Ashworth High Security Hospital is situated in Maghull, ten miles north of Liverpool city centre. On this site there has been a hospital for over 100 years. A prominent local merchant, Thomas Harrison, originally owned the estate.

In 1878, it was sold to the overseers of the Liverpool Workhouse – Liverpool Select Vestry — who used the large house as a convalescent home for children from Liverpool workhouses. Eventually, in 1911, construction began on a new hospital to be used as an epileptic colony.

In 1914, the ‘Lunacy Board of Control’ bought the whole estate, including a large unfinished hospital. Before it could be pressed into use as a State Institution, however, the hospital was taken over for the treatment of shell-shocked soldiers from the Great War.

In 1920, the Ministry of Pensions took the hospital over and it was not until 1933 that it became a State Institution. In 1948, the hospital became part of the new National Health Service and, in 1959, the Ministry of Health took over responsibility for running the Special Hospitals.

In the 1970s, further enlargement came when the decision was taken to build a fourth Special Hospital to relieve overcrowding at Broadmoor. There was still land available from the original estate in Maghull, 50 acres of which was made available for the new Park Lane Hospital.

From 1974 to 1984, Park Lane opened in stages. Unlike Moss Side Hospital, a high-security wall, completely separating it from the rest of the site, surrounded it. Moss Side and Park Lane shared some facilities but operated as independent hospitals.

In 1990, one of the first acts of the new Special Hospitals Service Authority (SHSA) was to merge the two hospitals. On 19 February 1990, the new hospital, Ashworth, was born. The old Moss Side Hospital became known as Ashworth South and East, and Park Lane was renamed Ashworth North. Ashworth South, the original Moss Side Hospital, closed in 1995. I have also spent time in Moss Side, making me unique in that I’ve been in all the best lunatic hospitals.

In March 1991, the hospital was severely criticised in a Cutting Edge television programme alleging the widespread abuse of mentally ill patients by staff at Ashworth.

A public inquiry was chaired by Sir Louis Blom-Cooper QC, which put forward 90 recommendations. There was a call for wholesale culture change at Ashworth. This led to a further reorganisation of the hospital and much work to try to change the culture of the institution.

In April 1996, the hospital became a ‘Special Hospital Authority’ when the High Security Psychiatric Services Commissioning Board (HSPSCB) succeeded the SHSA.

The capacity of 520 beds was gradually reduced. As one of the three Special High Security Hospitals (Ashworth, Park Lane and Broadmoor), Ashworth receives patients from the North of England, Wales, the West Midlands and North-West London. Approximately 80 per cent of patients have been convicted of a criminal offence, most of whom are subject to restriction orders. The average length of stay is eight years — a small number of patients will never be ready to leave and will spend the rest of their lives at Ashworth.

Ashworth Hospital today consists of two sites – Ashworth East and Ashworth North. Ashworth East has six refurbished wards, two newly built wards and the Wordsworth Ward, a new 16-bed ward. Ashworth’s female patients are located on the East Site, as well as a large number of mentally ill men. A high wire wall provides physical security.

Ashworth North has 17 wards with a total capacity of approximately 370 patients. The Personality Disorder Unit (PDU) and most of the male mental illness wards are located on the North Site, which also contains extensive recreational, rehabilitative and educational facilities. A high concrete wall providing very considerable physical security surrounds it. Ashworth is now Europe’s number one maximum-security asylum. Home sweet home!

There was one little pervo in Ashworth I had some fun with. I couldn’t believe his cheek, he just blew me away, but he was only little, so I couldn’t hurt him. He was just simple. ‘Chas,’ he said to me in a low voice, ‘can you sort me out a pair of bird’s soiled knickers?’

‘Eh? Where the fuck am I going to get a pair of soiled panties?’

‘Well, Chas, you do get lots of visits, can’t you smuggle me a pair in?’

I just couldn’t believe the little fucker. ‘Go on, fuck off!’ But I had an idea. I had a word with my pal, big Phil Baxter. Phil was a Brighton lad. He’d gone beserk with an axe, but he never killed anybody. He got sent to Ashworth. Phil’s just Phil, a great guy; he’d help anybody, and is a good man to have on your side — powerful, like a horse!

He got hold of a tiny pair of pants and he sewed on a bit of frilly stuff. When he finished they looked real, he then rubbed the crotch area around his arse. I then rubbed it around an old tin of pilchards and we sprinkled talc on it and tied it in a cellophane bag. It was ready.

