DEAD MEN BREATHING

The corridors in Broadmoor, when I was there in the ’70s and ’80s, were called galleries. They’re dull, grey, echoey and gloomy with potent smells of bodies, sweat, fear and madness. Drugs can be inhaled from the corridor air.

Let me tell you about the medicine hatch. At breakfast time, lunch, tea and supper, the loons will queue up at the hatch for their medication. Some will swallow the pills or the syrupy liquid; others will be injected. All come away with dead eyes; most come away dribbling and have that mad look of hopelessness in their eyes.

The smell is one of depression; it drifts down the gallery with a cloud of despair. You will see many of the loons slowly shuffling up and down the gallery with blank expressions, drug-induced, dreaming of walking in a field or a break away. Few will do it for real; it’s a dream!

They’re basically lost in time, living on a memory. Then out of the blue, one will start to laugh, then another, and then more, until the cacophony becomes a signal for all to follow suit. They’re all laughing hysterically, even crying! Nobody knows why. One will fall and have a fit; more laughter and more insanity. The laughter travels down the gallery; more come to join in, the nurses arrive … it’s a regular occurrence.

Laughter breaks the despair, but when it dies down it’s back to the shuffling. Some will watch TV in the day rooms; they sit in easy chairs and just stare at the TV. If there’s a power cut and the TV goes off, they still stare at the dead TV screen. Some who play games often erupt into violence. ‘Bronson, you cheated.’

‘I never, you did.’ Slap! More laughter erupts; madmen laugh at violence … they love it.

Some just sit alone looking into space; they’re all hopeless, soulless … dead men breathing.

All meals are eaten in a dining room, three loons to a table. This can be a crazy time, and some have gone berserk at mealtimes. Nobody knows when a madman will flip; if he doesn’t, then how can anybody else?

Just going for a piss in the asylum can be a major event. You have to have eyes in the back of your head; the urinals are opposite the toilet door. Often, you will see two sets of feet in one cubicle and hear noises. You don’t have to be Einstein to know what the noises are; a pumping, squelching or rubbery sound; a pant, a sigh, a moan, even a scream. They’re not playing Scrabble! Even at the urinal you may get a loon hanging around for a peep; I’ve lost count how many I’ve given a slap to! ‘Go on … fuck off, how many times do I have to tell you, one man’s meat is another man’s poison!’ It’s bloody hard work to keep your cool!

There’s a constant supply of dildos in the asylum; you just would not believe what some loons ram up their arse! Would you really want to have stuff like shampoo bottles, large carbolic soaps or a giant black sausage rammed up your arse. Some have even been caught in the act. One crazy bastard rammed a lump of wood, wrapped in a plastic bag, up his arse! (No doubt with lots of Vaseline.) The wood got stuck; it’s insanity! I bet the doctor had a laugh getting it out.

Now I don’t know how true this is, but it was often spoken about. One lunatic used to put a mouse in a bag and pop it up his arse as he liked the feel of it moving inside him. I actually did ask him, but he never denied it or admitted it. He would, no doubt, take the truth to his grave. I told him to try a rat. With luck, it would rip his insides to shreds, so we could all have a real laugh!

There was one famous loony who was a ‘yogi’; believe me, he could bend his body like elastic. He was seen once in the bathroom in a crazy position, all bent up, giving himself a blow-job. I think a few of the loons tried it themselves, as many of them had bad backs soon after!

Canteen day was always a crazy day. Unlike prison, asylum inmates come under the control of the NHS (the National Health Service in the UK), so they get more money. In the ’70s and ’80s, I used to get about £10 a week wages, plus I could spend my own money. Today, my wages in prison are between £2.50 and £4.50 per week, so you can see the big difference between what I was allowed in the asylums 20 or so years ago and what’s allowed today. You’re better off being mad!

It was awesome for me to spend so much! The canteen was like a proper shop — clothes, sweets, food, games, watches and all sorts. It was like Christmas every week for me! Now bear in mind 90 per cent of the loons had been there for 20 or 30 years, so it was all second nature to them. So you see why few had any teeth and so many were fat. The amount of sweets, ice cream and cakes they got was amazing, bags and bags of it. Now I don’t mind a sweet myself, I love a bar of chocolate, but this lot were buying sacks of it; boxes of chocolates, eating it like it was going out of fashion. Like their lives depended on it, stuff it down or die. You’d have to see it to believe it!

