness. It was like walking from the world into a Dickensian alleyway filled with drapery shops, and all the time with every banging the message was being driven home, keys, locks, chains, doors, and walls. Omnipotence, inhumanity, cynicism, hopelessness, repent.

The priest was waiting in my cell. It was strange to find him there. The moment the handcuffs were taken off, and I was shoved in my cell, he stepped forward his hand outstretched.

“It’s all right officer, I will need one of you to stand outside for a few brief moments, whilst I talk to this man.”

The cell door was left open and the screw stood outside in the position of attention looking in, a pissed off expression on his face. He was probably wondering what the point was.

The priest turned towards me and told me to sit on my bed whilst he sat on the chair opposite.
“My name is Father Farrell and I have come to talk to you about the word of God. Now we don’t have much time this afternoon and I’m in, as usual, a great rush doing God’s work.”

He held his crucifix in front of him.

“So firstly, shall we pray?”

He lowered his head.

I sat there looking at the bowed head of this well – dressed fat man in a cassock, dumbfounded as to what he really wanted.

“Blessed be God, blessed be His holy name, blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man, blessed the name of Jesus… blessed be the name of Mary, blessed be her holy and Immaculate Conception…blessed be God and His angels and His Holy Saints.”

Then he adopted a very sincere fashion.

“David I have come here this evening to ask you to reconsider your stance on the church. It is important you repent your sin before the eyes of God.”

I looked at him thoughtfully, and for a brief moment I felt his dilemma. But what was I supposed to do? It was his belief not mine. It was his church not mine. I had not asked him here. I was starting to get a little hot under the collar at his sanctimony.

“Father to you it may be considered a sin…but to me…” I trailed off, “But to me it isn’t.”

The priest’s small eyes looked at me, his mouth closed tight with authority. I continued, “I feel differently about it than you…you talk of sin yet I feel a victim of circumstances more than anything else. But to call it a sin…” My voice had risen slightly and the screw outside the door that was listening to this exchange moved a foot closer.

The priest held up his hand, “It’s all right officer... David it is not my place to speak of your circumstances. I come here to offer you the word of God and little else. I come as a man of God offering you to find peace within yourself and to repent for the sins committed in your life. I do not have the time to indulge in biblical banter as to what constitutes a sin and what doesn’t…all I can offer is the word of God in your hours of need and nothing else.”

“Father I’ve not studied the Church all of my life, but I do know this. I’m not here to be hoodwinked into some sort of conspiracy so that you can justify your existence in the world. I’ve seen in my short time on this earth the hypocrisy in which the church operates, and if you think I will be a party to such goings on then you have another think coming.”

The screw outside the door looked very angry now, but Mr Farrell was more tolerant, and indicated to the screw that everything was all right.

The thought did cross my mind that the priest would be leaving soon. But equally I thought it important to make my views clear, and what did I care if the screw was upset? They were always upset in one way or another. The very nature of the job almost demanded they be upset; that’s why they hated everybody’s guts.

“David I’m not here to discuss your views on the role of the church…I’m here to attend to your spiritual well – being. Surely for the love of God you can understand that? It is important you make your peace…”

“Make what peace? You talk of peace all the time…”

There was a flicker of anger across the priest’s face.

“You are a stubborn man David and it is unfortunate that you cannot see your position more fully…I am here to comfort you, to be with you in your time after you have been sentenced…”

“Sentenced? – I’m bleeding sentenced before I’m tried!” What kind of justice is that?”

“It is obvious to me David that I cannot do anything with you today so I will leave you, hopefully in peace, and with an open mind.”

I sat on my bed and watched him go. The screw took one last scowl at me and banged the door shut.

I sat there and looked at the grey walls around me and felt quite angry with the whole damn mess. It seemed as if I was taking part in some sort of colossal pantomime in which Justice was being seen to be done, not for my benefit, but to justify the whole sorry existence of all those involved in making a living from it. The lawyers, the judge, and particularly the pious fraud, the priest, they were all at it. He was no more concerned about my soul than he was about the shit on his shoes. There he stood making the sign of the cross and giving salutations to God left, right, and centre, and I could not even see what he was going on about.

I sat there considering these thoughts, locked inside one of the most inhuman regimes in the country to which the church sanctioned and gave its blessing, and all I could feel was a growing rage at the pretence of it all. The thin fabricated nonsense only seemed to add to my feelings of woe, and I fell asleep on my mattress with a heavy heart, and a great sense of loss when I thought of the conspiracy unfolding before me.

Shouting awakened me, my door was being banged open, “This way Mr Ross!”

“So what as he done Mr Milburn?”

“He’s insulted the priest Mr Ross!”

“Sit him up, make him stand for a while.”

I was dragged to my feet.

“Insulting a priest really, whatever next!” and without taking his eyes off Ross, he hit me in the face…

“Bloody bastard we’ll teach you ‘ow ta be’ave, you dirty fucker!”

They started slapping me around the head and punched me in the ribs and kidneys. Then they gave me a few kicks up the backside, and sent me sprawling across the cell. I fell by the door with my head on the landing. They picked me up and sat me down in the chair.

“You keep your opinions to yourself you cunt! Don’t think you can come ‘ere lording it over the likes of us! Is that understood?”

Then before they left they slapped me a couple of times more, and cut my mouth, making my head ring, “And clean up the bloody mess and straighten everything out!” They left.

I fumbled around the cell as best I could, breathing heavily, trying to catch my breath. There was a small amount of water in my jug, and I bathed my face. I looked at my reflection in the tin mirror. My face was not too bad although my lips were cut on the inside where I think I got a blow with a coin held between one of their knuckles. I could feel blood going down my throat, which slightly sickened me. I was in turmoil and now that they had left, I felt the cold, clammy sweat of fear come over me. My body shuddered. So this is the way of the Lord?