Prisons are the most shaming of all our public institutions. This country, the United Kingdom, imprisons more of its people than virtually any other country in Western Europe in conditions that are frequently an affront to civilised values, and at great cost to the taxpayer. Yet the vast majority of our prisoners don’t present a serious threat to life or limb. Their crimes are such that they can be more humanely, economically and effectively dealt with in the community.

There would seem to be those who are highly enthusiastic when it comes to imprisonment, which isn’t surprising. How else are these people to get their rocks off at night? They’ve got to have some nice thoughts in their head to wank over … cunts!

Prison has a poor track record. I dare any one of those in power to show the relationship between a society’s rate of incarceration and its rate of crime. Prison keeps some offenders off the streets, but it definitely doesn’t deter the majority of offenders who go on to become recidivists; neither does it reform.

I ask you a question — for how long have they been locking people up in prisons? Thousands of years! So how do you evaluate the effectiveness of prison, which has been repeatedly condemned as a blunt instrument of torture, yet has been continuously used by those you class to be intelligent? Let me tell you this. One day, prison will be outlawed and laughed at as much as the slave ships of the past that became obsolete! Eventually, prison will only exist for the most dangerous of humans, mark my words!

Prisoners do not remain in prison for ever. Some will be living right next door to you; some will be your employers and employees and some will even be in positions of power. Only a tiny handful of the 70,000 behind bars will never be released. Those who are released should be encouraged to lead law-abiding lives and be fully integrated back into the community. If they, cons, are ‘damaged’ or disillusioned by their detention, then how easy will it be to integrate them back into society without any trouble?

Prison is the easy way out for the government of the day. Look at what’s happened under Labour rule. The prison numbers rapidly increased; this reflects the fear of crime. ‘Lock the fuckers up, that’ll stop the crime’ mentality is not always the most appropriate answer to how punishment should be dished out or served up. But when prison is the only option, then we must ensure that it is a just and effective punishment and that prisoners are encouraged and helped in their efforts not to return. Prison should not be used as camouflage for secret punishment beatings or mistreatment of its inmates like it currently is, and has been in the UK for the last few hundred or so years.

I first hit jail in 1969, on remand. It was Risley. So I have experience of prison life; some would say I’m institutionalised. But I’m not. Now let me explain why and how prisons today are full of shit. It’s simple — they’re run by shit.

Years ago prison officers were responsible, smart people. They had morals. Ninety nine per cent were ex-Forces, so they had seen discipline. You could see your reflection in their boots and their shirts were crisp from being starched.

Screws today are a different breed; three-quarters of them are spineless prats, never done fuck all and never will do fuck all. They’re not even has-beens; they’re complete wasters, and their qualifications are fucking nil. But they still become screws in spite of this. If you don’t believe me, ask some of the older screws.

Some screws chew gum, wear earrings, have ponytails and they don’t respect themselves. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not painting them all with the same brush. But it’s a fact; many are useless! We now have a large percentage of female screws. Now let’s be honest, why do women want to work in a man’s jail? We are men and only human. We go years without sex. Do we need the smell of fanny in our faces? Isn’t it a tease?

Your door opens, the smell of sweetness, scent, a pretty face and lips enter; is it fucking normal? At times, I wake up with a big erection. I get out of bed to piss and a screw may look through my door flap … or I’m having a shit … is it normal? It’s fucking insanity.

Governors — 90 per cent of them are not like the governors of old, which is only natural with this accelerated promotion thing they’ve got in place these days. They’re weak and they’re afraid to make decisions without first securing the consent of Prison Service headquarters. They have no backbone. Many are straight out of college. They have no idea about how to treat humans; we’re just a number and a photo in a book to them, we’ve no characters or personalities and no emotions or feelings. We’re a one-dimensional picture. They have no idea about life. In fact, those pricks cause a lot of today’s problems in jails, as there’s no real authority.

Old governors had character, guts, were fearless and they were a smart bunch of bastards. We hated them but we admired their fairness. A governor has got to have a heart. He or she can be the meanest fucker on the earth, but a good governor will make a decision and stick to it — go down with the ship. Nowadays, they’re rats on a sunken ship.

They say something on a Monday, and change it on a Tuesday. Prison used to be a regime with a routine. Everybody knew where they stood. The Prison Chief was the man who ran the jail. He was always a smart man, immaculately dressed and with the silver crown polished on his peaked hat. He would creep around the jail and catch the screws that were not liked.

Nowadays there are no Chiefs, they’ve been done away with. The Senior Officers and Principal Officers were once men of leadership. If you went to them with a problem, then you would get an answer and no passing the buck. Everything was routine, all timed. Nowadays, there are no bells. A prison without a bell is like having a car with no brakes.

The days of respect are over. Fat, useless, scruffy, gutless screws are the norm. In the old days you got bashed up and it was over. You either went back at them or you got on with it. Now they torture you. Not just with a kicking, but also mentally. They use psychology on us.

Prison was porridge for six days a week and cornflakes on a Sunday. Now we get porridge twice a week, if we’re lucky. It’s all Sugar Puffs now and soggy Rice Crispies.

Years ago we had piss pots, and we could press a bell to slop out and have a shit in a toilet. Now we have toilets in our cells. We live in a fucking toilet. It’s not for our benefit! It’s for the screws, ’cos now they don’t have to unlock us so much. Screws of today are a disgrace and a joke. How can it all be justified? Just look at the slobs leaving the jail after their shifts — dirty shirts, unpolished shoes, crinkled trousers, long hair, earrings, gum chewing, fags in their mouth and tattooed hands with lots of rings. These are prison officers?

They’re meant to teach us how to live, and these people have one of the highest rates of divorce, alcoholism, bullying and debt. It’s a joke.

Prison of today — it’s divide and conquer. Why put us into groups? Basic, Standard and Enhanced. It causes friction; cons fight cons. That’s the idea of it, ’cos as long as we are fighting each other then the screws love it.

The Basic regime (which I’m on) gets fuck all; bad visits and no privileges, whilst the Enhanced regime gets it all. It’s like at school … prefects!

On the Basic prison regime, screws despise me and governors hate me. Doctors fear me, while cons dream of doing what I do. ’Cos at the end of the day, 90 per cent of cons are ‘yes’ men, strutting around the jails in their nice tracksuits, and they go on their visits acting the big one. But the screws are laughing at you all. If you were all on the Basic regime, we could beat the whole system and all would be treated decently.

The Strangeways riot was for everyone. These men lost years to better prisons. They suffered terrible brutality. They spent years in solitary. And all for what? ’Cos prisons today, years later, are worse. Me? I’m probably best off in a cage away from the scruffy fat screws and dykes trying to be men. I’m better off away from the drug mug cons and spineless governors. I’m best away from the whole shovel of shit.

Some will say, ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’ Well, I’ll tell you who I am; I’m the guy who tore off eight prison roofs. I’m the guy who’s had eleven hostages. I’m the guy who’s spent 24 years in solitary. I’m the guy who’s fought for you lot. I’m the guy who’s attempted to fight the bully screws. That’s who I fucking am. I’m nearly 50 years old and I don’t fuck with drugs. I don’t poke arseholes and I don’t sniff glue. I don’t mug old women and I don’t bully people and I don’t strut around jails flexing my biceps.

Headquarters want me in a box, ’cos they’re like that — they’ve no backbone; no guts and are too afraid to give an impartial decision. Let me tell you guys and girls, few cons ever get to see me, but all seem to know me. Lots like to slag me, condemn me. But why don’t you turn your anger on the shits who abuse your rights?

A young man of 22 came into prison. Six months for a poxy driving offence; he’s a worker. Never been in jail before, so it’s all hell to him. The noise, the arrogance of the screws, the hate, the violence and the homosexuality are too much for him, he can’t believe it. He’s doubled up in a cell with a drug addict. Soon he’s swallowing pills! Smoking dope! Snorting coke! The drug mug gets a needle, they inject. That young man of 22 is now hooked up big time! His life is now over.

He goes out evil; he steals and mugs to get money to buy his daily drugs requirement. He comes back into jail. He gets Hepatitis B or AIDS. He sucks a cock for a snort; he takes a cock for two snorts. He sells his soul. The system created this monster; is that not insanity? If not, what is it? And it’s happening every day in the jails of the UK. Prison actually breeds these lost souls.

