I’ve been hurting ‘beasts’ for years. I did one in Risley in the ’70s with a lighted gag in the eye (I could smell it burning). Did he scream! Like a rat caught in a lawn mower. I stabbed one in the arse in Wandsworth in the ’70s with a 6in nail embedded in a broom; I bet that cured his piles! I hit another in Parkhurst with a dumbbell in the teeth; he won’t be kissing any more kids!
You’ve gotta treat these people like shit. I cut one in Hull; I used one as a punchbag in Long Lartin; I fucking love it! Why not? They deserve it all and more. Gas the fuckers in Belsen. I’d like to get Michael Samms’s leg and bash Brady to death with it, then ram it up Sidney Cook’s arsehole … and why not?
Beverley Allitt — angel with a fork! What is she breathing for? Shoot the slag, put her in with me and I’ll freely snap her fat neck! Now she’s a lesbian on £35 a week in Rampton. Nice room, TV and I’m in a cage with nothing! She kills babies … I rob banks.
Charlie Smith of Broadmoor was a right character; I met another Smith in Belmarsh, all 6ft 7in and 19st of him. He was a lorry driver who’d cut up a prostitute, evil fucker. I kicked him in the head, a nice shot, too. He got a ‘not guilty’, but he was soon back in on another one. I’ll kick him again if I see him! I’ll kick him all day long ’til all the shit is out of him! I fucking hate nonces, despise them all!
Robert Black — please, Mr Home Secretary, lock him up with me, I’ll look after Black for you … I need a new punchbag! A monster if ever there was one — he killed three little girls. What’s he allowed to live for?
Gordon Robinson was a serious candidate for the rope if ever there was one. I met that slag on C-Wing, Parkhurst, in ’76; he killed three boy scouts — or rather, shagged then killed — in the early 1960s. He had served more than 20 years when I saw him. Fuck knows why he never swung! But I gave him a fucking good headache one day when I smashed him with a sock! (Well, it did have a battery in it!) I hit that cunt so hard I thought I had taken the top of his head off. I was covered in blood … it felt good, though.
I’ve seen a lot of blood in my life, sometimes running under a door when a man’s cut his throat. I can smell it, I really can; it lingers in the air. Blood has a strange smell, nothing like it to compare with, but we’ve all got to bleed, some more than others! You’d be amazed at how many lunatics in Broadmoor, Rampton and Ashworth have drunk their victim’s blood, sickos, evil bastards.
There are a lot of paedophiles in the asylums, child-killers, abusers of the weak, fucking bullies in lust! Men who can’t have a proper sexual relationship, ’cos they’re inadequate. These pieces of shit make my skin crawl, I despise them; they stay clear of me, as my hate for them shows in my face. They fear me. They can smell my disgust yards away, so they rarely cross my path. Some have, and they’ve learned not to do it again.
I don’t see them as humans; I see them as lumps of shit that need flushing away. But in the asylums now, the doctors seem to love them. They get the best of everything — jobs, nice rooms, privileges, good food and they swap their porn magazines and shag each other’s arses and have a bloody good time of it. So after ten or twenty years they get out and jump another kid. You can’t cure these monsters. They’re evil. And what do the courts do. Send them back to their nice cosy rooms with a view! Would you release a rabid dog in a school playground? That’s all a paedophile is … a sicko.
Dennis Nilsen killed 15 people, chopped them up, ate bits, even slept with the stiffs, shagged a few, too. One weird guy! Queer as a bent ten-bob note. It was in the seg block in Albany Jail where I first kenned him out of the window. He came down off the wing and got some punishment; all the lads were slagging him off. But he gave as good as he got; he loves a verbal argument.
I remember he knew some of the cons’ names and said, ‘Keep on and I’ll get word to the News of the World, and give your names saying that you’re my lovers.’ I had to laugh. He’s a funny fucker, but not my cuppa tea; a bit iffy for me. I rate him as a monster, but say what you will against him, he’s not a grass. A con cut him down in the Scrubs, and he didn’t make a statement. I’ve known ‘faces’ to get compensation, so he’s not a grass. He’s everything else though. Nilsen will die in jail. The madness of it all is … why keep him alive? What’s the point? He’s never gonna walk under the stars again.
Josh was a fucking animal! Make no mistake about it, a filthy beast. I first met him in Parkhurst. He came across as one of the chaps, but underneath all his smiles he was a typical bully. Quite a big guy, bald head, always wore prison overalls, but he was a sick, evil, twisted rat whom I despised. Soon, the entire system would hate his guts.
I was in the seg at the time, must have been the mid ’80s, when the prick turned up. Reg Kray sent a message down to me: ‘Watch a con called Josh!’ It turned out he was up on the wing only to be chased off, as he was not welcome. His true colours came out; he was a sicko, a fucking pervo. Even in the block, he would climb up at his window and offer cons on the yard a fag or some sweets to expose themselves, while he stood at the window and pulled himself off.
A con dying for a smoke or a weak con would do it; it used to wind me up! Once I was on the yard having my one-hour’s exercise. I was stripped off to my shorts, training. I could feel, sense, his eyes on me. I turned fast and saw his evil eyes through the bars; I jumped up and spat at him. He gave me a load of abuse, but most Jocks you can’t understand when they’re screaming at you. I told him, ‘Shut up, you fucking perv.’ Later, he got moved to Albany Jail, which is next door to Parkhurst. He ended up stabbing a young Arab in the head with a pair of scissors. The Arab, called Alban, was serving life for a terrorist crime; he was a well-liked kid.
