I’ll tell you who is mad — Bert. I met Bert outside in the late ’60s or early ’70s and I’ve never forgotten him. Bert was a good 20 years older than me, so he must be at least 70 by now. I met him in my local pub, and we got chatting. I sold him a gold watch and he invited me to his house.
We went back for a drink and to collect my payment for the watch. Well, to say I was shocked is an understatement. I’ve never forgotten it and never will. As soon as his flat door opened, a strange smell hit me, like a farmyard smell, a strawy smell, then I saw it … a fucking pig! He had a big pig in his flat, and I mean big; I’d say twice as big as a dog. But that wasn’t it … this pig had stockings on, black fishnets on each leg. Well it didn’t take Einstein to work it out!
‘Take no notice of Gladys,’ Bert said. He paid me and I fucked off lively.
Days later, my pal John and I went round. He hadn’t believed me! I banged on the door.
‘It’s me, I’ve got another watch, if you’re interested?’ I had — a nice Seiko.
He opened up and I said, ‘This is John, my pal, he’s safe.’
‘Come in, lads,’ Bert said.
The fucking pig was lying on the sofa, still with the stockings on and it looked tired! John looked at me and said, ‘Fucking hell’s bells.’
Bert shouted at the pig, ‘Gladys, get off the sofa, let the lads sit down.’
I’ve never forgotten it!
Some time later, I bumped into Bert again, this time in a club and he was well pissed! So I pulled him over, saying, ‘Hey … Bert, how’s Gladys?’
‘Oh, she’s OK,’ he replied.
‘Hey, do you really give her one, Bert, do you, do you shag it?’
He got nasty. ‘Don’t talk about my wife like that.’
I had to chin him; I had to, as he was getting very aggressive. But in a strange way, I felt very confused over it; it obviously was a serious bestiality case, but Bert had totally lost the fucking plot!
I often used to wonder, years later in my solitary, locked in the padded rooms, strip cells, when I was naked and in a canvas restraint suit and in drug-induced states, what the fuck I was doing in the asylum when people like Bert are still out there? Sometimes I used to laugh myself into oblivion thinking whether he had had any little piglets. The world is a sad fucking place! In and out, nobody is safe from madness, nobody, not even Gladys — the poor pig!
Something else that’s fucking mental — porridge. Ask anybody in the street to give you another word for prison, and they will say, ‘Porridge’. Porridge is ‘bird’. Well, it was. Now I have to buy my own porridge oats, as jails are now full of fairies, corn flakes and rice crispies. It’s gone silly, soft … we want porridge. My wage is £2.50 a week and for 39p I get a bag of Happy Shopper porridge oats and make my own. I sprinkle brown sugar on it with some raisins for porridge. I’m the original ‘Birdman’, stuff your corn flakes!
I’m usually on a riot shield unlock, which means every time my door unlocks a MUFTI — Minimum Use of Force and Tactical Intervention — team rush in with sticks, all wearing protective gear. They’re all big lumps and complete wankers. They stand there glaring into my face from below their helmets. In a one-to-one fight I’d smash their noses into the back of their skulls, then rip their limbs off.
I remember an incident that took place on 4 August 2000 in HMP Whitemoor when I was being brought in from the exercise yard by the MUFTI team. I spotted the deputy governor, Mr Pritchard.
‘Gov,’ I shouted. He came over. I’ve known him for 20 or so years; he’s of old stock with old type morals. He treats men as men and boys as boys.
‘Gov, four weeks I’ve been on this MUFTI unlock; it’s madness, can I talk with you?’
Now what he did just blew a hole in the whole system! ‘OK, Bronson,’ he said, and with that he ordered the MUFTI squad to take me to the seg adjudication room; he followed me in, then he did something insane. ‘OK, lads, leave us alone,’ he said.
So there’s just him and me sat in there; it went through my mind to do something, but how can you abuse such trust? I just couldn’t. I admired and respected him. We spoke for 15 minutes; he listened, I listened … a lot of sense. He told me that it was Prison Service headquarters that were responsible for the riot unlock, but he told me he wanted to get me off it. ‘Basically, Charlie, every fucker is terrified of you,’ he said.
