10

THE MADNESS OF LIFE

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I believe my life is an impossible fight — no winning and no losing. The journey is that of madness, out of control, total destruction from here to the crematorium. You couldn’t imagine at times how hard I think – so hard it fucking hurts! It rips me up, my soul’s on fire and my heart is heavy and painful. I sleep with one eye open and my fists clenched; at times I awake feeling the stiffness of my jaw and the grinding of my teeth. I exist … but I fail to live.

I am a creation of the establishment — I realise I’m not as strong as life itself, but I also realise death will suck me in. The eyes and fingers are pointing in my direction. For me, there is only one way, one road, one signpost — it reads ‘Hell’. It’s a one-way ticket; there are no brakes on my vehicle, there is no way out, only one way in. You can’t hold on to time. You can’t hold on to a missile.

Sometimes I stare into a pool of piss, I see my reflection, I picture a hole in my face, there’s nothing there, it’s vanished. I watch the maggots turn to flies, and they fly off with bits of flesh from my body. I attempt to wipe it clear from my mind, but the nice thoughts get swallowed up. I can’t think nice for too long … it would destroy me. Weariness would overcome me; I would crawl and drown in the piss. Like a stiff in the gutter of a ghetto with a poisoned liver, a filthy drunk who sucks his way from the madness of life, a journey of hopelessness. But somebody must have once loved him. Every lost soul once had a mother, an angel. No one is born a monster … or are we?

The truth is basically screaming in your face. You can be with a partner for 30 years and still be strangers. He could be the local Peeping Tom and she could be the slag of the town — but will you ever know? The only sure thing you will know — you’re going to die alone in the same way as you were born … naked and helpless.

I held a newborn baby some time back; it’s probably some low-life punk now, going around bashing old women up. Next time you see a ladybird it could be me! Never doubt nothing — anything is possible!

When you get a new car or bike, you’ve this urge to see how fast she can go. Well, a gun or a knife is the same! You need to test it. See what it can do. I remember my first shotgun, when I sawed off the barrel I was excited to see the power of it. So I went in a wood and shot at the tree trunks. Awesome power. Ripped them to bits.

Now I’m gonna confess something. It may amaze many, even shock, but I’m not really a tool man. Let me explain — villains love a tool, some just to get a buzz or high out of using them. I never have. Sounds insane? It’s true, I don’t get a buzz out of using tools. I’m more of a physical guy. I buzz from punching up bodies. I love using my fists and strength. Oh yes, I’ve used tools — plenty — but only ’cos I had little choice.

Sometimes you’ve got to get in and cut fast, and at times do maximum damage in little time. I remember once, I smashed in a door, rushed in and done a geezer badly — I used an iron bar on his legs. It was all over in 30 seconds. Strangely enough, I can remember the Coronation Street music on the TV as I bashed the fuck out of him. Dirty fucking grass. Still, he may have learned by it, ’cos he never grassed and I never even had a mask on. I wanted him to know; that’s how I work. Look at me. See who I am. Sure, I’ll go down for ten years, but I’m back out twice as ugly, twice as cruel and twice as vicious. So don’t grass … ever.

Unlike most, I don’t fear prison — never have, never will. Obviously, I don’t want it, I hate it, but it’s the hate that drives me on to survive. Another time I took up a contract — three grand. It was early ’70s. Three grand was big bucks, so I had to do it. The only problem was it was a pal’s cousin. He had gone bad and was becoming dangerous to a forthcoming trial; his statement looked naughty to two guys on remand.

Look, I’m not heartless; a pal’s a pal. I did what I had to do. Then I went to see my pal. He accepted it; he had no choice, because his cousin deserved it … a copper’s nark. That scumbag would not look the same again. His whole life ended up a nightmare, and I’m proud to say, it was down to me. The two guys got acquitted. I got my three grand, and the scumbag probably got a job in the circus as the ugly freak. That’s how it is … insanity.

There is no escape from madness! But what you can do is control it; if you’re in control of it, you can use it to your own benefit.