Josh was up to his games trying to get his pants off. The Arab was not into it so Josh stabbed him. I later bumped into Josh in Wandsworth but, sadly, I was still in solitary and so was he, so our paths had a brick wall in between. He was one slag I wanted so badly to have a straightener with.
Incidentally, Alban ended up in Broadmoor. He was never the same after Josh stabbed him; it sent him a bit funny, made him sick mentally, probably paranoid. That cunt Josh has a lot to answer for. He has terrorised inmates, raped them and stabbed them, all for sex! He’s a sick rat who needs serving up big time. I know he got out, but I heard he’s back in, so I may yet get my wish. The fact is, I’ve no choice but to attack him, as he will sure attack me. With a slag like that you can’t afford to turn your back … he will put a knife straight through you. So, Josh, wherever you are, I’m dying for some of you and I won’t need a pair of scissors!
One particular sex killer is evil. I bumped into him in the ’70s in Walton Jail. He raped and killed two old women in Cheshire. The screws slipped him on the wing, thinking that none of us knew who he was, but it was bang on! The rat! We all emptied our piss pots in his cell, while he was in there; there was shit all over him, all over the bed and the walls; he soon vanished.
Another slag is the devil on legs, one evil bastard and a nasty piece of work. The only good thing I can say about this sack of shit is he will die inside. I bumped into this turd in 1975. Nobody liked him. He was serving time for mugging a vicar. Big time, eh, mugging a vicar? Last of the big-timers but, apart from that, he’s a sewer rat in jail. Our paths crossed and he got hurt. I entered his cell and cut the rat. Like all rats, he made a statement. He later got out and killed four old people. Strangely enough, one of them was a vicar — so he’s got this thing about the clergy. He changed his name and was sent to Broadmoor. He’s a complete fucking lunatic, but a madman who gives real madmen a bad name. I often think to myself, if I had killed him that day up in Hull, then four people would be alive today.
Bernie Erskine came into my face in Hull in ’75; he’s one evil slag. He gave it the large – put on a great act — but I saw right through him! I just sensed he was not all he made out to be, so I went out of my way to find out. He boasted about his robberies like he was some sort of John Dillinger, but he kept it quiet about the young girl he’d raped. I found out through a good source, and put it to him. His face went white … as ever, denial.
I’ve never yet met a guilty sex case. ‘She led me on, it wasn’t like that … she’s out to frame me, blah, blah.’ I hit him smack in the teeth before he could get out any more lies. The girl was just 16 years old! ‘Cunt!’ SMACK! ‘Stay clear of me.’
Days later in the recess, while slopping out, I just had this strange sense something was about to happen and it did. He came at me from behind a toilet door … with a jug! He slung it at me. I managed to duck, but some of the contents splashed my head. It was hot, very hot! Then he lunged at me with a ‘tool’ in his other hand. Like the cunt he was, he missed.
He panicked, lost control … and he was mine! I stepped aside and allowed him to come through, then with a kick to his right knee, I put him down; the rest was easy … he’s only good with little girls!
The top of my head was a bit sore; it was cooking oil he had had in the jug. It was meant for my eyes and face, and then I would have been his for the stabbing. Erskine disappeared after that little lesson, but I’d say he never learned from it. Never did bump into him again, sadly; but he remains an evil bastard in my book. A cowardly evil bastard, who couldn’t even stab me up properly, what a pathetic specimen of nature!
I’ll tell you what insanity is! The system, it’s crazy; it’s also very evil, unpredictable and dangerous.
Donald Nielson, the ‘Black Panther’ — not to be mixed up with Dennis Nilsen — has the devil in his eyes, black holes of madness; he’s now served 28 years, only another 25 to go … he’s dead.
A dead man screaming, they should have hanged this piece of shit for what he did to Lesley Whittle, stuffing her down the drain; they found her naked, hanging on a ledge. He said it was an accident! Yeah … some fucking accident; he should have stuck to the post office raids. You need a brain for kidnap and ransoms; he hasn’t got a brain, just a strong urge to kill. He’s a killing machine, a pure psycho, a power freak and one lethal little madman!
I bet you’re glad he’s never going to get out, unless he escapes, but after 28 years he’s still in max secure, still Cat ‘A’. He walked around Full Sutton like a mouse in a cage looking for a hole, praying to escape.
Now this may upset a lot of people; if it upsets you, then I say do something about it – don’t be a lemon. Act on it before it’s too late. Strangely enough, it didn’t affect me – but it will one day. Years ago, they had special visit rooms for ‘monsters’ so that decent people would not have to see or mingle with them.
Well, let’s face it, would you sit feet away from the Ripper if you could help it, while you’re chatting to your son/husband/brother? Well, nowadays there are no such ‘Special Rooms’ for the monsters, they’ve been done away with. (The Special Rooms, not the monsters, sadly.) They have visits in the same room as you when you visit your loved ones. I have my visits in my own Special Room, so you can’t see the likes of me. As if I’m the monster.