Smokes? Benson & Hedges and cigars – they were on 60 a day. That’s why at night you could hear so much coughing; it was like a fucking cancer ward.

And to cap it all, there was the once-a-month disco-crazy but true. The female loons would come over and we’d boogie, giving it some stick on the dance floor. You’d be amazed at how many John Travoltas there were! When the slow songs started, the smooches would start. You could see the girls loving it, grinding their pussies right into the loins of the madmen. Most went back to their wards with sticky underwear.

Me, I believe it’s just more trouble, more tension, more frustration; if you can’t do the biz properly, why bother? All the cameras on you; what if the girl has a wobbler and throws a fit or gets violent? Nah, it wasn’t for me. I only went to two discos in five years and that was two too many, but it all happens there. One loony got his foreskin caught up in his zip; blood all over the dance floor (now I’ll bet that bloody hurt). Often, the girls got caught wanking the loons off; male loons came back to the wards with the girls’ knickers. The girls would go back to their wards with the guys’ pants … love bites, lipstick, it all goes on. There has been the odd pregnancy, and it’s no good them denying it as it’s a fact, and it’s rumoured there is a lot of AIDS in Broadmoor. Well, that’s probably fact, what with all the arses getting pumped!

There are some strange people in those places and I believe there are no stranger than the doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists and the nurses. Why? Imagine it’s your job, forever discussing lunatics, reading their files and living amongst them. Surely it rubs off?

I’ve never forgotten one bloke who was sacked and prosecuted for being a paedophile. It was in all the papers in the early ’80s. Fucking slag, locking me up and going home to watch kids performing! Nurses have been involved in many incidents over the years. Sex abuse and brutality! So I believe the madness does rub off; after years of working with loons, it must do!

Think about it. Sitting in an interview room discussing with a patient why he cut a woman’s tits off and ate her uterus. Why the paedophile strangled the boy. Why the rapist shot 17 women. It rubs off! If you sat down with me and constantly heard about my armed robberies you may well want to hit a bank yourself. You learn and you become what you learn. The staff become a part of the insanity! The majority of madmen have committed sex crimes or are sex killers.

Why is it the Yorkshire Ripper is so loved by the asylum? Because all the doctors want a part of him. He is the cream — they love a notorious sex killer. ‘Let’s get into his brain.’ ‘Let’s be the doctor to cure him!’ It’s a fact; the more they’ve raped and killed, the better treatment they get. Personally, I believe the only good Broadmoor ever did for the Ripper is when he got an eye stubbed out. You can’t cure a monster. Why try?

Some of the staff were perverts. I’ve seen the way they watched us in the showers, all eyes on our meat and two veg! The casual touching of a naked madman; I’ve seen it! The lustful eyes … not all, but many are that way inclined.

So what sort of man chooses to become a psychiatric nurse? Let’s not beat about the bush, it’s not an easy job; would you want to do a job in which at any moment you could be attacked or even killed? It’s a job that’s not normal, locking up madmen, so all credit to them, and many do a good job, but the others are basically strange! They look strange, they’ve got that mad look: the madness has rubbed off on them. Watch how they walk; big boots, chewing gum, shouting, swearing and basically acting like ‘louts’. And a lot of brutality did and still does go on, like Rampton in the early ’80s, in which lots were sacked and some were convicted and sent to prison.

Look at Ashworth paedophile ring, which was a big investigation recently. Too much goes on in them, some very suspicious deaths as well. So what’s being done? Does it still go on? Let me tell you — it always will, simply ’cos the insane are vulnerable people; many have no families. Whether they live or die is irrelevant to anybody.

Are there any benefits in group therapy? Do me a favour! What a lot of bollocks! Face facts — could you do it? What’s the point of a group of loonies talking about madness, their evil crimes, murder, rape, buggery and so on? And you’ve gotta sit there and listen to it. I’d jump up and smack them in the teeth!