Category ‘A’ security status is another madness; we are a separate breed of convict — assessed as high-risk, a danger to the public. We are moved in high-security conditions. Even here in jail, escorts move us about. They have a book with our photograph in. All movements are timed and signed in. Some of us get to be categorised; others never do. I am one of those guys who stays on category ‘AA’. I’ve been released while on it and it’s madness. How can it be right? There is no rehabilitation for us Category ‘A’ or ‘AA’, so how can we change or alter our ways?

HMP Belmarsh in the early and middle 1990s housed a lot of IRA men. One you might remember was that big 20st one caught in London; armed pigs got him at a bus stop. The police told him to put the parcel down and get on his knees and crawl away. There he was, all 20st of him, crawling all the way to a 20-year sentence, but that same guy lost 6st in about three months. The time he spent in Belmarsh he used it to get fit. I was right impressed with him; I told him, ‘You’ve got a lot of determination.’

Then they nicked those Warrington bombers. They were all coming in. One had a rumble with the screws so all the screws did was bend him up and take him to the box. OK, he might have got a slap, but would you believe he was crying … fucking crying! I told the cunt, ‘Behave, grow up, get used to it because it’s a long, hard road ahead.’

It was when Del Croxon died in Belmarsh, the IRA upset me. Del just died in his cell; a great guy, a big strong fucker who could bench press 500lb easy. The day of Del’s funeral service, that same night they were playing Irish rebel songs. It fucking upset me! A big screw was on nights. Now this screw was a diamond, so I wrote a note out and gave it to him. I said, ‘Give this to the Irish lads.’

He said, ‘I will, but I’m not supposed to.’

The music stopped; I was very relieved over it, and I didn’t need a war.

There was a big, fat, ugly screw in Belmarsh said I terrified him and he was in fear of being taken hostage. It was pathetic to hear all this and read it in the press; the screws and cons were all disgusted. This prick was 6ft 4in, 18st and about 40 years old! That’s how it is in prison — mad!

It was 24 June 1993. I arrived in the special unit with six screws in the van with me; I had the body belt on — I go nowhere without it these days. In reception was a big mob waiting for me. I recognised the Principal Officer from way back up in Armley. He was a handful in the 1970s! We had words years back; I always found him fair, although he jumped me when I arrived at Armley years ago. But I don’t harbour a grudge; I was a young nutcase in those days, so I probably was half to blame.

This PO told me the second I walked into Belmarsh that I was going in the block. The unit I went on is part of the special Cat ‘A’ wings. There were 48 Cat ‘A’ inmates, mostly IRA terrorists, drug barons, killers, bank robbers, all danger men in the eyes of the law. They could watch TV, play football, tennis, association and pool — only I couldn’t.

My pal, Peter Pesito, was allowed to see me in the block. Pete’s a great mate. Big Ronnie Johnson was also there; a gentleman. I always give it time before I kick off. The unit governor was a little fat rat whom nobody liked. I fell out with him, as he tried it on; he lied. This was in the first week; we had words.

He had no idea how to treat long-termers so I fucked him off. I can’t respect a sack of shit. So there I was in Belmarsh unit — alone. The first week went by feeling each other out; the second week was the easiest bit of porridge I’ve ever done, but I had one bad day when the sack of shit upset me, so I started to smash my cell door down but, fortunately, nothing came of it. They all knew who’d upset me! The block screws, I can only respect them, they treated me fairly.

I got a bit of gym, plenty of exercise and extra food. One particular screw, Mick Reagan, was one of the best screws I’ve come across; he was only in his late 20s, but a solid guy who does not stab in the back. He tells it to your face and if all screws conducted themselves like him then prison would be a better world.

He and several others went out of their way to make my stay comfortable. Mick slung the 12lb medicine ball at me and another one, Mark, helped me out in the gym. They even got me a tennis net to play tennis in the cage. Basically, I was happy. They gave me a lot of trust; bear in mind, I am Cat ‘AA’. I’ve normally got six screws all over me, watching.

Right outside my cell was an electronic camera. This unit, even today, is the most up-to-date secure unit in Britain. Some doors even screws cannot open, as they’re electronic. Cameras zoom in to all the doors; it’s much like something out of a science fiction film. Security is the number-one priority — cons and screws alike, we’re all being monitored! My only problem was not being allowed to go on the wings with the other Cat ‘A’s, but there was one inmate up there whom I had been told to stay clear of if I came up; a Rastafarian, a filthy rapist who was actually serving life and had come down from Wakefield Jail for accumulated visits. He was a fucking disgrace to our human race.

Yeah, I was getting back to sanity. I felt good there. I ate well, trained hard and slept peacefully; it was only weeks away until one of my famous trials. Then days later, on my twenty-eighth day there, Ben, a senior officer, came into the block with other screws. I knew by their expressions it was time to go. ‘OK, Charlie, you’re away!’ I was gutted, fed up, depressed. Why move me again? It was the Home Office playing games and it was unjust. I stripped off and they put me in the body belt and that’s how I left Belmarsh — naked and trussed up like a Christmas turkey.

A lot of the screws said it was a wrong decision and they were genuinely concerned. Two in particular shouted to me as I got in the van, ‘Behave, Charlie, good luck.’ Obviously, it’s not their doing; they can only do as they are told. As the van drove out of Belmarsh, I felt betrayed, even more so to begin a 200-mile trek. It’s no fun being tied up and travelling to destinations that you don’t need! But nothing ever lasts, does it?

HMP Bristol had a new gate lodge when I arrived on 22 July 1993. It was four years earlier that I last hit this jail. Now I was arriving all trussed up and naked from Long Lartin and, exactly the same as the last time I arrived at this prison, I went into the strong box!

This box has three doors to get in to it; it’s the old-type box, ‘empty’ except for a mattress, stone-cold floor, bad lighting and air vents blocked up with 100 years of shit. Armies of cockroaches, mice, damp and crap food, but what’s new, it’s all I know — I’m the ultimate survivor.

A Board of Visitors member, Mr Wicks, came in to see me. I explained the position to him — ‘I am not leaving this box ’til the van comes; I will not wear clothes; I will not slop out or wash or shave; I will not see anybody, including my solicitor.’ There I was, six weeks away from my trial, I’m 220 miles away, my mind is full of bad thoughts; I’m actually feeling dangerous!

My sights were set. I remained boxed up in the concrete coffin. A doctor called Brown, an old boy, kept coming to see me — it’s no secret I despise the fuckers, so I shouted at him every day, ‘I want some chocolate; fuck off if you ain’t got me none.’ Obviously, no prison doctor gives cons chocolates, it’s unheard of, and then, lo and behold, he comes in with a big bar of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut for me. I nearly fucking fell over. It goes to show not all of them are vets! The governor, doctors and Board of Visitors came to see me twice every day.

On the fourth or fifth day, I started to hallucinate and felt a dry mouth. I’m convinced I had been spiked. The hallucination consisted of cracks moving in the wall. A mark moving on the wall, stains, maybe it was stress or my eyes were fucked, as I had not been washing at all and I was stinking.

On the sixth day, I got a cramp in my gut, a bad pain. I was sick and had the shits real bad. The box was now stinking, as I was marking the days off on the wall with my shit! I shit and shit; my pot was being taken out and slopped out for me, as I would not come out. It’s really something to watch, six screws coming into the box to bring my food and slop my pot out.

Messages were coming to me from my solicitor, but I could not phone as they refused to bring in an extension line. I had nothing — no books, no radio and no bed. This was the old days all over again — real porridge. My thoughts were all ‘bad’; every time they came in either to slop my pot out or bring food in, I thought of taking a hostage, but these screws in Bristol were not to blame. The odds of grabbing a governor in a box are almost nil. But these type of thoughts I have to fight, otherwise it’s a never-ending pain.

My mail, surprisingly, was being redirected from Belmarsh. I got letters from my brother Mark who was out in Italy. I racked my brains. ‘Why have they done this to me?’ My only thought was Linda Calvey’s appeal being heard at the time. (Calvey had been dubbed ‘the Black Widow’, but I renamed her ‘the Black Rose’.) But why should that get me moved 200 miles away?

The fact is, whatever reason they gave me was unacceptable; it was a liberty, and I was dug in. I was not leaving this box! Fuck Bristol, fuck the system and fuck my trial. Until the van comes, I’m in my coffin!