At the time of writing, they prefer and insist that I’m kept locked behind a steel cell door, so on that basis I have refused to accept any of my visitors, except my legal visits that are conducted with me sitting behind my inner meshed and barred cell door. But they even tried to fuck my legal visits up by insisting that they should be closed visits, with me behind a bullet-proof glass barrier; they can go and fuck themselves.
Thanks to a threatened legal action, they bottled out of facing a judicial review … weaklings! This is not the end of it either — Europe, here we come! But why should I have to speak to my wife through a steel door and not even get to see her or hug her? What about my mum, too? All that will change, you’ll see.
So let me tell you how these paedophiles, rapists, beasts and granny abusers are eyeing your lot up. Your little kids are in danger. The Prison Service are taking the piss by allowing a possible incident. An offence doesn’t have to have been committed by touch alone … did you know that? By just looking in a certain way, they can cause alarm or distress and that’s a criminal offence.
Now let’s look at it in a sane way. A paedophile loves kids, and your kid has come up to see Daddy, and let’s say, for instance, the kid gets grabbed! What does Daddy do? I’ll tell you … he destroys the monster, and Daddy ends up with a life sentence. Poor Daddy. So why was Daddy put into that position in the first place?
What if a child-killer grabs a kid and strangles it? Come on, what then? It’s too fucking late complaining then. Your kid is history. What if a rapist fucks an old granny held hostage? It could happen. Get real. So I want you all to write to the Home Secretary or your Member of Parliament, and demand answers. Are you safe?
Well, I’ll tell you, you’re not safe. How can you be? Once you’re held hostage, who’s gonna save you, the screws or Daddy? No fucker can save you. It’ll take half a second to twist and snap your spine or rip your eyes out, or bite a lump out of your tit.
These maximum-security jails are full of bad monsters and beasts — Duffy, Nilsen, Cannon, that’s just three! There’s a whole wing full of them — ‘120’ — they’re segregated from us, but they use the same visits room. So it’s a mockery, an insult, a fucking disgrace. Add it up. They’re segregated from us, but not from you. We see them on visits, but not on the wings or workshops, so what’s it all about?
Well, there’s a theory. ’Cos I’m not the sort of man to cause problems, in time I will also be allowed to have my visits in that room. What if I stood up, walked over to a monster’s table and stabbed him in the eye with a pen or a spoon? Or even just my finger, which is worse than being stabbed with just a spoon. Then, say, I took his visitor hostage and shouted, ‘OK, boys, it’s a siege …’ Is that not duress? Are we not being put into a situation to do it … well?
Take, for the sake of argument, Sidney Cook, the high-profile child-killer. I am not going to take the chance of him attacking a kid. ‘Outside’, I can grab the kid and take him to safety, but in that room I can’t leave it, neither can the kid. So what can I do? I have to hope that Cook doesn’t grab the kid. Fuck hoping! I’m a realist. I act on impulse; if I get one little itch, I’m off at 200mph.
Sidney ‘Catweasel’ Cook and Robert Oliver were part of the paedophile gang in the ’80s who killed Jason Swift, why not hang them? These scum raped him and other kids, and then killed them! Catweasel died in Whitemoor, having been strangled; the rest got out. They fucking got released; can you believe it?
Now, how I see it, who visits a monster? Would you visit one? Could you? Well, if you do, you’re a monster, too. A rat is a rat; it’s not a mouse. We are all of us in some sort of category or other. I’m a madman, but I’m not gonna jump on your granny and rip her pants off or kill your kids. So have I made myself clear on this? You’re put in danger. Don’t allow it to continue. And the con you’re visiting is also put in a terrible position, ’cos if he reacts, he will get more years added on — you’ll lose him for longer. I predict in time an incident will occur that will shock the nation and everyone will say, ‘Why, how did it happen?’
I love my mum, she’s my angel, and I adore her. Outside, if I felt she was in a dangerous place I’d have her move out fast. I can’t do that in prison, so I have to act fast and stop the danger. If it means I have to attack, then I will, ’cos no monster will grab my mum, ever. And these faceless, spineless prison chiefs must take all the blame for allowing it to happen. As I said, it doesn’t affect me yet, as my visits are closed.
Your man will point the monsters out. ‘Hey, look, love, over there. That’s Black, the triple child-killer. They say he killed ten more … Oh look, it’s Straffen; he killed three little girls with his bare hands; I hope he don’t grab our Sally … Oh look, it’s Brady. Hi, Ian, want a cup of tea? Blimey it’s …’ Get the picture?
Fucking get real, ’cos that room is a fucking trap for your kids. Recently in Whitemoor Prison, Micky Bullock went on a visit to see his family who travel down from up North; his daughter is 13 years old. She would not take her jacket off, because of monsters in the room. Now Micky has made it clear, he will kill one if one so much as makes a move towards his kids.
These rooms are potential hell-holes, ’cos when it happens it could well end up a bloodbath. Have a good look around that room. I bet a monster is eyeing up your kid. If you take some deep breaths, through your nose, you’ll smell the fear in that room. It’s a nightmare. You’ll pick up on the evil.
You’ve probably been raped 20 times in the minds of these sickos. So what is the answer? Either you lot petition, protest, get it changed or some poor sod will end up getting life. But the main question is, how can they change it? I know for a fact up in Durham Jail there is now no segregation wing; monsters mix in the wings. I blame the cons for this, and I’d say now, act on it; stop allowing the prison chiefs to put you in such hazardous situations.