I pulled the little pervo. ‘Oy … seeing I like you … I’m on a visit tomorrow, my pal’s bird is up, no promises … but I’ll ask her for her panties.’

‘Will you, Chas? Please … please …’

‘Yeah, don’t go on, I’ll ask.’

‘Chas, please ask her to sort of damp them a bit.’

I looked at this fucking poor sod and I felt a strong urge to put his nose into the back of his skull. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll ask her.’

‘Chas … thanks.’

So it was all planned. On my way back from my visit, big Phil would pass me the bag from his window so when I walked on the ward the pervo would see me, so he’d have no doubt where I got it from! We were on Hazlett Ward, Dr Hunter’s ward; he was a decent old psychiatrist, ‘mad’, but a nice bloke.

It was my old pal Ray Williams who came up to see me that day; he was in fits of laughter. I told him, ‘Ray … it is a nuthouse!’

As I got back to Hazlet Ward, I grabbed the bag off Phil and put it in my shirt. The pervo was waiting at the entrance, eyes bulging.

‘Chas, Chas, Chas, did you … Chas?’

I winked; thumbs up.

‘Chas, Chas, really, Chas?’

I walked to his cell. Phil came over. ’Nice visit, Chas?’

‘Yeah, Phil.’

We both went in the pervo’s cell. I pulled it out.

‘What’s that, Chas?’ Phil said.

‘Oh, it’s a present for my little pal here.’ His eyes were bulging … he was fucking drooling.

‘Fucking panties, isn’t it?’ Phil said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ’Red hot, straight off my bird.’

‘Chas, Chas, let’s have it, please, Chas.’

Phil and me left him with it. We looked through his spy hole; in ten seconds he was pulling himself off as he smelled them. What a sick bastard, what a sad fucking world it is! Those panties kept him alive!

There were a lot of loons in these places, but some were not as mad as you might think — some were crafty fuckers. At night-times, they would ring the night call bell when they knew a female staff member was on night duty. For ten minutes they would be talking to them through the spy hole in the door. ‘Please, miss, I can’t sleep, talk to me,’ and the woman would talk about any old shit; he would be pulling his dick!

‘Ooh, that’s better, miss, when you talk to me, you’ve got nice hair, miss.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Yes, miss, ooh, miss, you are nice.’ I suppose they must have known and others used to expose themselves coming out of the shower and deliberately dropping their towel to show a female staff a hard-on. It was their buzz!

There were rumours that some loons were shagging the staff, but that wasn’t for me. I stayed clear of all that. It’s just not me, not interested; more trouble than it’s worth! But the faggots in there were beyond belief. One nutcase stuck a toilet brush up his arse. He made it into a thick dick shape and covered it in Vaseline — whoosh, right up — but it got stuck! He never lived that down! They had to take him to an outside hospital for an operation. Well, it is an asylum! What did you expect him to do with a toilet brush? Clean the toilet?

And talking of toilet brushes, big Dave Taylor got stabbed with one up in Frankland Jail, right through his chest. The guy who did it snapped the head off, sharpened the handle and plugged Dave up. He was lucky, very lucky! What saved him was the attacker left it in him; if he had pulled it out, Dave was brown bread! Fancy dying with a toilet brush sticking out of you. Dave later got out after serving ten years and ended up blowing a guy’s canister off; he got lifed off. It’s a crazy old world, eh?

Stevie Booth — now there’s a guy I admire! Thirty years he’s been caged up and is still a handful. He changed his surname to ‘Peterson’ out of respect to me.

The Kray twins loved Stevie, we all do. We once had a fight in Rampton over a pork pie hat. You couldn’t make it up, could you? And fuck me, can he hit! We got dragged away, kicked to bits, injected and isolated, all over a fucking hat!

Later, Steve went to the dentist and demanded that he have two teeth taken out so he could have a gap like mine, so we would look the same. That’s loyalty beyond belief!

I remember the day big Sam Ellis got a bit lemon with me. Sam’s a big black guy, he had been in Broadmoor for 20 years and then I met him again in Ashworth. It was on the yard he turned funny, fuck knows why. It may have been the sun on his head; he was on a lot of medication. But he insulted me; he walked on my towel while I was sitting sunbathing! All I had on was a pair of shorts. I jumped up and nutted him so hard that he flew up in the air, all 18st of him. We never did speak after that.

Mark Rowntree — now there’s a strange guy; he killed five, knifed them, two were kids. Met him in Rampton and then later in Ashworth. He had a pretty face; sad there’s no acid in the asylum.