So here’s a man in his fifties, been in the game for more than 30 years, sitting here with me and all the MUFTI are fighting to get past each other and staring in through the door with mad eyes! You could read the screws’ faces; they would have loved me to attack this man just to say, ‘Bronson’s a beast.’ No, I’d not attack the gov … so I did the opposite; I shook his hand and said, ‘Thank you!’
All the cons in the seg — Tony Crabb, Timmy Berry, Stevie Miller (Caveman), Johnny Allen — were all in shock even to see such madness. I walked back to my cell with the MUFTI like I was dreaming. I’m still dazed over it! Some will say the governor is a fucking idiot; some may say he’s a mug. But I say he’s a man amongst men. He spoke some truths I never liked, but truth is truth, we all have to face it. I’d sooner have truth that hurts me than lies that kill me.
My life continues on a MUFTI; I don’t know what headquarters will make of Governor Pritchard’s madness; maybe he will be in trouble, but as I’ve said from the word go, why send in a riot team to feed me when one female guard could do it and be safe?
I spit at bullies! These prats are just clowns who are actually mugging themselves off big time, so the question is, if the governor can do that, why am I still on a MUFTI unlock? I’ll tell you why — ’cos they now fear I’ll retaliate against the way they’ve treated me. This scum cause the problems and now they are not prepared to put it right. This way does not work every day, so at times I slag them. How can I do anything else with riot shields and aggression in my face? These maggots could not intimidate a sausage; they’re complete clowns trying to be ring masters, but I learned one major thing because of Governor Pritchard — there are still some of the old school about, men with good morals and bottle.
You younger governors should take stock of all this and have some backbone to stand up against the screws, ’cos believe me, they have too much power in these segs! You have to stamp out all the madness! Insanity cannot prevail … or can it? Was Governor Pritchard mad as a hatter to sit alone with me in that room? Only he knows, but he was certainly a brave Mad Hatter at that!
Sex — it does happen. It happened in the forces; you put 10 women on a ship with 500 sailors and tell me it doesn’t happen! Now put 10 women on a prison wing with 400 cons! Tell me there’s no chemistry; they smell us and we smell them. With me, it’s difficult, as I’m forever in solitary, but I know someone who has had a blow-job off a woman screw. Not a month goes by when you don’t read of some scandal in our jails. Check the library newspaper archives, go back five years; I’ll bet you’d see loads of woman screws falling in love with cons!
Fuck me, you even get male screws falling in love with cons, gay screws, plenty of them about! They usually fight to get the reception jobs so they can check out all the naked bodies as they come in. ‘Bend over, son’ — they love it. See their eyes light up when a nice 18-year-old lad comes in with a nice firm arse. ‘Bend over, lad, ooooh, that’s nice!’ Of course it goes on and always will.
The closest I ever got to a sexual relationship was in Belmarsh and I’ll not say her name even though she was later dismissed. But I was very attracted to her; she was my cup of tea and apple pie in one helping. Often, she stroked my leg, or touched my face! Once, I felt her bum, it was lovely.
She was at my door once talking through the spy hole when I got a big hard-on, I couldn’t help it. I told her straight, ‘Fuck me! Look at this!’ I whipped it out so she could see it!
‘Bloody hell,’ she said. ‘It’s a beauty.’
Talk about madness. Me standing there with my kecks down around my ankles holding a big stiffy with a woman screw watching me!
‘Go on …’ she said, ‘give it a pull for me, Chas.’
‘I bet you say that to all the boys,’ I said.
‘No I bloody don’t,’ she replied.
God, I wished she could have come in … I was just in the mood! These places are fucking cruel!
‘How long is it, Chas … it looks a good six inches,’ she said.
‘Bollocks, it’s bigger than that!’ I got my ruler and measured it in front of her. ‘7¼in!’