I’d say, ‘Hey, Chief, sling two monsters in with me for the night.’ Would they? Would they fuck! It doesn’t happen, I’d kill ’em! So get real, lads, act on it. You don’t have to kill them. Just make it hard for them — shit in their beds, piss in their tea, don’t let ’em sleep, use them as punchbags. Get a big rapist to burst their arses. Don’t allow them to mix. The screws are taking the piss.
So why is it in the max-security jails the monsters are on 43 (prison Rule 43 – protection for the vulnerable prisoner) and protected, and we can’t mix, but they can use our visits room to put our families at risk? Is it not insanity? I’d say it was evil, and totally unprofessional, if not wicked, dangerous and unacceptable.
And don’t kid yourselves for one minute that it’s safe, ’cos it ain’t. Those paedophiles probably have their hand on their cocks as the kids come into that room. Get fucking real, a paedophile loves kids. A child-killer loves kids. A train-spotter loves trains. I love a bank. It’s life, a fact, we are all into something, but we shouldn’t be. All of us do something we shouldn’t. You eat too much, you drink too much and you can’t help it. These monsters can’t help it either, ’cos they’re sick in the head!
I’m a godparent. I’ve got a niece, too. I’m a lover of kids. I’m a lover of my mum. I love my family. I don’t share them with monsters to drool over. So think about it now before it’s too late. Digest it all, ’cos what you’ve read is truth.
The system is insane! Some jails now force cons to mix with the sex cases, people like Black, Nilsen and the Bradys of the world. These pieces of shit should all be in special wings, not mixing with us. Would any sane person want a mass rapist or sex-killer living next door when you can have me living there protecting the community? You wouldn’t get paedophiles messing about in the neighbourhood I was in. I predict, soon, a disaster in jail – murders. It’s got to come and it’s only obvious. We can only take so much shit — we don’t want monsters in our face. What do they expect us to do?
I mean, do you think this sort of conversation could take place between Ian Brady and me?
‘Hi, Ian, fancy a game of chess?’
‘Oh thanks, Charlie.’
‘Err … fancy one of my fresh-made apple pies, Ian?’
‘Oh thanks, Chas, err … you got any child porn?’
‘Err … no, Ian. I don’t use it myself, but I’ll ask the Beast of Basildon for you.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, he’s the new con. He raped 14 little girls.’
Now get my drift … it’s fucking sick. Let’s get real. Let’s stop fucking about. Robbers discuss robbery; burglars discuss burglary and ram-raiders discuss cars. Get fucking real, Mr Home Secretary, and stop mugging us cons off. A paedophile takes kids. We don’t want the scum in our face! Your shit prison psychologists may love them, and your muggy screws may enjoy associating with them, but us cons don’t want them on the landings. I say it’s all madness throwing us all under the same roof, but the sad thing is, some poor sod will end up with life over it. It’s what the headquarters want — to kill them off.
Free people do not want paedophiles living within their communities, so why should I have them living in my community here behind bars? I’m no second-class citizen, although some of you would like to think so.
My right to go out and make a wage to support my family has been stripped away from me; my right to enjoy my possessions peacefully has been stripped away from me; my right to have access to educational facilities has been stripped away from me; my right to a life without pain and suffering has been stripped away from me; my right to have open visits with my family has been stripped away from me; my right to freedom of expression has been stripped away from me; my right to continue family ties has been stripped away from me; my right to lead a dignified life has been stripped away from me; my right to father children has been stripped away from me; my right to vote has been stripped from me …
During Strangeways Prison riot ten years ago, I was in the segregation block in Parkhurst Jail, Isle of Wight. I saw the Sun newspaper; it was my saddest day in prison, and how I longed to be in that riot. The greatest prison riots ever in the United Kingdom, and I was not in it. It hurt me to miss that.
I’d have got the biggest knife I could and tied it on a broom handle, and gone on a stabbing mission. There would have been that many paedophiles’ mutilated bodies lying about that the place would have resembled an abattoir! Rivers of blood? I’d have cut off the dick of every paedophile! I’d have gone for the monsters and with over 300 of them in Strangeways to stab up … what an achievement, what a victory! Strangeways’ riot was the cat’s bollocks, the riot of all riots, a complete insane hellhole gone up. I hope they do a film of it. If I’m out, I’d like to play a part in it, and if we can get some real monsters, I could then show the world how to exterminate them with a spear. So where’s the next roof? Will I be in it? Will there ever be another Strangeways? Oh, yes please.
How I used to love catching a beast in the recess or shower or sitting in the TV room with the lights off. I hit one slag in Full Sutton 20 times with a large, square PP9 battery in a sock. Won’t see him again. They slipped the pervo on the wing, but you soon find out in jail. There are ways to find out — bent screws, cons that remember, slip-ups and old newspaper cuttings.
Who remembers Chapman, the ‘Barnsley Beast’? Ring a bell? Raped a good few girls up North. Got life in the 1970s. A big chap, ex-Army. I arrived at Long Lartin Jail in the late 1980s and they put me on A-Wing; the first smiling face I saw was Johnny Walker, who’d been fitted up with 20 life sentences. He was one of the Birmingham Six. He served 17 years and was then freed. ‘Innocent’ John was a lovely boy. Big Albert Baker was there, another lifer, and a slag I’ll call Don. Don came into my cell. ‘Hi, Chas,’ and he marked my card, who’s who and all that.