And a Broadmoor queen had problems, big time. I’m not sure if he’s a bloke or a woman. He falls in love with people, wants to own them, gets very jealous, possessive. Out comes a tool. BASH! An old boy, ugly, big nose. He moved to Ashworth about the same time as me.

One day I was out in the garden getting some sun on Hazlett Ward, which is next to Gibbon Ward where this guy was. As I walked past the cell windows, I heard a moaning noise. Curiosity got the better of me. Fuck me, if it wasn’t him getting his arse shagged … and he saw me. ‘Hi, Chas!’ It was as if he was just casually greeting me in the street.

I’ve seen the loons sitting on the grass talking to a ladybird; I mean really having a conversation. I’ve sat next to them just to listen to what they’re saying. My fucking brain hurts looking back at all this shit. Talking to a ladybird! A loony in Rampton made a hole in his mattress and shagged it every night, until another loony put a razor blade in it. Ouch!

One loon in Ashworth used to pay other loons ½oz of tobacco for their soiled pants. I pulled him one day, ‘Oy, how much for a bird’s soiled panties?’

‘Fuck me, Chas, I’ll give you the world!’

So back I went to the fake panties scam. I found a very small pair of pants and got another loon to sew some flowers on it, as I’d done before, then I rubbed a bit of fish in the gusset, and some aftershave, I then put them in a plastic bag.

After a visit, I called him into my cell. ‘Fresh off my bird!’

‘Chas, Chas, let me smell. How much? … Say the price, anything.’ I gave him a whiff. ‘Chas, Chas, how much?’

‘Get me two giant bars of Galaxy a week for six months.’

Sadly, I moved soon after, but that tells you the madness I was surrounded by.

A loon in Ashworth came at me one day with a sackful of snooker balls, and missed my head by a whisker, I grabbed him and took him into my cell. ‘Right, cunt, what’s your game?’

‘You kept looking at me,’ he said.

Was I hearing this properly. ‘What?’

‘You kept looking at me.’

I never did. What would you do? I put him on my bed and sat on him. I began to squeeze his neck ’til his eyes bulged, then let go. Once he got his breath, I squeezed again. I could have wasted him; I got him up. ‘Now listen, mad or not mad, you’re dead if you ever so much as look at me again.’ I eyed him like a hawk. Really, I should have killed him. Why allow a loon to take you out?

One day, I’d just come back to the ward from the gym, had a great work-out, and went to my room to get my shower stuff. Once I’d showered, I saw two pairs of feet sticking out from under the curtains, lots of ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’ and sighs and pumping. Got a bucket of cold water, ripped off the curtain and let them have it! What I saw will live with me for all time! There were three of them, not two; one was, somehow, lifted up on the other’s back. It blew me away, dicks everywhere! Oh well, whatever turns you on, I guess.

Now see why I had to get out of them asylums? It was causing me great problems, but it was one hell of an experience.

In 1910, Rampton Hospital, in Nottinghamshire, opened as England’s first State Institution for mentally defective people considered to be dangerous. Broadmoor now specialised in the insane and Rampton in the mentally deficient.

I was recently asked by the prison padre, ‘Hey, Chas, what’s the maddest thing you ever did, ever?’

I gave it a lot of thought and replied, ‘You won’t believe it if I tell you.’

‘Go on, Chas, tell me!’

‘Well, it was back in the 1960s, I walked into a church and hit the father with an axe and set fire to the organ.’ The padre fucked off. Obviously, I’d made it up. It will stay with him for years. That’s how I handle madness, by using psychology!

Once, I was in a class, and there were about 12 of us, all longtermers. I think six of us were Cat ‘A’. We had this woman teacher; now I don’t want to be nasty, but she was coyote ugly. She had a smile that made her look like a bulldog sucking on a lemon! I asked her in a whisper, ‘Hey, miss, have you ever thought of being a model?’ I got her all sweet, then I said, ‘You could model them horse bags.’ Would you believe she ran out of the class and I got banned! They banned me for telling the truth. I can’t fucking help it if she’s ugly, can I?

I told you, prison can be insane. I personally don’t give a fuck if she was Marilyn Monroe, I just spoke the truth. I’ve nothing against ugly people, they’re sweet by me. They can’t help but liven our days up. I actually love a freak. The uglier the better, same as midgets, I love them, giants too! Look at my mate. ‘Duchy No Legs’. He was born with no legs, but I love him to bits ’cos he’s a survivor; he puts people to shame with his achievements and he’s done a bit of porridge, so he’s a brother of mine.