‘What’s the girth, Chas? Eh … how thick?’
‘I don’t know … a good mouthful!’
This went on for a good 20 minutes. Then a fucking supply screw arrived and she vanished and left me all frustrated; that’s the closest I ever got! But I did like her, and she knew it.
Nowadays, we get a lot of women screws, so it’s a sweeter smell. At times, too sweet. Remember, us lags go years without a smell of fanny and then it’s there in our faces. Some give a nice wiggle, a smile; it’s only natural we are all affected by such femininity, isn’t it?
I remember a nice one in the very late ’80s in Leicester seg unit. She was on nights — blonde, blue eyes, beautiful teeth and very fanciable. I was working out doing my sit-ups; it must have been about 9.00pm. My spy hole went. I knew it, but I carried on, then I noticed this lovely face looking down on me. ‘You OK in there, Charlie?’
‘Yeah, who’s that?’
‘Only checking on you.’
I went to the door. She looked like the one in Buck’s Fizz, the nice one. Well, they’re both nice, but the nicer one of the two. I stood at the door in my Y-fronts, as I like to feel secure. I don’t like my balls swinging about. I’m a secure sort of guy.
‘Hey, you on nights then?’ I asked her.
‘Yeah,’ she replied.
‘Fancy coming in for a work-out?’
She smiled and said, ‘No chance.’
‘Would ya if you could?’
‘Maybe,’ she replied.
‘Maybe or not?’ I asked.
‘Yeah … I’d give you a run for your money,’ she said.
She was fucking gorgeous. Isn’t prison a bitch? She fucked off and left me feeling all horny. Well, I’m only human. I knew she would be back every hour, so what I did was this. I had a string vest, sorted myself out and waited by the door in the dark for the 10 o’clock check. In Leicester Prison, we had our own light in the cell. There is a night-light outside; there, they can turn it on or off.
I was naked down below, and semi-hard, too. Don’t get the wrong idea that I’m some sort of sick pervo. It was only for a laugh.
‘Fuck me, here she comes.’ I hear the steps. I rushed into the middle of my cell, and started dancing like that Travolta geezer. As I whizzed about, my dick was all over the place.
‘Yahoooooooooo! Yeheeeeeeeeee!’ The light went on. ‘Yehoo, whizzz, yeheeeee.’
‘Bronson, grow up!’ Fuck me, it was a geezer screw. ‘Grow up,’ and he slammed the eye flap shut.
I rushed up to the door and shouted, ‘You dirty fucking Peeping Tom, you’re a faggot, you are. Go on, fuck off and play with your marbles.’
Talk about a creep. Fucking poofs all over the place. Story of my life this is! Anyway, the Buck’s Fizz chick later got suspended over an alleged carry-on with a con on the wing. See how I always lose out. Days later, I got the arse ache with that piss-hole so I staged a rooftop protest. Fucking pissed it down all day it did. I was glad to call it off.
But my greatest love in prison is Bertha, my medicine ball. I broke a world record for medicine ball sit-ups with her; a 14 pounder and real leather, I loved her! But the cunts don’t allow me her no more. I’m allowed fuck all.
Pain can and often does become a pleasure, a way of life. It was years later I realised I enjoyed a good whipping. I love to be whipped across my back; it’s not a sexual thing, it’s more a test of my own ability to survive the sting, the shock and the pain — it sets me on fire!
On the Hull special unit, big 20st Fred Lowe, a double con killer, used to whip me with the weightlifting belt and the skipping rope. I would hold on to the punchbag, and big Fred would lash me big time; at times, my back would bleed and other times I’d be so fucked up I’d not be able to breathe, but it was my way of testing myself. Fred probably enjoyed it as he’s a raving psycho, a sadistic evil bastard! I’d just say to him, ‘OK, Fred, let’s have a session.’ His face would light up; it was his highlight of the week to smash Bronson up and to draw blood.