I remember some years back, when I was about 17 years old, I was in a pub buzzing from the sound of the jukebox, the heat, the noise and the madness. Eyes fascinate me! Faces unknown; strangers. Somewhere in that crowded room, there’s a madman. How lucky they were … it was me. If only they knew, read my mind or picked my thoughts up. I looked just like any other 17-year-old lad — smart, healthy, not bad looking … not ugly. But I always had this strangeness, like a barrier around me. Step inside and violence erupts.

I smashed one bloke straight in the face. His teeth embedded into my fist. Blood spurted out. I nutted his pal. Crunch! I felt his nose snap. I kicked out and punched. I kept moving, but you can’t fight the planet. Something hit the back of my neck; blows rained into my body. Screams, ‘GET THE BASTARD!’ I kept punching into darkness. I felt my entire body floating up. Air hit my face, lungs. Pain erupted. ‘DO THE BASTARD!’ That’s all I remember, then I awoke in hospital. Fuck me, who wants to be a madman? Believe me, it’s a painful journey. For every punch you throw, you take 50 back. Incidents like that are a part of a madman’s life.

So the question is, why did I attack? I’ll tell you, or I’ll try to. It’s a challenge of life. ‘They’ were all a part of my existence. They had to beat me or crawl away, so they beat me. They beat me good, but not good enough, ’cos 30 or so years later, I’m still laughing. You have to waste a mad dog. You can’t afford to play games, and that’s what it is, a fucking game, a gamble, win or lose.

She was in her late 50s, plumpish with a nice face, a beauty in her day without a doubt. I was maybe 16 years old, hot-blooded and dangerous. I got up off my seat. ‘Hey, lady, take my seat.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome, lady,’ I replied.

I bent over to the geezer in the next seat. He had one of those faces, what I call ‘maggot features’. He looked what he was, a fucking rat. Probably married, two kids, mortgage, H/P, debt — a typical fucking maggot. ‘Yeah, you … you fucking maggot.’ He went red. ‘Why didn’t you give the lady your seat then? You filthy fucking maggot. Not good enough for your seat, is she?

Not your type.’ The woman spoke. ‘Please don’t cause a scene.’

‘Sorry, lady,’ I replied.

I got off at the next stop, or I’d have punched the maggot’s face in. Is it madness or just me? Would you put your tongue in my mouth and feel 100 per cent safe? Could I or would I bite it off?

To love somebody, I believe, you become that somebody. You think alike. You start to look alike. It’s more madness. A human’s love can wrap you up in a new seat of madness. She wants the meat, the muscle and the power. Man wants the challenge; after all, we are the predators — women are the bait, the food, the catch.

I read an article in a magazine: 70 per cent of women love it up the arse. What’s all that about? Are they insane or just perverted? Crazy bitches! What sane person wants ramming up the arse? OK, it takes all sorts. Me, I’d prefer a plate of chips, with lots of Daddie’s Sauce and a nice mug of tea, sweet tea.

She was red hot, so hot that she melted on my dick. I was 37; she was 18. I’d just spent 14 years in the can. I mean, imagine it, 14 years without a woman and then … bang! I’ve got an 18-year-old blonde bombshell sitting on my dick, bouncing up and down. ‘Jelly Baby’ I called her. Why not? She was lovely, beautiful! Her body was a dream.

As she bounced up and down, I closed my eyes and thought about going to war with the planet. I wanted to get so into her … disappear inside her, and shine out of her face. Fuck with Jelly Baby and it would be me there to fuck with them.

We got in a lift. I held on to her tight, so fucking tight. Three guys got in, two black and one white. Young punks, probably tooled up, out to mug some old granny or two. I looked at them, stared, my eyes penetrate. I squeezed Jelly Baby close; she felt my pulse, the tension, heart, soul, pain. Something strange happened in that lift. A madness I’ve never had before. I got a hard-on! A fucking big hard-on! I started to smile at the three punks. Fuck me, this was insanity.

They froze … they prayed that lift would soon stop. ‘What’s up, Chas?’ she asked.