I started to sleep by day and walk up and down at night with a few press-ups every once in a while. But with no water, soap or towel I couldn’t let myself go, as a wash is essential after a work-out. I sang a lot, loud, Christmas carols and Tom Jones numbers. I find singing releases tension, but my shits never helped. At one point, I had a pot full of shit and I still needed another one. It must have been food poisoning as I was sick as well; I started shitting on the floor. That box stank like a cattle shed. Strange how you get used to it. Survival.

Yes, it’s crazy how a man’s pride can take him to the limits! It did my neck no favours sleeping on the floor; I must be getting old. On 30 July they came in with smiles. ‘You’re away, Charlie.’ That was a breath of fresh air well needed, I can tell you. I refused clothes! They strapped me up in the body belt and off we went. As we got to the van, which was parked outside the block, there were dogs, screws and even a governor, all watching. I stopped and gulped in some of that beautiful air; it was like food!

People just do not realise how lucky they really are. Believe me, when I say this, I truly love the world. To see flowers animals, trees and even the sky is heaven. Anyway, I felt good. Obviously, I must have looked a mess; nine days of not washing, no shaving and no clothes. Two screws jumped in the front, four in the back and the madman — off we shot.

HMP Brixton was home to me in 1988, I was on D-Unit, maximum secure. I was held there in a cage a cell with two doors; a barred iron door that you could put your arms through, and the outer door was a solid steel door. In the daytime, they left my outer door open so I could see the day-to-day life on the unit. Cons used to come to see me, have a chat or play chess — the unit held Cat ‘A’ remand prisoners.

On the unit at the time was Valerio Viccei, the mastermind of the £60m Knightsbridge Safety Deposit Box Robbery. Valerio was eventually shot dead in a supposed bank raid in Italy, which is hard to believe. Some say he was riddled with eight bullets fired from an automatic as a reprisal attack. All will come out though, be sure of that. I felt at home with the likes of Charlie McGhee, Ronnie Easterbrook, Mickey Reilly and Tommy Hole.

There were terrorists, IRA, a Mafia drugs baron and even a fucking spy … and yours truly. I was held in the cage owing to my unpredictability; those cunts are considered dangerous to civilian society, whereas I am considered dangerous to prison society.

Liam McOttor was on remand for IRA activities; his codefendant was Paddy ‘Fatso’ McLaughlin — two fair guys! I don’t like what they do outside, never have and never will, but they acted like men inside, with respect. Obviously, if they had bombed my manor up, or blew my people’s legs off, it would have been war! In fact, they were only nicked because of a gun find. Every day Liam would come to my cage to have a chat, which I looked forward to, as I did with all the lads’ chats.

Two days passed and he didn’t come, so I thought, Funny! Dennis Wheeler was a drug-smuggler (20 tons of cannabis); he used to play chess with me through my bars, as did Valerio. I said to them, ‘That IRA cunt is blanking me!’ Like I’m some sort of prick.

Another day went by, and another. I stopped sleeping. I got ill. I developed a violent mood; all night long I’d pace my cell like a mad tiger. He’s fucking blanking me … he comes over here, kills my people, blows legs off and now he thinks he’s better than me! I gave him friendship, he gives me disrespect!

The screw let me out at 7.00pm to get my supper, which was a bun and cup of ‘Rosy Lee’; it was in a big steel bucket, red hot. I picked the bucket up to pour myself a pint mug when out of the corner of my eye McOttor was coming out of an office. Cunt! I rushed him and slung the tea bucket all over him. Then I let him have the bucket. The screws jumped me and slung me back in the cage.

Later, Valerio and some of the lads came to see me. ‘What’s up?’

I told them.

Then I’m told, ‘Chas, the reason he wouldn’t come to see you was because he was on trial all week … he wasn’t here!’

I shouted, ‘Paddy, come to see me!’ I said to Paddy, ‘Look, tell Liam I want to see him.’

‘He won’t come,’ said Paddy.

‘He has to come,’ I said.

‘Why?’ Paddy asked.

‘’Cos I want him to chin me or cut me through the bars.’

McOtter sent a message: ‘He doesn’t want to.’

I sent a message: ‘He must.’

He said, ‘Forget it,’ so I chinned myself! Now that’s madness at its best! Brought on by prison paranoia!

Isolation does affect you. So prison does and can often cause problems. And remember, I’ve lived alone in solitary for 24 years out of 30 years inside, so imagine how my mind gets! My diagnosis by one doctor is sensitivity, paranoia and psycho. Whatever I am, I’m me, a complete man. If I had had a gun that day, McOtter would have had a hole in his face, plus all the guards and that fucking spy!

McOtter never did speak to me again. McOtter in later years was one of six to escape off the SSU from Whitemoor Prison. I’ve no problem with him, but he should have chinned me when I gave him the chance, now it’s still madness with me! I wish him well, but I cannot ever turn my back on him. After all, he’s a terrorist and he kills people!

At HMP Full Sutton in the mid ’80s, I saw a man break up into a million pieces. Have you ever heard or seen a grown man cry? Cry like a baby, lose the plot? I have, many times. Some guys I’ve known, others I didn’t. But I’ve seen it; it’s not nice.

One guy, he was about 40-ish, a tough-looking guy, tattoos and scars. It was crazy how it happened. He was out in the yard when he just lost it. Fuck knows how, but he caught everybody’s eye. He ran up to a wall and butted it. Then he lay on the floor, screaming, crying, howling. Fuck me, I thought I was back at Broadmoor. Cons were open-mouthed, amazed and stunned in shock.

I walked over to the guy. As I looked down at him I could see the tears flowing out. It was like a boy in a man’s body! Screws came over. It was embarrassing. ‘What’s up with him, Charlie?’ they asked. Fucking idiots could see he was crying.

I bent down and said to him, ‘Fuck me, mate, pull yourself together, every cunt’s looking. Why not cry when you’re alone?’

‘Chas,’ he babbled through his tears, ‘Chas … I can’t take no more, I can’t fucking handle it no more.’

The madness had eaten into him. Not nice to see! Sort of upsets people. They put him over in the hospital wing, and pumped him with some tranquillisers. What else could they do? He was serving 25 years. I wonder if he ever made the end. Poor sod.

HMP Hull had its fair share of loonies. It was back in 1975 when some loony came into my cell. I knew he wasn’t the full shilling by the way he put himself across, plus he was just one of those guys you don’t feel safe with. You just want to punch his fucking lights out. Well, this guy was for real; he was a conman, up to no good and with too few brains in his head to see his scams through.

His latest scam was for money; he wanted some cash, and his brainwave was to come into my cell, and discuss a way to get some readies. If he got cut or stabbed up, he could get compensation. I said, ‘Yeah, sure … but are you sure?’ So we discussed it — the deal was he would bung me half.

So I got a couple of razors and sliced his body, but I caught his eyelid and it was a nasty one. Blood all over the place! It even squirted on me. I thought, Fuck it, I’ll give him some more, as the more stitches he’d need, the more ‘compo’ we’d get. So I cut him from his right shoulder down to his mid back. Opened up like a glove. Then I got carried away and smashed the clown in the head with my table leg. Crazy, but I do like the sound of a skull cracking — there’s no noise quite the same. I also did his legs. I never did get paid, I don’t even know if he did. In fact, I’ve never seen him since! I doubt he ever got a penny, as he probably forgot why he did it — fucking lunatic.

Another time in Hull in the ’70s, they slipped in a granny basher. Some con came into the association room with a newspaper article. We all went white with rage. We had to bide our time. Gently and easily! A game of patience — build up his confidence. Gently slide up to him … then crush the victim. All sounds a bit evil, but it’s great fun.

We drew the straws … I got the baby; he was my take. I went whistling into the shower. ‘Hey, you’re the new guy, ain’t ya?’

‘Yeah,’ he said with a cocky grin.

‘One of the chaps said you’re good stuff,’ I said. I built him right up. I stripped off and got in the shower. Whistling like a good ’un. My razor was checked. The fucker was whistling away with me. I bet he was whistling when he beat the fuck out of the granny.

Stripe! I sliced his back down to his arse. Blood — fuck me, it was like Psycho III. I was soon out of there, still whistling. Once the shock kicks in, no noise. Hit ’em when they’re not expecting it. But after years of cutting ’em up, you do get fed up with it, but you also get experience — you become a ‘pro’. I was like an abattoir worker. Fuck knows how I never killed any of them.