It was Don who said, ‘The Barnsley Beast is on the wing.’
‘OK, yeah, where?’ He was opposite our cell. I waited and watched him come up the landing. Once he hit his cell, I slipped in like a tornado. ‘Oy, cunt, what’s your fucking game on the wing with all of us? Nice cunts like you give us criminals a bad name.’ I pulled out a 7in tool. ‘Want some of this, do ya?’
‘Look, Chas,’ he said. ‘I’ve been on this wing ages. I don’t bother anybody.’
I said, ‘Well, don’t fucking bother me, cunt, or you get it.’
Next day, I saw Don come out of his cell and go into the Barnsley Beast’s cell. I shot in the beast’s cell again. ‘What’s Don doing in here?’ I asked.
‘He comes in and puts a bet on. I’m the wing bookie, Chas.’
This blew me away! Remember, 99 per cent of my bird is in solitary, and here I am on a wing with the chaps, and the Beast of Barnsley is the fucking bookie! It doesn’t add up.
I shot in Don cell and punched a hole in his two-faced head. Cunt! Telling me who and who not to speak to. It turned out he was £20 down on the books, so if I’d done the beast he’d had saved £20. What a slag! I later found out there were other beasts on the wing. I lasted a couple of weeks before I blew up, and used an iron bar on some of their heads.
Little Alfie Lodge was a Welsh armed robber, and I respected him; he helped me a lot ’cos I was sure to kill someone. That’s ’cos prison is evil. This Beast from Barnsley had a serious row. Three cons went into him with tools. The four went to hospital, so it’s no joke. Ronnie Owen could have got me killed; or, better still, he’d kill Chapman. Either way, Owen would be dead. I hope you read this, Owen. You’re worse than the Beast. At least he’s not afraid to have a row. You’re just a gutless cunt!
Paedophile monsters — those pieces of shit are abusing and destroying your kids. A monster grabs a kid, destroys that kid physically, mentally and even the kid’s soul is destroyed; in some ways it’s a blessing if the kid dies, ’cos no kid should have to experience such inhumanity and brutality.
The Railway Killer John Duffy is a fucking monster. Murdering bastard, he raped a load of women. With his laser eyes, the cunt wouldn’t have any eyes if I bumped into him!
John Steed picked up two prostitutes from King’s Cross, and shot one dead in his motor. Turned out he was a serial rapist. Nasty bit of work! He put his mood swings down to steroids; eventually, he got lifed off. He spent a good ten years in the ‘43’ wing. I landed in Full Sutton seg unit and he was there. He stayed in his cell so people couldn’t see him, but I knew it was him as my memory is spot on. He was giving it the big one out of the window to the lads.
I lay on my bed and I thought I knew that geezer … that name … and he knew me. Soon the whole seg was at him. ‘Beast, beast, beast!’ He soon got his week in, but the strange thing is, even though we are all locked up in solitary, I felt like I could get to him. I was on a ten-guard unlock, but I felt maybe I could grab a screw and demand to get Steed’s door open; I wanted to attack him so badly. But I was mysteriously moved back to my cage in Wakefield and it was there I heard … John Steed had hanged himself in his cell at Full Sutton.
I was fucking made up; it had taken him ten years to realise that death was the best thing for him, and it saved some poor sod from getting extra bird for him.
But this really makes me think — look at all the number one beasts: Arthur Hutchinson, James Lang, Peter Pickering, Peter Sutcliffe, Paul Corrigan and Ian Brady and so on. None of them are ugly. Look at Ted Bundy in the USA. All these guys are good-looking men who can pull a bird. I’ve always wondered about that. You would think a monster was ugly, a hump on his back, a person who can’t chat up a bird, but it’s the opposite. So it proves my point — they’re born evil! Insanity drove them mad in the womb!
So the monster gets caught and once they’re in court, they can’t escape the evidence, so what does the court do? Send him to prison. How terrible for him! Life. He goes on a nonce wing with a bunch of other nonces. He has a colour remote-control TV (for his kids’ programmes).
Oh yes, he’ll watch all the kids’ TV programmes. All those boy scouts … lovely. He will have a nice warm cell, bed, carpet, curtains, even a kettle, electric shaver, radio cassette and clocks … shall I go on? Cosy or what? He will have a job in prison so he can buy his smokes and tins of salmon. Videos are screened on a Saturday night. He will get nice visits and association (being allowed to mix with other prisoners).
He will be able to go into other cells and share stories with other paedophiles and swap police statements and photos. Photos? What sort of photos? Didn’t you know? The police take photos of the dead, mutilated bodies and those monsters get them through their legal team to use in their defence — sick or what? Me, I tried to use footage of me being beaten up in prison by screws and Jack Straw banned it, yet Mr Home Secretary, whoever it is at the time, allows paedophiles to have explicit photos of kiddies, dead kiddies. Now that’s what I call insanity!
They swap their victims’ statements. Let’s say a boy of ten years old gets raped. They swap it all and get their rocks off on it. Oh, they get to see plenty of counsellors, probation officers and psychologists. You know, all them stupid twats who say paedophiles are not sick bastards!