Once, we were caught in the act when one of the female civilian education workers saw us through the gym window. She got the screws … they were all in shock! I was later called into the office, but what could they do, what rule had been broken? Again, it’s madness that can’t be explained; after all, it’s my back and Fred was only doing what I asked. If he’d refused I’d have probably smashed his fat ugly face in, the cowardly bastard! But I must say, he was a good whipper!
So was one girl I met back in ’87. I had just got out of jail after 14 years inside, although I was soon rushed back in after 69 days of freedom. I was a mucked-up guy, but she helped me a lot over a few bad weeks. At first when I said, ‘Give me a fucking good whipping,’ I think it did shake her up a bit, but in the end she loved it! We only lasted a few weeks but she helped me so much.
I soon came back to jail on another robbery charge, but my time with her is nothing but sweet memories. I’ll always respect her and I loved her family, who are all salt of the earth. I took her daughter to one of my unlicensed fights; she was only 15 years old but she loved it and she made a few quid by helping out with the seating and so on. My manager looked after her.
I just love the look on the faces of kids when you surprise them! That look is priceless; money can’t buy a kid’s love. They either love you or hate you. I’ve got this thing with kids, I show them respect, treat them as adults and they seem to believe in me. Some will say, ‘Fancy taking a 15-year-old girl to a fight!’ But I say, ‘Fuck you, so what?’ It was a one-off experience for her and she was safe with my East London friends. They all spoiled her rotten, got her presents and treated her like a princess. She will always remember that occasion; and she saw me win! She will now be at least 30 years old, but I bet she’s never had a better occasion, and some of the crowd were ‘infamous villains’ — top underworld characters. Even Charlie Kray was there! So that young girl met the ‘real faces’ and she was safe and respected.
I was once photographed in the nude with a pair of crotchless panties over my head, holding a pump-action 12-bore sawn-off whilst standing there with a big hard-on! I’ve always dreaded seeing that snap in the News of the World or the Sunday Sport. God, how I’ve prayed not to see that; you can tell it’s me as my tash is sticking out of the panties and you can see my tattoos; it’s me all right. I wonder what she did with it? A nice shooter, though. I do love a gun; something about a gun that sends me to heaven, the feel of it and the power it holds. I love a nice piece; it’s better than sex!
There was a screw who worked in Durham Jail; he got lifed off about ten years ago for killing his wife; he cut her up and put her body in the freezer. He’s now a cleaner, in the block, in Frankland Jail. One day, he’s locking us up and the next he’s being locked up himself; it really is a fucking crazy life we live and, do you know what … it gets madder.
I remember years ago the case of the copper who was a regular outside 10 Downing Street. He got nicked over killing a prostitute. He took her home, cut her up and took her body out to Epping Forest in bin bags. Do you know, he was only convicted of manslaughter and was sentenced to a paltry seven years? Seven fucking years! It was premeditated murder, what else could it have been, and all he got was poxy manslaughter, what a joke! Lots of cases flood back to me where the law is a joke. How can you get seven years for taking a woman home and chopping her up and taking her out in bags? Still, he was a ‘pig’ … probably suffering from stress!
Every long-term jail or asylum has a birdman; Hull unit was no exception and our birdman was Eddie Slater. Ed’s a little Scottish geezer serving life; he’s only 10st, but he can bench press 20st, he is one powerful little fucker and a nice chap. I’ve not seen him for years. Last I heard, he was up in Frankland when his father died, and headquarters refused to allow him to go to the funeral … that about sums that lot up, doesn’t it!
In Hull unit, Eddie was given two cells, one to sleep in and one for his birds, so it was like an aviary. He spent most of his day looking after the budgerigars and he had a few pigeons, too. One day, he was on a visit when big Tony McCulloch got a cardboard box and put the birds in it and put the box under Ed’s bed. (We did all our own cooking on that wing.) So Tony got a load of chicken giblets, and Tony draped them all over the perches and around the cage!
Can you imagine it, when Ed came off his visit and checked his birds! Talk about funny! But looking back, it’s a wonder Eddie never destroyed the cunt, as once he took Durham’s roof off over a plate of cold chips.