My paranoia was extreme, and in another incident I could only see one way out. ‘Sorry, mate, accident …’ Was it, or was he just a cunt trying it on? Did he mean to tread on my foot? Did he? Has somebody told him to do it? Did he smile? What’s his fucking name? Again, for days I brooded on it ’til I could take it no more.

Those days, around the mid-’70s we used to have the weekly film on the end of D-Wing in the gym, and I’d make sure I sat behind this cunt! It was a Mafia movie; the lads loved a good gangster film. In my head, I re-examined the foot-treading incident. Did this cunt step on my foot on purpose? Too late now … Crash! I stuck it in his neck and continued to watch the movie; he got up, staggered and fell. Some people will bleed all over the place … got no consideration for others watching the film. That’s how it is … insanity! Did he? Didn’t he? Who gives a fuck? He did it!

HMP Liverpool had its fair share of nonces, so one day I eyed up my target and I got this guy in the queue. Bosh! Right in his ribs as I passed by. I left it in him, fucking nonce. Six inches of steel went in that prick. I’m not a great stabber, but at times you’ve no choice. It needs to be done! We can’t have filth mixing with us, can we? If there were more like me, there wouldn’t be so many nonces about today. Now there are more nonces than robbers.

I remember up on the Liverpool roof, screws were shouting up to me, ‘We’ll break your fucking legs when you come down,’ and they fucking meant it! These screws were not joking. They can get nasty, as some of them are ex-SAS. Believe it, they can kill you and think nothing of it. I’ve always said to young cons, ‘Don’t do what I do. Best you just do your time and get out fast. Don’t get caught up in this madness, as it will eat you up! Let’s say they’ve got to let us out some day, so who cares?’

Well that’s bollocks, ’cos they don’t ever have to let you out. If the system hates you so much, then you’ll never get out; you will die inside, so don’t kid yourself; it’s a cruel, hard, cold fact and truth hurts, so don’t allow it to destroy you.

HMP Manchester (Strangeways) had a very memorable riot in 1990; it had to happen and it was great that it did. If it hadn’t, we would all still be in the Dark Ages — slopping out, overcrowding, and so on. Strangeways was a godsend: it blew the lid right off the system, but those guys who fought became victims. They still suffer for it.

Yeah, I’m sad I missed Strangeways — I’ve always been unlucky like that! I’ve never been in jails where it’s blown up like that. Madness unleashed; a violent explosion of hate, heads cracked, bodies smashed and spilled blood! Keep on stabbing ’til the angels call. The system caused it. They degraded and abused men but they could not face the truth. They lied; they made it look like the system was the victim. I’ll tell you now, those cons were driven to rebel; they had taken years of brutality.

Did you see the screws run? They ran out. I thought they were hard. They’re only hard when they run into a man’s cell in mobs of ten — basically, they’re cowards. Yes, Strangeways was the riot of all riots, only, sadly, no dead nonces. Oh well, maybe next time.

At HMP Parkhurst in the 1970s, I had a dream in the back cell. At this time, my life’s existence was just a shithole. I had nothing but a bare cell; two doors, one in front of the other, no window and my bed was a lumpy straw mattress with one canvas blanket. Flies, bugs and spiders; I was in hell! The screws were devils; they spat on my food, pissed in my tea, beat me and abused me. I cut one. I told them, ‘I’ll cut the both of you if I get half the chance.’ So they brutalised me. Turned me mad.

My dream was this: my doors opened up. There was nobody there. Just a beautiful light and a voice, this voice was so gentle, warm and friendly … ‘Come, walk out.’ I walked out naked, but the light had this warm effect on me; it was like a tunnel. I followed the light and as I came to the end there was an open door. ‘Go in,’ the voice said. So I did … I wish I’d never … it was hell! Bodies broken up, decapitated heads and eyes in jars! There was this stench of rotting flesh. I was standing in blood and then all hell broke out, screams, shouts, crying, moans and groans.

I was in madness. I froze — I could not move. But the crazy thing was, I was laughing, too. I was laughing so much it hurt. Then blows rained down on me … sticks, boots, fists and more abuse. ‘Kill him … kill the fucker!’ Why? But as they beat me, I still laughed. I began to crawl for the door … I had to get back to the light … follow it … get back into the safety of my hole. My cell was my safety, my home — a shell, my armour.

‘YOU’LL NEVER MAKE IT BACK,’ they screamed. But I kept crawling: I had to get back. I thought of my family; I could not die in hell. I had to get back for them. My heart felt like it would blow up and rip through my chest. My eyes were blacked out. I was slipping away and nobody or nothing helped me. I was alone.

I’d wake up, sweating, shaking. A dream maybe, but it was a nightmare of madness.

I’d lie awake not wanting to sleep. The back cell light was on 24 hours a day. The blood was on the walls. This cell, with two doors, was hell. It put this dream in my head. At times, I’d test the door to see if it was locked, to see if it was real. It was a dream. No normal, sane man can live in such hellish conditions and stay sane.

Terry Waite, the Archbishop of Canterbury’s envoy, had company when he was kidnapped and held for so long, but I had only my shadow for company. That shadow is all I’ve had. At times, I never even had that. When I look back to those sad times, is it no wonder I went mad? Is it no wonder I went to Broadmoor?

Did I tell you about the time I had a cockroach crawl inside my ear? Fuck knows if it ever came out. Maybe it laid eggs in my head. Could that be the madness? It sure went in, as I felt it. The itch inside my eardrum. I felt it crawl behind my mastoid. I stuck a piece of stick inside, but it vanished for days … weeks. I was terrified. But you get used to anything. You overcome it. So that’s why I sleep with my ears blocked up. You live and learn, even in a hole. It doesn’t matter how big the hole is. You can always overcome it. Beat it. Make it a hole to be proud of.

I used to do the ‘Lizard Press-Up’; I invented it. You assume the press-up position and in one go you jump, holding your feet inches off the floor. Then dip. You move six inches, slowly. I used to do it the length of the unit and back. Ron used to shout, ‘WATCH OUT, LADS, HERE’S THE LIZARD!’ This exercise pumps up the entire body; lungs included. At other times, I’d find a nice quiet spot, and hang upside down on the rails, or from a pipe or gate. Why? Well, why not? It’s me and it’s different. It’s my life.

When the cell door slams up at the end of the day, that’s when the real battle begins. Those other guys at that time all had life. For me, at that time, I had an end, a date, something to work at. A goal, hope, faith, call it what you will. All they had were prison lies … dreams. They could tell them anything, but with me they could tell me dog shit. Or so I thought! Yeah, sweet memories.

Another mad moment was when I walked past the medical officer who was carrying a big bag over from the pharmacy. I bumped into him and carried on. He never even saw me nick a plastic bottle of blue liquid. Chilly and me drank the lot. How the fuck we liked it is beyond me. Why I drank it is beyond me. But that’s how insanity is — you do things that you rarely plan or believe you’d do.

I remember one day, out on the yard, I got two loose bricks, from a drain. I got one in each hand and went on my jog, around and around and around. Fuck me, do you realise how heavy they get after half-an-hour of jogging around a yard? My arms were hanging off! But every time I passed the screws in their sentry box, their eyes darted away from me, as if not to notice. Why? I suppose in case I smashed their stupid skulls in. You guessed it! I later got a call up by Dr Cooper. Same old shit — ‘Why?’ Same old answer — ’Why not?’

It’s just me. I can’t change. I’m just impulsive, but when I start, I can’t fucking stop. That’s the problem. The lads will remember the small wall in Parkhurst near the tennis courts, by the SSU. That wall was maybe 4ft high, but on one side it had an 8ft drop. The width of the wall was two bricks. The length of that wall was maybe 30 yards. I used to run up and down it 50 times. Screws used to sit in their boxes praying I’d fall, but did I ever fall? To be honest, I did once or twice, but nobody is perfect. But how many saw me fall? All saw me do it.

One day Kev Brown was out on the yard; this was in the ’80s. I stood on the wall with Kev on my shoulders, so he could shout over to Andy Russell who was on the SSU. Now Kev’s no small guy and, remember, this wall is only two bricks wide. I’m just a natural balancer. I could have been a big star in the circus.