‘Nothing, I’m just in love. I can’t stop getting a hard-on. I can’t stop wanting to kill the planet … I’m fucking sick.’

‘You’re dangerous, Charlie … fucking way over the top.’

I had this gun, nice little piece, but I’m really a 12-bore man. I like the feel; I love the noise. But I had this little piece, felt nice, cosy, safe. I used to fire it out of the car window at the street lights. Why? Why not? Why do you always have to have a reason?

We were in this pub together, just sitting there, like any normal couple. I’m not a big drinker; I can’t afford to be, as I like to be in control. ‘Gotta have a piss, back in two minutes.’ I stood in the toilet, had my piss, washed my hands and then it started — my face, eyes, the reflection of me at the mirror. I felt this strangeness creep all over me. Like I wasn’t there, like I was back in a concrete coffin — like my Jelly Baby didn’t exist.

I’d experienced this before when my mum and dad picked me up from prison. We stopped by a garage, I went for a piss and ended up pulling the hand drier off the wall ’cos I felt the same way as I did back in the hell cell!

A guy walked in … I clocked him. He would have run out screaming if he only knew! If only. I walked out breathing hot air, a rush of madness, screams in my head. Gotta get to the Jelly Baby. I sat down in silence. I held on to her. Jelly Baby asked, ‘What’s up?’

I held on. I whispered, ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah … what’s up, Chas?’ She looked into my face, she knew. ‘You OK?’

Fucking hell, I was ill; prison had destroyed me. I wanted to crawl inside Jelly Baby’s snatch. Crawl right inside her and be safe. Nobody would ever find me, warm, no problems. But her snatch wasn’t big enough.

Nothing ever lasts. I used to lick her body, like a toffee apple. I used to blow into her hair, watch it fluff up. I used to love waking up and smelling her next to me. The sweet smell of body — fresh, only an 18-year-old has that smell. Pure sex. ‘Christ, Charlie, you’ve got another hard-on.’

‘I can’t help it, Jelly Baby; I can’t fucking help it, babe.’

About the same time, Kelly Anne Cook was on the scene, one crazy bitch, a piss-head, but she had this way about her. She took me to this pub. I ended up taking a guy outside and smashing his face in. I left him lying in a flowerbed. ‘Come on, Kelly Anne, time to go.’ I was blowing guts away, just for looking at me.

One night, in Kelly’s flat, it happened … I had a breakdown! I don’t really know how or why, but I lost it. Totally. She was her usual self … pissed. I don’t like to see drunks in my face; their breath stinks and they talk shit. ‘Fuck off to bed, get out of my face.’ I hear her being sick. It reminds me of the asylum.

I turned on a record … loud! She came staggering in. ‘Fuck off, Kelly Anne, go to bed.’ She fell on the sofa like a bag of shit, so I left the room, ran the bath, lay in it, soaking, thinking. Time for madness!

A guy called Steven Oaks was in the next block of flats. He lived 12 floors up. A fucking rat. I’d been watching him for days. I’d done a bit of homework on him. He was taking liberties on the estate. Time I paid him a visit! So I dried off, got dressed and off I went. I started to climb the outside, from balcony to balcony. I do love a climb. I took the carving knife with me for company. I got up to the ninth balcony when some silly tart clocked me and started to scream. Silly bitch, so dramatic, who needs it?

I had a choice — carry on or go back. The Old Bill would be on the scene in 15 minutes. Do I need it? Nah. So I made it back to Kelly Anne’s. I sat there watching her snore off her booze binge. Crazy … days later the ‘pigs’ burst in on me. The whole police force knew it was me, but it never mattered, as they had me on a jewellery raid. I was back in, back where I belonged. I was dangerous at this time — unreal and full of madness.

I knew the pigs wanted me badly. They fear me. Fear is paramount. They’re shit fucking scared of me. They came tooled up, a dozen, with chains and coshes. ‘Bruise the beast!’ ‘Get too close and you’ll lose your throat; watch his teeth.’ ‘Don’t step into darkness alone! Take him out.’ I’m immune to madness, but I want to love before I’m killed. I need to melt into a body of tenderness.