I don’t like to know or wish to know how someone buggered a three-year-old kid or how they strangled an 87-year-old woman. What’s the point in it? Isn’t it personal between you and a doctor? Why talk it over in a group? Asylums don’t work like that; how can they, you have to live with each other. It’s bad enough thinking of the crimes, but having to listen to them is beyond belief. I’d say it’s evil, unnecessary, and it can’t be right.

When it’s my turn, do I have to tell ’em all where I buried my money? Why I rob a bank? Why I shot a grass? It’s fucking obvious why I do what I do, but I don’t talk about it to a bunch of loons, or to anybody.

I’m not that mad, am I? Or am I missing the plot? Could it be me who’s bonkers? Put me in a group therapy situation and take the consequences, ’cos I’ll not be able to control myself if they go on about such evil. I don’t want to know why or how they jumped on a kid. Why should anybody have to listen to them? I’ll just stab the cunt in the eye with a pen! Now fuck off!

Group therapy! It doesn’t work, it can’t work, and whoever set it up is a dickhead.

INTERVIEW WITH CHARLES BRONSON

Now then, Charlie, is it true you were in all three maxsecure asylums?

Yes. Broadmoor, Rampton and Ashworth.

How long were you in each of them?

Broadmoor for five years, Rampton 11½ years and Ashworth for one year.

Why were you there?

Well … I suppose ’cos I was mad! That’s why people are sent there.

Were you really mad or was it all an act?

Blimey, what a question! I’d say I was more dangerous than mad or more unpredictable than mad, maybe a little strange. Yeah, I was what you would call ‘strange’.

Well … violent, yes. I’d sort of caused havoc in the prisons, and they wrapped me up and sent me to the asylum for some serious treatment.

Serious treatment?

Well, you know, lots of kickings and drug abuse and solitary and dehumanising and depressing me, that sort of treatment.

Did that really happen?

I never lie, I’ve no need to make it up!

Is it true you were up on Broadmoor roof?

Yep, three times, my hat-trick of rooftop protests … I’m king of the roofs!

That’s what I just said. Oh, I do love a roof.

How many roofs have you been on in the system?

Now then, let me see; Hull ’75, Liverpool ’85, Leicester ’88, Parkhurst ’89, Wandsworth ’90. Almost made Winchester and Broadmoor ’81, ’83 and ’84. Yeah, the ’80s was a good decade for roofs! I do love a roof.

Why specifically a roof?

Let me tell you, there’s a lot of maggots in the penal system; ‘yes, sir, no, sir’ men grassing each other up for promotion, evil, slimy rats, with snake eyes — smelly vermin.

Charlie, you’re getting a bit carried away, let’s stick to the roofs of the asylum.

Hat-trick at Broadmoor.

Yeah, ’81, ’83 and ’84.

Let’s have ’81, and why … how?

Right, ’81 it is! It was pissing it down, a right bad day. I was one of a dozen lunatics going over to the canteen … we was Norfolk Ward, intensive care madmen. Norfolk was the danger ward; we was all pretty much the same, unpredictable! Broadmoor had good wards, but Norfolk was the pits — brutality, drug control, seclusion and utter pain. I’d had enough, I’d seen it all and had it all, it was time to kick some ass, and so I decided to fuck ’em up big time. A nice roof does just that. It caused havoc, it caused disruption and it gets maximum publicity. I wanted the world to know about Broadmoor. It was time people understood about the hell behind this wall.

Were you alone?

Oh yes, I always work alone, I even rob banks alone.

Can we stick to the roof?

I was only gonna tell you about some of my robberies.

Another time, Charlie!

Err … where was I?

You were about to kick some ass.

Yeah, you’ve got to hit those jerks where it hurts; in the pocket, damage and destruction, rip the place apart, so the best way is to demolish the place, then let them pick the pieces up later. So I broke free. Some fat guard tried to stop me, so he got it in the crust. BOSH! He went down like a sack of shit; I went up like a monkey, up the pipe on to a window, swinging across and up on top of the world. Top of the world, Ma!

What did you do?