Now, let’s get the facts out once and for all. These are not crimes of innocence. They’re evil bastards and they can’t be cured. They cannot be helped. They come into prisons as cowards. They are spineless people, so in prison they’re model inmates. They’re the screws’ tit-bits — ‘Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full of shit, sir’ — so all those cons are excellent. ‘What a good boy.’
Year after year they lick arse, and then they get parole. Then they’re back to your kids. All those years they’ve been dreaming of your kids, watching kids on TV, reading about kids in mags and mixing with a ring of paedophiles. It’s like a community, they chat about how best to do it. Life training!
For example, an armed robber comes to prison, and associates with other robbers. They discuss the job, and where they went wrong. They learn from it, go out and try again. Some will win, others will lose; but they’re robbers.
What the fuck do you think paedophiles think about — fishing? They’re talking and dreaming of your kids, like I dream and think about banks. I’m a fucking robber. Get in my way and I’ll shoot your legs off. I want your money; they want your kids … OK?
So what’s to be done? Look … the courts and prisons are a joke, it’s obviously not working. Research it; you’ll see there are more kids being abused and killed than ever before. Why? Simple — there is no punishment. Paedophiles do not fear the consequences. But if you’re hard on them … sentence them to pain; rip their bollocks off and leave them to bleed or die.
Why bother sending them to jail? Why waste tax-payers’ money? Torture them; destroy them once and for all. In fact, give me the job to exterminate them; let me give society a break from these monsters.
Patel got lifed off for sex crimes with boys. He was a nasty little bastard; if he’s a true practising Muslim, why is he shagging little boys’ bums? ’Cos he’s an evil little slag! The system made a terrible mistake with him … or did they? Maybe it was a planned mistake, as the system seems to enjoy making mistakes.
Patel was sent to Parkhurst! Now Parkhurst when it was a Category ‘A’ prison was full of good, decent cons, proper villains; all the good robbers with any credibility have done bird on the island. All the gangsters, all the hit-men and all the top faces — if you haven’t done Parko, you haven’t done bird.
All the chaps do not tolerate such filth on the wings; Patel had to have some and did. He was found in the recess with his throat cut and with a broom rammed up his arsehole. To all paedophiles, let it be a warning as to what can and will happen if you enter a real prison. The last I heard, Patel is now in Whitemoor ‘43’ wing! He has to wear plastic pants, with lots of padding, as he’s now totally incontinent. He walks like one of those puppets in Thunderbirds. Nice one, eh?
Brady and Hindley, the two sex cases, have been a big downfall in my journey through hell; I just start to itch when they’re near me. I’m a bit of an analyser; most of them can’t look a man in the eye, saving all their eye contact for their victims — little kids or women. Basically, they’re fucking cowards, evil, perverted scum. When I started off my bird, I was on a mission to wipe out the cunts!
Ian Brady — force-feed him with scorpions or throw him in with a mass rapist, and let him get shagged to death. You’ve gotta be as evil as them; fight evil with evil, violence with violence … an eye for an eye. Stop pussyfooting about! Destroy the monsters!
Myra Hindley — burn her, make a lampshade out of her skin and send it to Dennis Nilsen! Cut out her entrails and post them to the Ripper … second Class, of course!
Give me a nonce and I’ll teach them a lesson of life … don’t fuck with kids. Have you heard of something that paedophiles call ‘life training’? Basically, it’s where they seek an underage girl or boy and get their parents’ consent to take away their innocence. I’ll fucking show them life training … chuck them in the cell with me for five minutes!
It’s those paedophiles I love best. It’s like trapping a rat in a corner … fear! I like to watch them cower and beg, and some even shit their pants. All are maggots. Any bloke I know in or out despises them and any man who says different is a liar or a nonce himself! Why make excuses for them?
I’m sick of doctors making excuses, and those welfare workers, they’re complete mugs … nonce-lovers. ‘His daddy never got him any sweets when he was a boy.’ ‘His mummy beat him!’ It’s all shit; a nonce is a fucking nonce!
Take Ian Brady and Hindley — the tax-payers have fed and clothed them for 36 years. What for? What good are they to society. They’re no fucking good in jail. Brady and Hindley should have been executed 36 years ago. They’re not human, so why keep them alive?
But let me leave you with a fact about Moors Murderer Ian Brady. He wants to die, and they won’t let him, so they force-feed him. That’s insanity! But I say Brady is a good actor, ’cos he’s had over 36 years to kill himself. He’s only good at killing kids! Even after he’s been locked up for nearly 40 years, he’s still spewing out his evil.
Very recently, the brother of Moors Murder victim Lesley Ann Downey died in a house fire in Manchester on New Year’s Eve, along with his seven-year-old daughter. Tommy West, 45, of Fallowfield, Greater Manchester, was housesitting for his stepfather, Alan West, who was in hospital for a hip operation.
The fire at the house on Princess Road, Moss Side, killed Mr West and his daughter Kimberley. A 40-year-old woman and nine-year-old boy, thought to be Mr West’s wife Lesley and son Stuart, were also injured. If it wasn’t for Brady, these people would still be alive. Why’s that? Because the whole situation would have been different if Lesley Ann Downey was still alive; they’d probably all have been out partying on New Year’s Eve, but what did they have to party for after all that Brady and Hindley had done? Two more murder victims to add to Brady’s tally – off with his fucking head.