It was in Parkhurst when I bumped into ‘Psycho’, a block screw. Yeah, a screw called Psycho! Amazing, eh? Now this Psycho prat was just a bully. It was 6½ years since the riot and this guy still thought he was the bollocks. I was slopping out this day, and Chilly Chamberlain was in the next cell to me. He had left me some toothpaste and soap in the recess, in a hiding place we used when we slopped out one at a time. I went straight to it; it was empty. As I turned round, Psycho was smiling at me, it was all over his face. I smiled back and ran at him. What a row that was. It was worth it, but when it ends up 10–1 against, it’s never good odds.

Psycho was so hard he went on sick leave for three months; that’s how that sort are, they don’t like a bit of their own. The best block screw in Parkhurst in the ’80s was old Tim Cotton; he was a gentleman, one of the true old school — hard but fair. But there are far too many psycho prats; they see a weak person and play on it, but they ain’t got the bollocks to do anything outside.

It was a beautiful summer’s day on the Isle of Wight. I was on the exercise yard on C-Unit, Dr Cooper’s wing for dangerous and insane inmates — con killers, psychos, schizoids and trouble-shooters. It was called the ‘Psycho Wing’. A lot of psychotropic drugs were used to control certain inmates; one in particular was big George Wilkinson. George was a Giant Geordie, a violent man, feared by many. But deep down he was smashing, he just had mental problems and the system could not handle him. George had had many years of torment and suffered terrible brutality.

I recall the hostage siege in Parkhurst ’76 when big George Wilkinson and Taffy Beecham took a screw hostage; that screw has since retired — his nerves went. They both got ten years for that, but George was on a mission. There were no brakes on the machine when it came to George … he just smashed his way through! A mission of madness, I think he knew he was dying inside.

I met George in the Dungeon in Wandsworth in ’76; some days we would go out on the yard together. Back in those days we weren’t allowed to talk on the exercise yard of the block, but George and me did; who was gonna stop us? We talked about outside life, normal stuff like guns and robbing banks, but George was on his mission and nobody could or would stop him.

He died in Walton Jail in the box; he had been on a hunger strike for two weeks. But I believe he’s one of prison’s mystery deaths. They were so afraid of him that he had to die. That man was and will always be a legend to me. A fearless man, but not a bully, as he fought the system. George was born to fight. What a soldier he would have made; he would have got a chestful of medals and ribbons. In prison, all he got was stamped on, and he left in a zip-up bag.

One day on the yard I saw Dr Cooper coming over with four of his super troopers — all in white coats with their evil, eagle eyes and size-10 boots. ‘Nurses from hell,’ I used to call them. Prats in the POA, brain-dead rats, scum of the planet … bullyboys. You get the picture.

Dr Cooper was a strange man, but a gentle man. I liked him for several reasons — he gave me Marmite, milk and peanut butter, and he once gave me vitamins. He also helped the Parkhurst rioters at their trial, speaking up for them, how they’d been beaten. The screws hated Dr Cooper for that. Basically, he was an honest man trapped in a very evil system. He was the Prison Medical Officer, the top man, as well as a psychologist. He was still a nasty fucker when he wanted to be, but as prison doctors go … tops.

‘Dr Cooper,’ I shouted.

He stopped in the centre of the yard, surrounded by his troopers. I walked over to him; the atmosphere was tense. ‘Yes,’ he said, and the madness hit me. I froze! I could not speak. My throat went dry. I just stared at him, I never saw the four goons standing beside us. ‘Yes?’ he asked. What do I do? I wanted to see him about my milk, I wanted more. ‘Yes?’ he said, ‘I’ve not got all day.’

I logged on to his nose. He had a lot of nose hair sticking out. I stared at it! ‘Look, what do you want?’ I just did it. I shot my hand out, fast, like a snake. All froze and, in a split-second, I grabbed the hairs out of his nostril with my finger and thumb and ripped them out! It happened so fast, too fast, nobody could believe it; I looked at it; they all looked at me. Cooper was white; the screws were ready to jump me. I blew the hairs away. ‘That could have been your brains!’ I said, and walked away, madness over!

Seven years later, I returned to Parkhurst. Dr Cooper was still there. It was then he asked me, ‘Why did you do that to me that day?

I told him the truth; I did it to take away my own problem; I was embarrassed; I couldn’t speak, I wanted to, but I just couldn’t get a word out. He actually smiled. So did I. That’s insanity. Nobody can explain it, just enjoy it.

I originally landed in Parkhurst in ’76, when only 23 years old. It was B-Wing. Berti Costa, John Hilton, Billy Gentry, the Ape Man and Joey Martin were some of the faces there. Tap, tap on my door, association time. This guy walked in — oldish, Scottish, long hair, crazy-looking. ‘Hi, I’m Malcolm,’ he stuck his hand out. As I shook it, it felt limp, no strength. It was a seriously weak handshake! I was on red alert.

‘Oh, you do have lovely eyes,’ he said. Fuck me, is he for real? He went on, ‘Oh, your skin is so soft.’ Fuck me, he fancies me! Well, I had two options — be nice or nasty. In that cell at that time I could only see one way. Smack! My head went in like a bullet — teeth, bone and blood.

Malcolm was a lifer. Served 20 years, then he was sentenced to hang, but was reprieved and commuted to life. He was also the raunchy fairy of B-wing. After that introduction, he gave me respect. That’s insanity, that’s the madness that surrounds you in prison every day of your fucking life. God, give me strength.

I had a brilliant idea to get grub out of the kitchen. I started it off in Parkhurst and in no time the whole system was doing it. My pal at the time was Henry Wallace, a Leeds guy serving 12 years for a robbery. He worked in the kitchen. At the time I was on the unit so I got a message to him: ‘Drop me a big lump of meat in the tea urn.’ So he did. One day a leg of lamb and then a massive lump of beef; it was fucking brilliant and it worked every time. Now it’s all muggy tea kits; nothing lasts in prison and they call it progress, technology, a ‘better’ time. It’s all shit now, pathetic; bring back the cat, I say, let us be men, not mice.

HMP Risley in 1974 was where I caught my first cell thief. They’re scum and filth. I never actually caught him, but I was there with three Scousers who did. He nicked a watch and a radio. The Scousers had him in a grip and covered his mouth. I said, ‘He has to learn!’

The Scousers were just going to bash him up a bit; I grabbed his arm and stuck his hand in the door … a finger dropped to the floor! That’s life in jail, violent and mad.

In the same prison, three of us went into a nonce’s cell. I hit him, he went down. I sat on his chest and stuffed an old rag in his mouth while the chaps did what they had to do. Not nice, but was it nice what he’d done to the old lady of 69 years of age? Put it like this; he never did it again. Such is life in jail.

It was in Risley in 1970 when I first came across women prisoners. I was on remand having nicked a lorry and was involved in a crash. While there I had a job collecting boxes from the women’s workshop. Risley was split in two: men’s and women’s sides. So once a week I’d go over to that side with three other lads and a trolley, all accompanied by a screw. Fuck me, what a laugh, we used to leave there with red faces. Wolf whistles, grabbing our bollocks, showing us their tits. Some even spread their legs and we were told by the screws to take no notice. Fuck me, we were young lads with hormones racing around! My dick was pumping! Take no notice!

One used to slip me a note; I’d read it later in my cell, and it was pure filth. One used to bend over a work table, arse in air, flashing it; it was winking at me! A big juicy fanny. I was 18. Even the screws would cherry up. Those girls were having a laugh, but did it affect us. How the fuck we controlled ourselves is beyond me!

They loved it; it was the girls’ highlight of the week to see us and get a squeeze! And some of them were tasty birds. Fuck knows what they had been up to; not for nicking milk bottles, I’m sure! One of the girls we knew was nicked for six armed robberies, as her boyfriend was on remand with us, a real-life Bonnie and Clyde! I think they got ten years each.

The Ma Bakers and Bonnie Parkers of the world really do exist. They do say a ‘real’ female gangster is the equivalent of ten male gangsters; when it comes to women being cruel, they make us men look like pussycats! More vicious, too, and more determined! The pigs must thank their lucky stars so few women turn to crime, as they would have some serious trouble if they did!

HMP Wandsworth in 1976 I’ll never forget. I was in the old dungeon block, doing 56 days’ solitary confinement for shitting the governor up. I was just lying on a blanket on the floor as I had no bed, when I heard two guys arguing outside my window. I got up to have a look and found two screws toe to toe, arguing. ‘Don’t you fucking tell me my job,’ one said.

‘Bollocks to you!’

‘Don’t you swear at me!’ Blah, blah.