Those weeks I was free, I knew the door would crash in on me. I knew the madness would return. It never left me. I left prison, but prison never left me. I stank of it; everyone could smell the fear. The pain never goes. Crash — they’re back in to wrap me up. They carry me away to the padded room. Would you believe it, I’ve still got a hard-on. Madness has no cure … it’s for ever.

I had gone into my local pub. Fred was the local villain, he was double my age, and had done bird for armed robbery; he was feared and respected in the town. He had his own table and chair in this pub. All the local criminals zoomed around him, like he was some sort of king.

He called me over. I felt 10ft tall. ‘Mickey,’ he said, ‘sit down.’ He called over for a drink for me. ‘I’ve been hearing things about you. Good things. But it’s time you went up the ladder a bit. How do you fancy a bit of serious work?’ He had so much gold in his mouth that when he smiled he looked like a brass doorknob. I jumped at the chance of making a few extra quid, so it was all set up for me.

I was to grab a bag on its way to the night safe outside a bank. The driver takes off, drops me off at a safe house and bingo. A description of the guy I was to grab the bag off was given; the time and the place was all set; it would be as simple as eating an apple pie. This was my first ever bit of serious work, and from this I knew I could only get better and richer. It was a Saturday, about 6.20pm; we were waiting. I spotted him. The car started up. I got out. CRASH! I almost hit him through a shop window. I grabbed the bag and away … simple!

By the time I landed at the safe house, I was close to shooting my load. Excitement and happiness washed over me; I was like a dog with two tails. I was so high. A buzz I’ve never experienced. I was to celebrate that night with the boss. I’d bring him the cut, and the driver and I’d be well sorted. He told me the amount we’d get paid should be about three to five grand. The takings in the bag would be about 50 grand. So it was big bucks. Awesome! I was 18 years old and about to be rich!

I opened the bag and emptied it on the bed — roast beef sandwiches, a cake and a flask of coffee! I’d swiped some guy’s lunch bag! To say I was gutted is an understatement. I fucking cried! But I will say, the roast beef had mustard on it and I enjoyed it. The biggest thing was walking in the pub to tell the boss. He took it well. He laughed and I learned from it. That’s how crime is. Up and down. Win some, lose some. I actually gained from it, as I became a better criminal, more alert and more serious.

But looking back, it’s all insanity. Maybe that incident was really an omen. Was I really being told, ‘Give it up, Micky, ’cos you can’t ever win. You’ll lose, one day you’ll lose big time …’ I don’t know the answer, but I’d know every roast beef sandwich since has made me smile. Oh, and the geezer I hit, I often wonder how he must have felt. I bet he thought, Christ! I’m living in a right tough area. I got mugged for my lunch bag! There’s a lot of humour in madness. You can’t help but smile.

The second bit of work I did for the boss went like clockwork. A nice few bob. Shame I had to crack the guy on the skull … silly man wouldn’t let go of the bag. Oh, well, that’s life. The only real heroes are dead or seriously injured.

In the system, I was on one drug that gave me a constant hard-on, throbbing all day and night, pointing out of my pyjamas — kinda hurts. The drugs fuck your system up. Constipation, vision, shakes, dries your sperm up, muscular spasms, restlessness, senility, rots your organs …

Fuck me, why can’t somebody just love me? Why do I have to do this shit? I’m a victim, I’m a beast and I’m no longer a human. Now see why I destroy it all, now see why I’m what I am? I’ve fought these slags for nigh on 30 years.

Imagine what my brains are like. It was in the 1970s the prison wanted to give me a scan, but it was the POA (Prison Officers Association) who stopped it, saying I was too unpredictable to take out to hospital. In those days, only specialised hospitals had the machines to carry out brain scans. I was refused, even when the doctor wanted me to have one. At Parkhurst, they gave me an EEG (Electroencephalogram) which records electrical activity in the brain to pinpoint areas of sensory projection, the localisation of tumours or of epileptic foci, and so on. The doctor told me that I really needed a CT (Computed Tomography Imaging) and CAT (Computed Axial Tomography) scan. Again, the POA said, ‘No way. He’s too violent and unpredictable to take out to any hospital for a scan.’ The scan machine cost a fortune, and they actually made the authorities afraid in case I’d smashed it up. So I’ve never had one.