Beasley, the Guernsey Beast, got 30 years in the late 1960s for raping young boys. It was impossible to get hold of him; the Beast spent 20 years of it on protection under Rule 43. I met him in Albany in the ’80s. Finally, I got to squirt shit and piss at him through a shampoo bottle. In Albany Jail, on the Isle of Wight, the fat cunt used to walk past my cell window in the segregation unit on his way to the workshops, so I caught him a blinder. It was a sunny day, and I was waiting for the nonce to walk by. Short and fat, he looked what he was; ‘nonce’ was written all over him and I was going to add to that with some piss and shit!
‘Hi, Beasley,’ I shouted. He stopped and looked. ‘Hey, over here … it’s me.’
‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘It’s me, your old buddy,’ he came closer … squirt, squirt! A spray of shit and piss hit him in the face and neck. ‘Lick it up, you beast.’ What a shot! Sorry it wasn’t acid. Yeah, a lovely day that was. Beasley, the Beast I pissed on.
Peter Cook, the Cambridge Rapist, was another one I fucking hated. It was Parkhurst in the early ’70s when I bumped into that evil bastard. I thought, Hell, it could have been my mum. He’d raped ten women, most of them young students; but the public don’t really get to know the full details, unlike us cons!
The scumbag didn’t just rape them; he destroyed them mentally, and buggered them in a leather mask with ‘RAPIST’ written on it.
One day I just felt depressed; he was on the wing and I just had to give him some. I followed him to the recess and smashed his crust in with a mop bucket. I was gonna stab him up but a screw was coming so I left him on the floor. That was nearly 30 years ago, and he’s still locked up. Let’s hope the cunt dies inside, ’cos if he gets out, some poor sod’s in for it. Those nonces can’t be cured except by a hole in the crust. He must be nearly 70 years old by now, but a nonce is a nonce!
Fred West was in Winston Green Jail in 1994, and I was only two cells away from him! He was on remand, but I only saw him through his spy hole in the door as he was on a Cat ‘A’ nonce Rule 43 protection.
One day, I peeped through the spy hole and there he was sitting at a table looking at something. He looked like that idiot Benny out of the old Crossroads series. He ended up hanging himself in that cell. I used to shout to him through the window at night, ‘Fred, you’re gonna die in jail … why not do it now, be a man … die!’ I’d like to think him hanging himself was down to me. I’m glad he did it; one less nonce to feed!
I thought Rose West would have done us the privilege and followed her husband.
She’s about 200ft away from me on the ‘She’ wing here in Durham Prison. I don’t think I’ll be here much longer, so by time this book comes out, I’ll probably have been moved again.
On a windy night, I’m sure I can smell Rose’s whiff (especially when she’s had a plate of Durham stew). I’m amazed that she hasn’t been stabbed out yet! I hear from the screws she’s in a lesbian affair now, slimmed down to 9st.
What’s she living for? She put her own kids through hell, she’s a paedophile … strangle the witch. Personally, I’d lock her in a byre with a mad bull, that’s all she’s fit for. I pity the poor bull!
If the courts or prisons don’t step in, then it’s time society did. Demand the death penalty for paedophiles. OK, it might not stop overnight because these crazed animals can’t resist a dabble, but it would slowly start to extinguish them from our lives.
Pop pervert Jonathan King has hired a minder to protect him from attacks behind bars. This supposed tough guy and paedophile lover is being paid by the King of the paedophiles in phone cards and tobacco to watch his back. King is doing a seven stretch for abusing underage youths. He was sent down in November 2001 and now he pays the price, but what gets me is why some straight-acting con in Maidstone Jail offers him protection.
Another con broke King’s nose when he was in Belmarsh and, to give King credit, he didn’t grass up his attacker. As I’ve already mentioned, I know faces who have made statements for the same thing happening to them. But I don’t condone what King did to them kids.
This geezer who is protecting King, is doing a three stretch for unlawful imprisonment. What a hard case, eh? Probably trapped some innocent cunt in a room just for the fun of it … just like me taking hostages! All I can say is that if he loves paedophiles so much, then he’s a monster just like them and he’s a target just like King. Glitter gets out and King replaces him – like attracts shite!
Well, I’ll keep hating the system and the paedophiles. I’ll never accept it. Would you? And when I get a chance to chin one, stab one, spit on one or stamp on his face, I’ll do it. And if I’m an evil fucker for doing it, then so be it. All I’ll say to that is, pray I never catch you bastards outside. Keep praying just that, ’cos I’m your worst ever nightmare. You paedophiles are filth.
Now here’s a turn up for the book if ever there was one. The current Home Secretary, David Blunkett, has plans to introduce mandatory life sentences for serious first-time sex offenders. I’ll believe it when I see it! This has only come about because of pressure from the press demanding action for ‘Sarah’s Law’. OK, that particular law only relates to paedophiles on the Sex Offenders Register, but the rate of new sex offenders coming out into the open is startling; Blunkett knows he has to act now. I mean, when we’ve got the likes of Jonathan King having his own fucking minder in prison then it really is taking the piss!