I thought, Daft bastards. Then … crash! One knocked the other clean out; it was so funny. I shouted, ‘Oy, you should be locked up for that.’ He just shot off. It was for a good five minutes the other lay spark out, then he got up all shaky! ‘Oy,’ I shouted, ‘you can’t stitch me up for that one.’ It really was a sight to see.

Wandsworth in the ’70s was, without a doubt, the toughest jail in the country. It was a hard jail but a fair jail and everybody knew where they stood. A con was a con; a screw was a screw; step over the line and you got it big time. I spent a long time in the block — at one stage for 11 months and all of it was punishment! I had fuck all, not even a newspaper, no radio, no bed … it was hard bird, but it was good for testing a man’s character! Looking back I loved it, even the kickings, ’cos I always got a few of my own in. The violence in those days was raw! The screws never had riot gear; they just slammed into you and lashed out with truncheons and big size-10 boots. Fucking good old-fashioned rules — do it or get it! I must admit … I got most of it!

Looking back over my three decades of imprisonment I would say I was at my most dangerous in the ’80s, simply because I had lost the plot. I was driven insane beyond cure! They tried drugs, they tried brutality and they tried isolation. In the end, I was just actually moved every few weeks from jail to jail. One solitary cage to the next. I used to wake up and have to think which jail I was in. It got so bad that my family actually lost track of me.

In six months I’d have nine or ten moves. It was their policy to confuse a man, cause him problems, and that’s exactly what it did to me. They created the problem. Back then, their only way of dealing with it was to jump me, wrap me up and sling me in a van ready for the next problem. My life and my world was madness. But it made me dangerous and totally unpredictable, but I now want to confess I was in fear of myself. Yes, I was frightened of me and I was no longer a sane man.

Imagine this if you can! You’re in a soundproof box, with two steel doors to get in, no windows and no furniture. You’re naked, but alive, and aching and bruised from the beating you’ve just had to endure. You know they’re coming back into you. They may have big sticks, shields and whatever … they’re coming back.

You’ve just attacked one of theirs up on the prison wing and they dragged you down into the seg block and threw you naked into the box. You wait for the second attack. This was me in Wandsworth back in the early ’70s.

Nowadays it’s mostly restraint, but they can still strangle you. But in the ’60s and ’70s it was pure violence with violence and a bit of shit thrown in. You may lose, but lose with dignity!

There was this con who had one of those faces you just had to punch in. Fuck knows who or what he was in for. But as soon as I set eyes on him, I knew I’d end up hurting him. Up on D-Wing, in Wandsworth, I was watched like a hawk, but at slopout time we used to all slop out together and this rat-faced con seemed always to be in my face.

He made my skin crawl. He seemed to look down on me: ‘I’m better than you’ sort of thing. I seemed to see him in my dreams. That face … I used to wake up angry, mad, sweating. As the door would unlock to slop out, I’d see him again. I’d have killed him 20 times in my sleep. There he was again!

I walked into the recess with a pot of shit and piss and there he was, looking as if to say, ‘Look, everybody, he’s shit in his potty.’ I emptied my pot and rinsed it. I looked over and there he was, still fucking looking my way.

I just lost it, I mean totally lost it! I ran at him and grabbed his reptile neck and began to squeeze it. I believe I was laughing. I then smacked his head and face into the wall about 20 times. I then picked him up and slung him at the sluice, where the pots of shit get emptied. Cons were walking in with pots to empty. ‘Over him,’ I said. ‘Stick it over him.’

Within ten minutes he was covered in shit. Prison is a mad place. Cons were emptying pots of shit over him — me, I did not know who the fuck he was. But I’m not a bad judge; it turned out he was a filthy rapist. ‘Better than me, eh?’ Fucking rat.

I had another good scrap but this time with a screw in Wandsworth block in ’76. He actually put up a good show in my cell, but once I was on top the rest steamed in. Believe me, you can’t have a straightener with a screw, ’cos if you beat him, the rest are in; if he beats you, the rest love it. It’s a catch 22.

I’ve had enough of it; memory lane for me. But rest assured, they did not beat me, ever! They never could! How do you beat a man who won’t lose?

Insanity has been my best friend; it’s helped me through. It kept me sane. Now, almost 30 years later, I’ve got Saira, my beautiful wife, and Sami, my beautiful daughter. Insanity has left me; I no longer need it. What’s left to do? What’s to prove? Who cares? I’m tired of it! It’s time for a new chapter, a new life and a new challenge. So many gone, dead, dying, forgotten, even the dreams are different.

I’m now no longer a part of the shit; it’s time to fly! A few big TV interviews, if Parkinson is still alive when I get out! Maybe a movie about my life, a few book signings — six months on the road and then you will have had your fill of Bronson, let someone else take over and I’ll willingly give them my mantle to carry for the next 30 years of hell!

Wandsworth, 30 July 1993. I was here for my legal visit, before moving off to Woodhill, where I’d be tried for robbery, which I’d committed during my 69 days of freedom. The first night in cell 13 I heard somebody shout my name — it was not Jacko. He was in the cell opposite me! We had a chat through our doors, but two days later he was moved to Whitemoor. In the next cell to me was Paul Ross’s brother, Gary Ross. We passed a couple of days chatting through the pipe; he left to go to Downview Jail in Surrey. He was in the block for three days for slagging a screw off. Jacko, like me, is forever in the dungeons — we have no choice. Unlike most cons, we are just sent from block to block.

My next couple of days passed peacefully. On 5 August, Maggie (my solicitor at that time) and my barrister were due to visit. My barrister, Issy Forshall, was a diamond. The visit was booked in for an afternoon, but in the morning I was told it was cancelled, owing to a mix-up, as legal visits are supposed to be in the morning at Wandsworth. I saw the governor. I said, ‘If I don’t get my visit, then fuck everything. I will be going to my trial, bollocks showing and in a belt, and I’ll tell the judge what you filthy scum have done to me to justify this.’ I had my visit!

It now seems there was additional evidence. The police said I was waiting to hit a security van delivering to the bank. What are the police … mind-readers? They’re living in Disney World! My legal visit was held in the block. It was the first time I’d met Issy; she certainly made me feel better. I gave Maggie my cross, which I promised her; it was made out of matches by my pal Kirk Barker.

I was exactly four weeks away from trial and it couldn’t come soon enough. Maggie had been informed why I’d been moved a lot; it was because six screws are needed to unlock me, and the prisons haven’t got the manpower to keep me any longer than a month. Don’t they come up with some blinders? There is only one reason to keep moving me — it’s to fuck me up, to confuse my state of mind and to cause me unnecessary problems.

They soon find 40 or more screws when my van arrives at all these jails.

Cell 13 seems to have a magnetic force; it’s become my second home, and absolutely nothing changes! Even the fleariddled pigeons outside are the same, the little sparrows the same, the flying shit parcels, the soldiers of cockroaches are the same, the stench of shitty pots — everything is the same. Am I the same? Maybe I am! I’m older. I’ve a few more scars on my body; my eyes are tired; I’ve arthritis in my neck and wrist but I’m still the unpredictable man I’ve always been.

I just hoped I would win that trial. If not, God help this Prison Service, as I couldn’t see me taking too much more of that bollocks. I was certainly the only remand prisoner ever to be on a block circuit, being moved from one high-security jail to another.

My next move would be my sixth in six months; it would never be repeated, as it’s illegal to keep moving a remand prisoner. I still awaited being charged with the siege at Woodhill when I wrapped up the librarian, Andy Love, and took him hostage. I guessed right that they would eventually be charging me with the siege! So I expected another police visit soon. Maggie said they might wait to see how my trial went. If I was to walk, then I’d have been charged for the siege, so I wouldn’t be walking anyway. As it turned out, I was to receive a handsome prison sentence.

On 13 August 1964 at Strangeways and Walton Prisons, we had our last official hangings in Britain. Peter Anthony Allen, 21, was hanged in Walton Jail, Liverpool; and Gwynne Owen Evans, 24, was hanged in Strangeways Jail, Manchester. They were both convicted of the murder of John Alan West, while robbing him in his house on 7 April 1964.

But whatever you thought about the abolition of capital punishment, you have to ask yourself, how many innocent men and women were topped? Look at the posthumous pardons given to the likes of Timothy Evans in 1966, Derek Bentley and Mahood Mattan, both posthumously pardoned in 1998. It doesn’t bring them back to life, does it? If you just go on the last 38 years alone since hangings stopped, look at all the miscarriages of justice, scores of innocent people have spent years rotting in prison on life sentences and then being freed on appeals.