Prison is full of fun and games, like the time I put a dead mouse in the soup at Brixton, and another time I slipped a pigeon I’d caught in the exercise yard into my mate’s piss pot! That was Tommy Tegstowe … he nearly had a stroke! Well, imagine it, getting up in the night to have a pee, you pick your piss pot up and out flaps a pigeon.
And jokes don’t get much crazier than when I once robbed a place with a banana in a bag! You should have seen them dive on the floor! I walked out eating the banana with the load of notes in the bag. That’s insanity — life is insanity! Like the time I climbed Liverpool Jail’s roof — five floors up. I squeezed down on the centre, where I kicked in a hole and shit through it. It fell 60ft and splattered on the floor!
‘You dirty bastard,’ the screw screamed up at me.
‘That’s all you’re worth to me, you lot, you’re all shit, you’re all insane,’ I shouted back.
The birdman wasn’t unique by any means. Ninety nine per cent of mad people love animals. Why? Simple — they can relate to them. They have so much in common. Treat a dog well and he’s your best friend. A dog will die for its master. So will a madman. Always remember that. Kindness goes a long way.
I know of madmen who have fallen in love with their pets. One I know of used to live alone in a cottage with a big St Bernard bitch. He used to sleep with it … the dog was dressed up in panties and suspenders and he’d be kissing and fucking it all night! To some that would be horrific, if not evil, but that’s love. Maybe the bitch loved him, too; it sure would have bitten him if it didn’t. He told me this in Broadmoor; he actually cut his own throat when he got locked away, as he was brokenhearted over having to be separated from the bitch. He survived, but he lives in severe depression. Most people can’t imagine how that madman ticks; to him, that bitch was better looking than any Page Three model.
I asked him whether he had a ‘69’ with it. To my amazement, he replied, ‘Yes, Charlie, regular.’ That blew me away, but that’s madness. This was a level of depravity I do not support; obviously, it’s bestiality in the medic books, but to him it’s normal. I’m mad, but that to me is fucking sick! A bullet would cure it … or did the bitch lead him on? In his own mind, she probably spoke to him or sent telepathic messages.
It was in the early nineties; I had a visit from an admirer. She had travelled all the way from Luton to see me. My visits at this time were in the seg unit. As usual, she was pissed. I fucking hate birds who get pissed, as they become very emotional. But what she did on this day blew me away! A day I’ll never forget.
I sat with my back to the screws, with this bird feet away on the next chair. The table was at the side.
If my name is not Bronson … she opened her legs wide! She had no panties on … it was winking at me! Now I’m only flesh and blood, aren’t I? There it was, looking at me on a plate. A real fanny! I could smell it … I touched it … I pulled it open! It looked like a freshly sliced melon, one of those honeydew ones. I turned around to see the screws; our eyes met. As I turned back to look at her, she was getting my dick out (which was difficult, as it was so hard). How the fuck we did it still blows me away today. I just had to get into that snatch. She wanted it so bad, but her crazy mind — the lunatic went down on it, slurping away.
I turned to see the screws. One got up, said something to the others about a cup of tea and fucked off. It was now or never. I grabbed her and spun her round so she was sitting on me. In seconds, I was inside her! She was bouncing about like a fucking good ’un, laughing, ‘Fuck me …’ I lost it. I was also laughing.
One screw could never stop it. I looked around at him; he was red, only a young screw, too. If this girl wasn’t mad that day, then neither was I. It just had no sanity to it. It’s a wonder I never blew the top of her head off when I shot my load.
When she was back in her own seat, she was sitting there wiping herself with tissues as I watched. Blow me, if I didn’t go and get hard again! We went for round two, this time with two screws on duty. Nowadays, I normally have seven screws. Wonder why?
Yeah, that was pure madness at its best! The girl won’t mind me saying this, as she loves a laugh. She almost got me shot up once outside, but that’s how crazy the bitch is. There is only one like her! Hey … it really was like a fresh sliced honeydew melon.