To date, a number of medical experts believe I suffer from a form of epilepsy. What do I feel about it? Well, I believe I’ve some form of low-grade brain damage and I always have done. I can’t be normal to have lived like I have, can I? What makes me explode? Why do I lose it? Simple — it’s a brain dysfunction — damage. Maybe a growth, a tumour or a scar. A scan could show this up and prove if I did have damage. Now what would the authorities say to that? Then where would that put the system? I’d say a few million pounds out of pocket, and my release from prison because they refused me the scan in the ’70s at Parkhurst.

Epilepsy affects 1–3 per cent of the world’s population. It is a medical brain disorder causing a tendency to develop fits or seizures. It affects men more than women.

I should add, I’m not as bad now, but I still get serious pains in my head. I won’t take medication, neither do I talk to doctors, as I don’t respect them or trust them. Why should I? How can I? Those hypocrites! Most are afraid to go against the system.

When I was at Whitemoor Prison on my hunger strike, because they’d taken my art materials off me, the doctor allowed the block screw to torture me. I was on a 40-day hunger strike and, by law, a man on a hunger strike should be in the hospital under observation. I mean, if it’s good enough for that monster Brady, what’s wrong with second-class me being hospitalised? But I was kept in the block! The doctor was frightened of going against the system, and losing his lovely big fucking fat pension!

After ten days on hunger strike, you are automatically moved into the hospital. He couldn’t do it, as he feared the POA. So again the system law and the medical board lost. But how? With me it happens time and time again; it will always happen as they put security before health. If I fall sick, I die, it’s as simple as that; it will be too late to treat me, as security will always come first.

If I do have brain damage and I later die, I’d like it to be known at my cremation that the system killed me by refusing a brain scan. Whilst I’m alive, they will always get away with atrocities. It will only be after my death the full truth will appear. I’m living a death as it is.

Take outside — freedom. What is it? What does it mean to a madman? We go years through a lifetime with no love, no sex, no nice food and no nice clothes. So when it comes, we choke on it! The kindness strangles us; we can’t cope, so we make pigs of ourselves.

I remember sex. Without blowing my own trumpet, I was a nympho! I could not get enough. I was so happy; I was like a kid in a sweet factory. A ten-hour session is just the start. I’d lay there looking at her body, smelling it, licking it, like a lion with a piece of meat, wondering about the organs inside, how it worked, why it worked. I used to enjoy the beat of her heart. I could put her heart in my mouth and let it pump away. I’d love to go into her body, and just swim around her veins. I’d just look into her eyes and drown myself.

I was totally obsessed with another body so close to me. I wanted to watch her pee. Why? Why not? So I could study her, check her cunt and see if her pee was clear or misty. Now I know somebody is gonna say, ‘Hey, this Bronson geezer is a right kinky cunt,’ but I would argue it to be more a fascination. I don’t want to be pissed on like those dirty bastards!

I feared she may die and I had to protect her. I’d dress her and slip her panties on her like it was my body. I’d feed her. When we walked out, I’d hold on to her, hug her, breathe on her and look at her. I’d become her and I began to smell like her and even my dick smelled of her. We once had a bath together, she got horny; we did the biz in the bath. I thought, fuck me, what a way to die. Let’s drown on the job!

I believe a sexual relationship is based on fear. She wonders, is he as mad as he appears and what’s he thinking? Why does he look at me that way? Why did he do that? He’s a pervo. Can I spend the rest of my life with him? Where does he go when he leaves? Is he a bisexual? Why does he lick my face? Why does he scream in his sleep? Will he ever kill me?

He thinks, has she ever had it up the arse? Why does she get so wet? Is she a tart? Will she cross me? Is it my money? Does she love me? Is my dick too small for her? Was she looking at that guy?