Take the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four, that’s ten who would have hanged, so imagine the full horror of it all. Just how many did hang who were innocent? Doesn’t it send a shiver up your spine?

So Britain is finished with capital punishment, right? Wrong! In May 1999, British law lords dismissed an appeal against the death sentence by a Trinidadian drug baron and eight gang members. The law lords of the Privy Council, based in London, acting as a final court of appeal for several Caribbean countries, decided against the motion of a stay of execution. They also rescinded a stay of execution granted to the nine men in the previous week.

On 4 June 1999, Dole Chadee, Joey Ramiah and Ramkalawan Singh were hanged. The other six men were hanged on 5 and 7 June 1999. They were the first executions in Trinidad and Tobago in five years.

I’ve been in jails where my cell has been very close to the old gallows and the condemned cell was next door to the trap door. The actual gallows itself was three cells high.

In Wandsworth, the actual bottom cell of the gallows set-up was on E/1, which is the punishment block, and my old cell was just yards away from that cell. And every time you passed it, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck prick up.

It’s not just Wandsworth. I’ve been to all the old hanging jails and lived feet away from the old condemned cells — Leeds, Walton, Winston Green, Durham, Bristol, Strangeways and Winchester. But Wandsworth was the spooky one! This one sort of crept into me.

They hanged Derek Bentley in Wandsworth; he should never have swung. He had the mind of a 10-year-old boy; they murdered a boy! Gutless pigs. But I’ve heard the ghosts many times. I’ve heard the screams in the night; I’ve laid awake and heard crying, banging doors. I’ve even felt it; I’ve seen shadows move in my cell; I’ve smelled death!

Wandsworth is a nightmare full of mental torture! But the strange thing is, you get used to it, you become a part of it. Same as all the other dungeons, they all have ghosts and strange noises in the night. Noises that can only be ghosts. Screws have seen the ghosts many times; some screws have refused to work nights over it. One screw’s hair went white overnight! Cons have gone mad and taken their own lives over it, and men have had breakdowns. Me? A ghost is a ghost; I quite like them. If I was a ghost, I’d do a lot more than just make a few noises! I’d be back to cause heart-attacks.

I was on D-Wing in ’77 for a very short spell. I’d just had a couple of years in solitary. I was slopping out one morning when a big guy bumped into me. I don’t know if it was on purpose or not, but I went back to my cell and brooded. Did the screws tell him to do it? Was it to get me upset? Did he want a fight or was it a genuine accident? All fucking day I brooded on it. Out on the exercise yard, I clocked him; how he walked, how he moved and how he spoke. Cunt, he was enemy; shall I stab him, cut him or just break his face up? Wait, what if it was an accident? In the morning, I put my square PP9 battery in a sock, slopped out and waited for him — crunch! I hit him six times and left him on the recess floor with all the piss and filth. A bit strong, but that’s madness at its worst! That’s prison! Did he do it on purpose? Who knows? But he sure never did it again.

I suppose in those days, when I was starting out, you could have called me a ‘predator’. I’d spend ten months of the year in solitary, then pop up on a wing to smell out some monster! I also became a bounty hunter and, occasionally, if I got lucky, I’d trap a dog screw. I remember one screw we called the ‘Rat’. I caught him with a bucket of shit. He was on the second landing, with me on the third. WHOOSH! All over him. I was gone. All I could hear was swearing. I got a serious hiding for that, but it was worth it … a bit of shit works miracles.

HMP Whitemoor is out in the middle of nowhere. It might as well be on the moon for all I care, but when John Allen got assaulted by the MUFTI squad — punched, kicked, etc. — I saw his injuries, so I’m a major witness. The screw who threatened to poison my porridge, we believe, was one of the MUFTI who beat John.

John’s a placid man; he’s never attacked a screw in all his years. The last time I was there, I was assaulted twice, once so badly that I later had to have surgery on my wrist. My lawyer at the time never got the police involved and didn’t even get photographs of the injury to my wrist. It was at my insistence that I had photographs taken of the injury, and to date that little matter is outstanding.

HMP Woodhill special unit — what a hellhole and a complete disgrace to the prison service, a fucking joke. It was built and designed for one purpose, to dehumanise men and turn them into vegetables! But it never worked … it had the opposite effect. It became a hate factory. It was designed by a prison governor, but when he saw what it had turned into, he washed his hands of it. I mean, what fucking prison has concrete sheep in its grounds? Mad or what?

Woodhill CSC unit opened up in 1998. I was the third con to arrive there. Anyone who’s anybody in the system arrived there; it was just a way of saying ‘behave’. They used it as a sort of punishment and we were locked up in cells for 23 hours a day, which was nothing new to me. Our beds were a concrete plinth raised some 6in off the floor, with a thin mattress. We had no windows to open, our toilets had no lid or no seat and our furniture was made of compressed cardboard.

With no fresh air, it became inhuman; it caused claustrophobia, mental breakdowns and depression. Men were acting like they had never done before — hate was in the air! Some attempted suicide, others lost the plot and turned violent; some went on dirty protests. We all had to live in a hellhole, run by fascist, evil pigs. They were all part of the psychological destruction.

This place was soon put in the media spotlight and soon to be condemned by Sir David Ramsbotham, HM Inspector of Prisons. They all condemned it — doctors, social workers, Board of Visitors, organisations, ex-screws and ex-governors. But it’s still a hellhole, even now in 2002! They will say, ‘Well, it’s changed and it’s better,’ but I say, ask the cons there and they will tell you it’s just the same.

One day, I had just had enough. It was a hot day; my cell was like an oven and I could barely breathe. I felt trapped … I was panicking; I knew it was a serious bout of madness coming on. There was no stopping it. When my door was unlocked to feed me — seven screws brought my food to the door — I ran out; I had to!

I went insane … I wrecked the godforsaken place. That day, I left Woodhill in a body belt, all wrapped up like a Christmas turkey. They took me to Whitemoor for a couple of months, but they then moved me back to Woodhill. Again it went off on the yard. They got in 20 riot screws to take me in and again I was wrapped up.

Some incidents in Woodhill CSC unit are hard to believe, but let me tell you about Sean ‘Sharkie’ O’Connor. He’s serving 12 years for armed robbery, aged 30. Now Sharkie is a big, strong East Londoner from a good family, with a good set of morals. He says something and it’s as good as done but, as violent as he is, he’s a very polite man who gives respect. One day he said through his door, ‘Excuse me, gov, sort us out a milk sachet.’ The screw never sorted it. So the screw basically denied him a cup of tea.

The next day on exercise, Sharkie sees the screw who’d ignored his request for a sachet of milk. Sharkie spat in his face twice.

I said, ‘Good shot.’

Sharkie says, ‘I’ve had enough of this shit hole.’ Sharkie starts bandaging up his hands and says, ‘Come and get me, let’s have a rumble!’

I said, ‘Yeah, me too!’

All this is over a ½p sachet of milk. Governors came out; screws are all tense; riot mob on stand-by. I say to the governor, ‘Look, you lot want it, so let’s cut the talk and get it on. Come in and bash us, but I’ll bash some of you!’

Now Sharkie is probably the number one in the system at attacking the shields. In Woodhill he’s had a good dozen rows with them so they’re not playing with an idiot.

Me? Well, I prefer a wrap up, torture the cunt, but at times a man needs to attack, empty his haze! So it’s on! I’m ready! The governor promises Sharkie he will get a move if he comes in. Me? I don’t care, what’s it matter any more? It will take 20 screws in riot gear, two vans and a police escort, all for a ½p sachet! The screw who never gave him a sachet, what happens to him? I’ll tell you — fuck all!

This is the insanity of it all. That ½p will cost them 30 grand. But the joke is, why wasn’t the screw reprimanded?

Talk about miscarriages of justice! Our penal system is one of the worst offenders in Europe! One sad case was ‘Kizcuff’. He was branded a sex killer, but he was just the village idiot, a mummy’s boy! It was so easy to use him as the scapegoat, it took 20 years to prove his innocence. In those years in jail, he was beaten up so many times that to him it was all part of prison — spitting on him, abuse, kicks in the nuts — after so long he became immune to it. Once out, he died within six months of being free.