But that teacher was nothing compared to one ugly fucker I met in Rampton in the 1970s; they called him the ‘Head’. He was about 5ft 3in tall, skinny and he had a fucking head like a donkey; it was awesome! Full of bumps, lumps and scars. I’ve never seen a fucking head like it, but what made it worse was the plastic helmet he wore, as he was epileptic, and the epileptics in Rampton wear these helmets to protect their heads when they have a seizure.

Let’s try to describe it — this lunatic’s body was like the body of a small boy with a man’s head. I used to crack my boiled eggs on his plastic hat and wink at him as I did it! Hell, I wish I had a photo of that, what a fucking laugh that was; it used to brighten up my day. I’m not a cruel bastard, I just love a laugh — the Head was just a legend to me.

One old boy in Rampton I met back in the 1970s was Jip Carter. He had a little faded leather case that he treasured. Once a week he would go and sit in a corner of the Day Room and open up his case to look through his worldly possessions. I was privileged one day to be invited by Jip to join him. I sat in the corner with him, and I was one of very few to see what he had. Poor old Jip had been in Rampton since the Second World War. All his family were dead, and all he had in the world was the case. He showed me photos, old letters, certificates, books, a watch. By the time I had seen it all, I truly had a lump in my throat. And I’ll always remember Jip Carter’s words. ‘Don’t be mad, son, get out and stay out.’ Jip died in Rampton, although he’d really died the day he arrived. Sad but true.

Mark Rowntree was a classic example! I first met the guy in Rampton asylum, then later in Ashworth. Mark was a young guy, a normal-looking lad, handsome, a good personality, fit and healthy and then — BANG! He lost the plot, killed five innocent people. Went berserk with a knife. I asked him why. And as I’ve already said about other loons, he just couldn’t give an answer, as he had not known himself. Was it sexual? Was it jealousy? Was it for money? None of those, he just woke up and went on a mission. That’s madness.

And there’s nothing madder than the case of Nurse Beverley Allitt. They now make up illnesses; she’s nothing but a child-killer, an evil bitch. She’s in Rampton having discos and sex with lesbians. Lock her up in a dungeon; give the slag bread and water, for Christ’s sake, she’s a baby-killer. She isn’t mad, she’s evil.

What really gets me, someone like Allitt is diagnosed as suffering from a supposed rare psychological illness and the shrinks are over her like a rash! They can make fortunes off someone like that, writing umpteen books and going on tours of universities.

Allitt was convicted at Nottingham Crown Court in 1993 on 13 charges of murder and causing grievous bodily harm to children and babies! The shrinks have sympathetic views for people like her … they are seen as tragic figures! But what about the grief-stricken relatives of her victims? Eight-week-old Liam Taylor — murdered; fifteen-month-old Claire Peck — murdered, as well as the other unnamed victims.

The National Health Service should have been held directly responsible for the series of blunders that resulted on Ward Four, the children’s ward, at the Grantham and Kesteven Hospital.

Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. Basically, this is just an attention-seeking personality disorder dressed up in a fancy name! This disorder manifests itself in the uncontrollable urge to draw attention to the sufferer, often by the person causing self-injury or injuring those in their care.

On the Friday evening, the hospital postponed any investigations. By the Monday, Claire Peck was dead. On 26 July 1991, Allitt was charged with murder. In November 1991, she was formally charged. By the time her trial had started on 15 February 1993, Allitt had lost 5st in weight, supposedly as the result of a form of anorexia. She had been held in Rampton where she reverted to a childhood habit of self-harm by scalding herself with water and eating broken glass. Pity she didn’t chew on some arsenic!

Allitt was even too scared to attend court; the jury returned their verdicts on 11 May 1993. On 25 May, Mr Justice Latham sentenced Allitt to 13 life sentences, four on charges of murder and nine for grievous bodily harm. What do they do? They pack her off to some nice, cosy asylum, ’cos she’s so dangerous! Save the taxpayers a fortune and have her topped. Look at how the government have added 1p on National Insurance so they can spend extra on the likes of Allitt!

Allitt is a serial killer. And would you believe it, after the trial, Allitt’s physical condition miraculously improved! She made a recovery in world record time!

Since then, Allitt still plays her little games. She was rushed to hospital in Worksop, where she was treated for self-inflicted wounds caused by opening out steel paper clips and forcing them into her body. I’d have driven her to hospital to the tune of ‘The Funeral March’ and just as slow as it’s played! Allitt eventually confessed that she had committed three of the murders and six other attacks. She is currently detained in Rampton.