A relationship is basically insanity. A closeness like sex is awesome; the very thought of having seven inches of human muscle pumping away inside another body is frightening … breathing, panting, sweating, scratching, biting and screaming — is it not madness?

Have you seen a woman orgasm? Is it not insane? Eyes bulge, mouth drips, teeth, spit, sweating; it’s terrifying, but it’s wonderful, it’s a bit scary. Then you sleep, cuddle, hug. It’s crazy. Madness at its best! So I say, enjoy life, get your dick sucked plenty. Get your pussy stroked plenty, live in madness, enjoy madness. Fuck away the blues. Keep on fucking ’til the angels come. ’Cos the angels will come, sure as there’s a hole in your arse. Madness is beautiful.

I believe man is madder than woman. Why? We are more complicated! Think about a man — have you women ever thought what it’s like with three pound of meat and flesh hanging from your body. I believe women are jealous of men, as we can stand erect. We are stronger and faster, but alas we have the weaker minds. I believe women are mentally strong. Too smart.

I can talk nicely and comfortably one to one, but in a crowd I sweat. I get urges to attack. I get bouts of madness. Maybe in time I’ll get myself a little cottage or an old lighthouse, and live alone with some pets. I said I would never remarry or live with another human, but along came the beautiful Saira … hit me like a whirlwind. Thanks to an e-mail sent to my fan club, she found out where I was and now she’s my wife.

Life is insanity, treachery, evil and falseness beyond belief. Take my ex-girlfriend, Joyce Connor. She got released from a six-year sentence, having served four years. It was tough for her, I mean double tough, ’cos she’s from Canada. I wrote to her for four years; we helped each other through, we laughed and cried together; our pain and misery were as one. We rose above adversity. Her big day came — freedom. My pal, Dave Courtney, picked her up from the station in a limo. She had a big party bash, organised by my great pal Joe Pyle, waiting for her at the Million Hairs club in London — champagne, grub, legless! James ‘Le Prince’ Nicholson organised photos in the press and in the media for her. That was on the Friday. Months in advance we had planned a phone call for 2.00pm on the following Sunday.

I was excited. I rang … she wasn’t in. I put the phone down, all choked up. I felt the madness creep into my head. I looked at my reflection. Shall I rip the phone off the wall? Shall I rip a hole in this hell? I controlled it. The madness passed. Ten fucking days later I got a letter off her. I sent it back. It’s over!

Shit! Who needs it? Why? How? For four years we were one! We’d never met, but her letters were magic. Then she does that. That’s madness. But I won’t slag her, as she’s let herself down, not me.

So the insanity goes on winning. Romance was in the air. She was a sweet girl who got six years over madness. She had Class ‘A’ drugs on her when she was caught flying into the UK. Good luck, Joyce. I mean it. I loved you to bits for four years; it could have been 40 years if you were at the phone when you were supposed to be. I can’t accept your excuses; that call to me was precious. It depressed me, hurt me. Thanks. I really mean that because otherwise I wouldn’t have met my beautiful Saira. I mean, who wants an ex-druggie for a wife when you can have an angel?

I’ll give you a fact. To all those people scared of cockroaches, do you want to know how to stop them coming in?

Every creature is afraid of something. Cockroaches fear slugs and snails; don’t know why, but they do. This is what you do. Get a nice big fat slug or snail and rub it up and down the floor at the bottom of the door on the area where you think the cockroaches come in. It’s the slime that keeps them away! A cockroach won’t pass over that slime; you’ll be cockroach free!

Now what relevance has that to insanity? Just imagine you could do that with sane people. You spot the madness and, before it gets in, you block it out. One day that will happen with gene therapy. People will be able to say, ‘Hey, I don’t want my kid suffering like Bronson did, cut the bad genes out.’

A doctor in Parkhurst, Dr Cooper, once told me that, when I lose the plot, I am demonic. Now I’m gonna tell you a story about Dr Cooper. It was, as I’ve already explained, back in 1978, when Dr Cooper, along with two other doctors, certified me mad. This incident I’m about to tell you occurred on C-Unit in Parkhurst, 1976.