I’m also reminded of the time I smashed off a light switch and fittings in a box. Big deal, you say, simple. Well, you try it while secured in a body belt. Yeah, a bit difficult. I head-butted the fitting 40 or 50 times. Don’t try that at home — it cuts your head and gives you a terrible headache. Once I saw it start to buckle and the screws holding it together start to pop, I knew I had it; a few more nuts, crash, crash. Surprising how much blood’s in your skull. Makes a terrible mess on the wall.
Then I got my teeth on the steel fittings and tore them off the wall. Live wires may give you a nasty shock, but I’m a bit of a gambler myself. Hell … I actually put my tongue on the wires. Just to test. I then lay on the floor and grabbed the light fitting and attempted to use it to cut through the belt. I gnawed the evil belt off.
Of course, the screws came in while I was at it. Guess what for! Yeah … to take the belt off! You should have seen their faces when they saw the fitting ripped off, and the belt half sliced through and, of course, the blood all over the floor and me. ‘Erm … all right, boys … lovely day for a spot of golf.’
Prisons and asylums are strange places. They affect us all differently, even the screws. A lot of the screws die early on in their careers. A good percentage end up divorced. Many have breakdowns, many hit the booze, and many more end up on tranquillisers. It’s a known fact. Well, the ones who unlock me do, that’s a fact. Imagine your postman or milkman coming to your door and always thinking that you’re there to smash their face in, or throw a pot of shit over them!
It was 1987, Gartree Prison seg block. A con came down who is a known transvestite, a funny little geezer. He was obviously a faggot, but a funny one at that, a right character. He called himself Petal; so I thought I’d have a laugh.
‘Petal,’ I shouted out of the window.
‘Hi, Charlie,’ he said in his tart’s voice.
‘Hey … when you slop out, come to my spy hole and have a peep at what I’ve got for you,’ I said.
‘What is it, Charlie?’ Petal replied.
‘Oh … just a little surprise, Petal,’ I said in a calm voice.
So there I was waiting for him to slop out. At this time there were no cell toilets. Slopping out was one at a time. I judged by the doors opening and shutting when it was time for Petal to slop out. So I planned it carefully. I stripped off and got on the chair, and started jumping up and down with my dick in my hand, shouting, ‘Happy birthday, Petal.’ The spy hole went. I clocked the eye. ‘He, he, ha, ha, he, he, he, he! Happy birthday, Petal,’ I was shouting as I was jumping up and down. The eye just stared. I was starting to get angry. He shut it, laughed and fucked off, as it was only a joke. Then I heard, ‘Bronson, how many letters do you want?’ It was a fucking screw!
When I slopped out, I told the screws, ‘Don’t ever creep up like that again.’ Petal laughed his arse off over that. It took me a good month to forget that one.
1976 was a hot summer in Parkhurst Hospital wing. I remember those summers when days were beautiful, not like summer is today. In the 1970s there were great summers! On the Isle of Wight, the weather was fantastic. I had a brainwave. I got a straw and jumped in the pond, a lovely pond that Frank Mitchell made in the ’60s, and I lay in the pond and breathed through the straw. Why? Well, I was gonna escape! I had a plan — as insane as it was, it was a plan. It could work, I thought to myself. As I lay in that pond, I could feel the fish bumping into my body, like they were sniffing me, wondering who and what I was. A minute in such an environment feels like an hour.
The plan was simple. Lie under water. When all the cons go back into the wing, I’ll jump out. I would climb a pipe and get on the roof, over the other side and maybe wrap a screw up. Then go home for a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie with my mum, Eira.
So I sat up, wiped all the slime and fish shit off my face, only to see 20 or so screws all looking at me! ‘Err, I must have fell in … fainted.’
‘Yeah, Charlie, sure … 25 minutes you was under water.’
The van shot off … with me in it to another prison! Oh well … it could have worked. If you don’t try, then you’ll never know.