I remember a lifer at Woodhill called Ian Wallbey. He was a suicide risk, always cutting himself up, or if he was depressed he’d cut others up. One day he was in solitary, they gave him a razor. Now the rules are simple — the screws have to watch him shave, but they fuck off and leave him for half-an-hour! So he cuts himself up big time and almost lost his life. Sack the fucking lot of them, I say. Ian gets 80 stitches and they get a nice fat wage packet.

HMP Wormwood Scrubs has been in the news regarding brutality dished out to prisoners. They were out of control in the Scrubs; they had too much power, but at the end of the day it’s the governor to blame. They know what’s going on. They can stop it. So why did they allow it to go on? Why?

The insanity never stops — mysterious deaths, very mysterious. So who’s the maddest of the mad? Shall I tell you who? The maddest fucker in the system is … the system. It’s also a fucking disgrace.

It’s all right for cons like Aitken and Archer who come in and get the cushy jails and nice treatment, or the Guinness mob, or the paedophiles who all get parole. It’s a fucking cesspit of shame, corrupt and insane.

Around ’85 I realised I was losing my senses. The things I used to do were not normal. When I dived on the governor and started to strangle him, I had lost my way. Every time my door unlocked I faced ten screws — it was a war. It was forever tense; nobody knew what would go down, not even me.

So in the end I became a dog — a mad dog! I was bashed and degraded all round the system! So now you know why I attacked so many screws over many years. I had no choice. The same went for the governors; if I got the chance, I’d attack them, sometimes with a pot of shit all over their nice new suit and their false face. Governors, to me, were no better than sewer rats. All they deserved was a pot of shit; the doctors got it as well. I hated everybody and I was at war!

So the journeys became a battle of wits, but let me say right now, I lost every battle I had and suffered severe consequences for it. I’ve even been strangled to unconsciousness. Only an act of God saved me.

I myself have suffered at the hands of the screws in the Scrubs. The criminal investigation into some of the Wormwood Scrubs brutality led to the prosecution of 27 screws and to the conviction of six, three of whom have been sentenced. Brutality against us prisoners at Wormwood Scrubs has been going on for years and did not consist of a few isolated incidents. The police investigation looked at claims of brutality made by 40 inmates and former inmates of Wormwood Scrubs, covering the period from October 1996 to March 1998, including beatings, burning with cigarettes, verbal abuse and an incident in which a black inmate was forced to eat a poster.

Of the 43 staff members named in the files, 15 screws were suspended on full pay, and 28 left the service or are continuing to work. The then Home Secretary, Jack Straw, said he found the claims ‘very disturbing’. Bollocks! I believe Jack Straw has seen CCTV footage of brutality dished out against me with his own eyes, and he’s done nothing about it!

In September 2001, the Prison Service Director Martin Narey accused Sir David Ramsbotham, HM Inspector of Prisons, of ‘talking nonsense’. This was in relation to Sir David’s comment that, ‘There must be absolutely clear understanding that this sort of treatment of prisoners will not be tolerated and it must be supported by a system that warns a person that if they go on behaving like this they will be out.’ It’s people like Sir David that need praise for revealing this sort of thing.

Martin Narey said, ‘There was no evidence at all for Sir David’s accusations. He knows that I have made it absolutely plain that anyone who lays a hand on a prisoner will leave this service. I have not just relied on convictions in court. Quite recently we sacked senior staff at Northallerton and Portland because they’ve laid hands on prisoners. All my staff know that if they lay a hand on a prisoner, then they will be out of a job.’ OK then, why not sack the screws from HMP Birmingham that have been caught on CCTV? Put up or shut up!

The biggest ever set of criminal trials of prison officers ended in September 2001 when three screws were jailed for a ‘sadistic’ attack on a man at Wormwood Scrubs. What a load of bollocks — three out of fucking thousands!!

The last two Chief Inspectors of Prisons, Sir David Ramsbotham and Sir Stephen Tumin, called for public inquiries into the extent of violence at the jail and why it had continued for so long despite repeated warnings. Another 36 claims of brutality, with at least 41 civil claims against the prison service for alleged assaults, are pending.

In March 1998, in the jail’s segregation unit, screws got Steven Banks in a headlock, and said how easy it was to break his neck and threatened to kill him. Nothing new in that; I’ve had that for years. Steven was then punched and kicked and smashed into a wall with such force that his head caved in.

The Senior Officer in charge of the seg unit, John Nicol, got four years’ imprisonment. Another two screws, Robert Lawrie and Darren Fryer, also got four years and three-and-a-half years respectively. Three other screws were convicted of bashing up a lifer, Timothy Donovan, who was held down, just like I was, and beaten. Three other screws were jailed for 18 months, 15 months, and 12 months respectively.

Sir David said that former Home Secretaries Michael Howard and Jack Straw, to whom he had reported his concerns about brutality at the jail, should be summoned before a public inquiry to explain why they failed to act. ‘The responsibility to ensure that custody is exercised according to the law and in a civilised manner ultimately rests with ministers.’ Too fucking right it does! Sir David went on to say that he feared an internal Prison Service inquiry could lead to a cover-up and that senior managers failed to do anything when they knew what was happening.

A solicitor acting for group litigation against the Prison Service said, ‘Some prison officers felt they had the permission of society to go beyond the normal punishment of imprisonment and beat certain people up. There was also persistent racism.’

The General Medical Council has also received 20 complaints about medical staff at Wormwood Scrubs jail and alleged failings on their part in treating prisoners and blowing the whistle. These doctors and other staff helped protect the violent officers, and you can’t tell me that a large number of people knew nothing about it — prison officers, doctors, the Board of Visitors, chaplains, probation service! Every professional in that prison must have known or suspected something and said nothing for years, and that makes them just as guilty of brutality.

So now you can see why I’ve carried out these sieges and demonstrations over the years — brutality!

I am the only serial hostage-taker the United Kingdom has ever had, and probably the only one in the world. So I am qualified on the subject matter, as I see myself as a Professor of Sieges. I know more than the negotiators know. Basically, a negotiator is a mug, a clown, a messenger or a Joey. They only relate back to Prison Service headquarters.

Headquarters houses the top brass who decide what demands can or can’t be met and what cover-ups can and can’t be revealed to the media. Let’s face facts, a siege is only a bargaining tool. We want, we demand … and we either get or we don’t. A siege is a very complex thing, as you’re dealing with humans, and humans are unpredictable. Where one will shit his pants, another will try to escape. You have to weigh up each individual siege. But let me say now, each one is as mad as the next one. It’s all insanity.

In June 2009 I was up before the Parole Board for a hearing about my release. Surprise, surprise, it was decided that Charles Bronson would not be let out. They don’t ever want to let me out – my next parole hearing will be in March 2011 and it will be the same bollocks all over again – and again in 2013, 2014, 2015, blah, blah blah.

The Board recommended that I talk to a psychologist but I WILL NOT be working with prison shrinks – not today, not tomorrow, ever. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, not after my asylum years of hell. I’ll work with my probation officer and independent doctors and that’s all.

No man can rip off nine roofs, take 11 hostages, fight a 36-year battle and ever be freed – it’s political now.

On 8th October, out of my window, I watched a plane with a banner saying ‘Free Bronson – Enough is Enough’ circling the skies above the jail – that shows I’m never buried and forgotten! My case will never be swept under the mat and one day I’ll find myself back at the appeal court, or in the European Court of Human Rights.

The day I walk free from a court of law, there will be the biggest party that the UK has ever had. And then I’ll write my ‘freedom book’ on a beach with a few ice-cold beers.

It’s never over til the sun goes down, so watch this space … The insanity of life goes on – a journey of extreme madness. Adios amigos

THE CAMPAIGN TO FREE CHARLES BRONSON

Dee Morris is a close friend of mine and she runs an active campaign and support group that has been set up to fight for my immediate de-categorisation which is part of the progress towards my freedom.

Talking is not enough. Talk is cheap and actions speak louder than words – action is what is needed. People need to raise awareness by writing to their local MPs and the Ministry of Justice about my case and demand answers.

My family, friends and supporters have organised protests to gain attention for the cause. Protests have been held outside 10 Downing Street, in Trafalgar Square as well as outside the Houses of Parliament. There is another protest arranged to take place outside my prison.

Protests will continue to be held on various dates and at various locations around the country. Everyone is welcome to attend and give your support!

Further information on how to support my campaign for freedom can be obtained by contacting freecharlieb@yahoo.co.uk

We hope you have your full support – enough is enough!