Blunkett stated, ‘There must be no more cases like that of Roy Whiting [the killer of Sarah Payne], a man sentenced to four years for a terrible kidnap and sexual assault of a child, who went on to commit an even more horrendous crime. If someone has been convicted of a dangerous, violent or sexual crime they must be given a long prison sentence — including, in some cases, life — and made to serve it in full. If there is a recognised risk that they may offend again at the end of their prison term, we need to make sure they are kept under close supervision … The police and probation service must have the powers to monitor such people for as long as necessary.’
He went on to criticise the media. Get real, Blunkett – I don’t speak for myself, I speak for the likes of little Sarah Payne. If anyone recalls, I wrote in one of my earlier books that the man the police had in for questioning over the Sarah Payne murder did kill her and that was before it even went to court! You see, we get to find out these things even behind bars, if only you knew the half of it, but I doubt they’d let you get to read it ’cos they’d ban such a book.
Without the media, we’d get nowhere fast. I might not like some of what the media write about me, but when it comes to naming and shaming paedophiles, they’ve got my blessing. The News of the World and the Sunday People give ’em stick. Keep it up, boys.
Victor Miller — now there’s a case for hanging. I had Victor Miller three cells away from me in the CSC unit, Woodhill Jail. He’s a natural ‘43’, a dirty, child-killing nonce! He killed a young boy after he had had his evil way with him. We didn’t see him, we could only smell him — he refused exercise. These people need to be reminded that they’re evil monsters. He didn’t even leave his cell for a shower. I really do think capital punishment should be reintroduced for such evil filth, especially when people like me have to listen to them brag about noncing and killing a young newspaper delivery boy.
Ray Gilbert, Keith Pringle, Ferdie Lieveld, Schultz and me just couldn’t take any more. It had to go off, and did! What did it for me was his boasting: ‘I did the kid, so fucking what, who’s gonna do anything about it?’ When my door unlocked, I ran out, mad. The screws just froze. I leaped off the two landings and landed on the ground floor. Insanity had driven me mad again; the screws legged it and I had the run of the place. I smashed the cameras, the doors and the kitchen lights and I then got a bit of metal and started bashing on Miller’s solid steel cell door. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are … Miller!’
‘No, Charlie, please, Charlie, I’m sorry, Charlie!’ The beast shit his pants as I started coming through. I wanted him so badly, but as usual it was me who suffered most, as the riot mob rushed in. It was my turn. Shields crash into you; they’re on you; they bend you up, bash you and then restrain you in a body belt and cart you off to another hell. More pain, more suffering, more isolation … there is no end to it.
A van arrives and you’re slung in, naked, wrapped up, your head is throbbing and they lovingly make sure your property is smashed to smithereens. Photos ripped and letters missing. Their evil ways always amaze me! Why destroy a photo? What’s my mum done to them or my dead brother or my departed dad?
Brutalise me and punish me, but why fuck with my property, my memories? Why snap my radio aerial? ’Cos they’re cunts, that’s why! I’ve had this madness all my life. But the sad fact is you never see who does it; you think you know but you never really know. Some screws will say it’s wrong, no need for that, but some love it; it’s their buzz! So Miller gets clean pants and I get all this.
The way they keep sex cases happy behind bars is beyond me. If you’ve had the good fortune never to have been in prison, then it’s kind of hard for you to grasp what I’m getting at.
How else can I put it? Let’s say you live in a quiet village and then the local farmer hires his field out to a load of hippies for a rock concert. Would you care? Would it affect your karma? Something is bound to upset your peaceful life and that’s what monsters and beasts do to us straight cons.
Screws go home, but we have to stay behind bars in the stench that these monsters give off. I smell death on them; they smell like a butcher’s waste bin. Keep sending the fags to Hindley, ’cos she ain’t never gonna see the inside of a shop to buy any. Play them at their own game.
I can’t do any more. I’ve done enough, and when I do try to catch one, I only get smashed up by the screws. Screws love ’em, ’cos they’re no trouble. Maybe some will say, ‘God, Bronson doesn’t half go on about it …’ Maybe I do, but so would you if you saw what I saw. If I had a TV set and a nice cell with nice visits then maybe I’d not hate them so much. But I’m a fucking animal; I’m in a cage; I’ve got fuck all and the paedophiles have everything. I’ve got it worse than a monster.
And in addition to these beats and monsters, there’s a whole load of top-notch killers who’ll never see the outside again: Victor Castigador (murdered two security guards and a cashier by setting them on fire); David Copeland (the Nazi nail-bomber); Kenneth Erskine (the ‘Stockwell Strangler’, killed seven pensioners in three months); Malcolm Green (killed a prostitute then a tourist, dismembering the body); Archibald Hall (the butler who killed his boss’s family and several others); John Hilton (killed two men after serving a life sentence); Arthur Hutchinson (‘the Fox’, stabbed a bride’s parents and brother to death at a wedding reception, then raped the bride’s sister); Colin Ireland (tortured and killed five men); Arthur Jackson (shot one man and attempted to kill a woman); Fred Lowe (multiple con killer); Robert Maudsley (triple con killer, and ate the brains of one of his victims); Peter Moore (killed four men and tortured more than 50); Dr Harold Shipman (the most prolific serial killer in UK history); and Roy Whiting (child-killer).
And to think, I’ve shared the same roof with some of these guys! Now that’s madness!