I walked out of my cell and I felt like some action. It was one of those days that needed livening up. I stood outside my cell door and leaned on the rail and watched the cons come out of their cells.

There were never more than ten on C-Unit; we all had our problems or we wouldn’t have been in there. Some had massive problems. I was one of the lucky ones, ’cos I was the only one serving a fixed sentence — the rest were lifers. I used to drift into bouts of dreamlike states, wondering what it’s like not to have a relevant date for release. The very thought used to send a cold shiver through my body.

I’d watch them slip out; I’d watch them walk up to the hot water boiler to make tea. I’m a born analyser, see. I love to watch life in action. Ron Kray was walking out of the shower, and Ron loved a bit of action himself.

‘Hey, Ron,’ I shouted, ‘look at this.’ He looked as I somersaulted over the rail and landed feet away from a screw. ‘Could have been your head that, screw.’ He was white with fear, as I’d just jumped 12ft from a metal walkway. When I landed it took him by surprise.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, holding his ticker, ‘Don’t do that.’

I tapped him on the head. ‘No problem.’ Ron loved stuff like that; it used to make his day.

That incident got me a call up by Dr Cooper. Dr Cooper asked, ‘Why did you do that?’

‘What?’

‘Jump from the landing and frighten the officer.’

‘Hey, what if I broke my legs or neck? Would you then be worried about a fat lazy screw?’

‘It would have been your own fault. Now why do you do such strange things?’

‘Look, Doc,’ I said, ‘I’m a man of many moods, but I’m like a bird in a cage; I hate it. I get fed up, long to be free, to fly. All this jail is no good to me. I do those things solely for my own sanity.’

‘But you can’t continue to do them.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not normal.’

‘What is fucking normal in jail?’

‘Behaviour.’

‘Then I’m abnormal,’ I replied.

OK, I wouldn’t do such stunts now, but back then it was just a mad laugh.

Now let me tell you my opinion. I believe Dr Cooper actually likes me, and he’s a little bit jealous of me. He probably dreams of doing some of my stunts. If he had attempted that jump, he would have smashed his ankles or even misjudged it and landed on the screw’s head. I wasn’t on that unit long, but the short spell I had, I loved it with the Kray twins. It taught me a lot.

I had a few work-outs with Reg in the gym. He was one hell of a skipper, and to see him on the bag was a treat — lovely mover with tremendous punching power. But the immortal words of Ronnie just blew me away: ‘You’re bloody mad, you are.’ That, coming from Ron Kray, was a compliment.

Ron Kray was moved to Broadmoor in 1979 from Parkhurst, having been diagnosed a paranoid schizoid. He was prescribed drugs such as Dipitec, Medicate, Stelative and so on. It seemed to keep him stable and calm. For me, it had the opposite effect, making me depressed and clumsy and unhealthy. But Ron made the best out of a bad set-up and he lived in Broadmoor like the king of the castle. He made it work for him and around him. He had a nice room with a TV, carpets, curtains and a bedspread. Ron was Ron; he used the place to his advantage. Nice visits, good food, nice clothes; he even married twice, first to Elaine Miller and then to Kate Kray.

Kate brought a lot of sunshine to Ron; she made him laugh. I’d say she helped Ron over some bad times. There’s a lot of good in Kate; a good heart, a good soul and, no, she never married Ron for money. Kate had her own money. Kate married Ron because she idolised him; she felt for him, so Ron plodded on, and did his time peacefully ’til he died.

Ron used to watch me throw the roof slates off; he loved it. Ron loved a rebel; he thrived on it. His mum, Violet, used to leave me meat pies in a box when she visited Ron. Charlie, Ron’s brother, used to pop in some magazines for me. The Krays were a special breed — salt of the earth! Ron was mad, yes, I won’t deny it, but he lived by morals. Ron drew a line; if you stepped over it you’d get fucking hurt. That was Ron, a madman who had lots of self-respect and greatness! I loved him like a father. Ron once said to me, ‘Charlie, madness is a gift of life.’