I shouted over, ‘Oy, get me some French fries and a nice fillet steak, mushrooms, tomatoes, a pot of coffee and pineapple and cream, and a slice of apple pie.’ I started work — crash, bang, rip. It’s amazing what damage one man can do in half-an-hour. In six hours there truly is not a lot left to rip off. Loved it! Sweat, blood, rain, pain, aches, bruises, wind and sky, it’s awesome but it’s beautiful.

Yes, beautiful, better than sex, better than a lottery win, better than anything …

Better than freedom?

Hell, it is freedom, up there is heaven! I’m free, as free as you! Free as a butterfly. Plus, I’m the governor. Sure it sounds insane, sure it’s crazy, but it’s true. I’m free, it’s a sense of happiness and nobody or nothing can stop me …

Yeah, maybe, but these maggots ain’t got the spine to pull the trigger, they’re only good at attacking me ten at a time and injecting me. Slags!

Did you hurt yourself up there?

Me? Hurt! Nah, pain’s the game. What’s pain anyway? It’s a form of pleasure, a stimulant to life, like a sting from a bee, it livens you up. It gives you that kick up the ass you need to survive adversity; it’s lovely, like a bowl of prunes.

I do love a prune, good for the bowel movement.

Yes, Charlie! Let’s continue!

Yes, I’m a born climber, see! I love heights; I once climbed a 24-floor block of flats from balcony to balcony, just to get to a geezer I wanted. Broadmoor roof was my next; the ‘Birdman’ needed a nest, a perch, a platform. A man can only take so much shit and I had taken enough! Up on that roof I destroyed the myth of Broadmoor. Broadmoor is not invincible, and I’m the proof of it. I beat the crap out of it, not once but three times. I cost them a million bucks, so kiss my ass.

I was the king. I practically brought them to their knees; if every madman there would have done what I done we could have ruled the planet! How do you stop such a flow of madness? I slung the slates off and I ripped out pipes and wires. I demolished the fucking hellhole! At night, in the rafters, I’d lay there looking up at the stars … it was peaceful. I thought about it all, who I am, what I am, where I’m going, all I’ve lost and all I’ve gained. Respect is priceless, I’ve earned it, I’ve bled for it and I’ve died a thousand deaths for it. These roofs, to me, represented power and strength within. My hattrick crippled them financially, spiritually and mentally. The madman drove them mad with sleepless nights.

Charlie, did you ever think you would die up there?

Die! Me, die? I’m too young to die; I’d only die if they were to shoot me or climb up and throw me off.

Would they have done that?

Nah! I told them, ‘Come up and I’ll grab any one of you and dive off.

Did they come?

Would you have done? Nah, I was alone with the bats and the lovely countryside of Berkshire; lovely country, can see for miles on the roof.

Was it true you were called a killer by the media whilst you were up there?

Yeah! They love to sensationalise. They sell papers with lies, they get rich off my back, like blood-sucking leeches, like maggots in a corpse, chewing, sucking, stealing life.

Did you kill?

Let’s say I’ve never stood trial for murder.

Any regrets, Charlie?

Well, I’ve just one — it’s the Strangeways riot. I missed it! The biggest riot of the system, and I missed it! I was in the block in Parkhurst and when it blew up I was gutted. I felt bad; I should have been there with the boys, kicking ass. It’s my biggest sadness. I’d have got a big meat cleaver out of the kitchen and gone on a mission. In fact, I’d have gone home and took 1,000 cons with me. I’m gutted … I’ll never get over it.

Blimey, you are sad!

Sad is not the word … I’m devastated.

Well, thanks for your honesty. Is there anything else you would like to say?

Yeah! I want to say to all the lunatics in the asylum — keep the faith, don’t give up ’cos you’re better than them who cage you! And if you feel strong you’ll be strong … stay alive, boys; kick some ass!

Also, a big thanks to my mum, ’cos without her love and support I’d not be alive today.

Anybody else, Charlie?

Well, yes, just one last word. A special thanks to all the Bronsonmania fans, all the great people who stand by me and support me; my club is now awesome and it’s spreading, it’s like an incurable disease. But it don’t kill, it cures. Cheers! And good luck to you all.