How did madness start as an industry, employing millions of people around the world? Probably back in the days of the Egyptians when people were being lobotomised with nothing more than a hand drill … and being charged to have it done! Since then, the world of madness has become a lucrative business to be in.

But as far as the industry in England is concerned, we have to go as far back as 1375 when the religious priory of St Mary of Bethlem, in London, was seized by the Crown and used for lunatics from 1377.

Would you believe that, by 1403–04, it had just six insane patients and three who were sane! This old Bedlam was a small institution by today’s standards. The asylum stood on a site underneath what is now Liverpool Street Station. By the time the seventeenth century had arrived, it had about 30 patients. The Moorfields Bedlam replaced this in 1676 and, soon after that, I became an inmate … only kidding, but it seems that long ago it might as well have been built in readiness for me.

There are different categories of madmen, and different types of asylums! I know absolutely nothing about the asylums that house the madman who thinks he is an astronaut. Would you believe that 90 per cent of madmen are treated in outside clinics? They’re considered non-criminal, pathetic cases. This book refers to the other 10 per cent of madmen — the criminally insane. Killers, arsonists, poisoners and rapists — violent men. Men who have completely flipped, fallen over the edge, had nervous breakdowns and are brain diseased.

I was first certified mad in Parkhurst Prison in December 1978. Three doctors diagnosed me as being a psychopath and paranoid — Dr Cooper, Parkhurst; Dr Tipmarsh, Broadmoor; and Dr Falk, Home Office. So my prison world turned into the asylum world! I witnessed insanity at its best. If I wasn’t mad when I arrived, then I certainly was when I left years later. I’ll start my story of madness by explaining the everyday existence of being locked up in the asylum.

Rooms are cells! There are bars and locks everywhere, electronic cameras, walls, fences, alarms! And lots of highly trained psychiatric nurses built like rugby players, ready for anything. Ready to pounce, restrain and stab in the hypodermic needle to put the madman to sleep. They ask questions later.

When a madman flips, he normally has twice the strength of a normal man. So the male nurses go in fast, before somebody’s missing an eye or a throat. These nurses live on their wits. They watch for signs — eye movement, body language, aggression. They only have to think a madman’s gonna flip and they pounce.

These asylums are run by the Departments of Health and Social Security. After all, they are hospitals, or supposed to be! I’ve met them all and they’ve all met me! I became the most destructive madman the asylums had ever known. I could never accept life in the asylum. I’ve lived in a cage, in a strip cell and in a strong box. I’ve been injected, beaten, tortured and strapped up in jackets, but I could never come to accept who I was or what I was … or what they said I was. Why should I? How should I? I never would.

One madman sat next to me. He kept looking, staring, bulging eyes. I felt tense, uncomfortable and edgy. I started to think fast. Be prepared. No madman’s gonna get a crack at me! He started shaking, mumbling to himself; he looked upset. Tears welled up in his eyes, and then he hit me with the biggest bombshell ever! ‘You killed my mum,’ he said.

‘How the fuck did I kill your mum? What the fuck are you talking about? I’ve never killed a woman in my life,’ I replied.

He reckoned I killed his mother up in Scotland in 1948! For one, I’ve never been to Scotland, and for two, I wasn’t born until 1951!

But this madman could not accept this! In his mind, I killed his mother. I had to keep an eye on this one. If I gave him half a chance he would kill me. No matter what I said or what I did, this madman truly believed I was the man who’d killed his mum!

Later, I used to shout back, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah and you killed my Aunty Rose, you evil slag, and you dug her up and shagged her, you filthy beast.’ You learn to laugh or you would go mad!

I investigated, and it turned out he’d been sent to Broadmoor for stabbing his mother to death in a frenzied attack!

Another madman tore out one of his testicles and slung it over the wall in the exercise yard. This, I would have said, was humanly impossible, but I was there, and it happened.

And the madness in the asylums just piles up as time ticks on. One madman stripped off and climbed up a wall. At the top he shouted, ‘I can fly.’ He flapped his arms, and away he went … with two broken ankles. Insane, but true! Another madman stabbed a fellow inmate with a pair of scissors a dozen times, just to liven up the day. Another madman drank another madman’s blood, whilst the other drank his blood. Another two madmen killed another inmate by cutting his throat, wrists and penis. Another madman stabbed himself with a needle in the eye. He lost the eye. Another madman attempted to cut his penis off with a razor blade. Another madman snatched a doctor’s gold pen and swallowed it. Another madman punched his mother in the nose, on a visit. Another madman stuffed a spoon in another madman’s ear. Another madman attempted to use a saw on a nurse’s neck. I was there. Another madman kept running at walls, head-butting them. Another madman swallowed a box full of drawing pins. And how do I know all those things? Because I was there!

I’ve truly seen some sights that even I still find hard to believe, and I can tell it all because … I was there.

And if you think that’s enough weirdness, here’s some examples of madness at its best:

PARANOID SCHIZOPHRENIA

This is the real McCoy! Dangerous and unpredictable. Schizophrenia is a mental illness and is treated with psychotropic drugs. Sufferers hear the ‘voice’, it tells them to attack! Nobody knows where the voice comes from, even the doctors are baffled. Maybe the voice doesn’t exist, maybe it’s the spirit, maybe it’s in the mind, maybe it’s Lucifer! Nobody knows. But the madman hears it, and the madman acts on it. Sometimes innocent people die because of that ‘voice’. There is no cure, but the drugs help to stabilise the condition.

PSYCHOPATHIC

This is a disorder, not an illness. It’s an untreatable personality disorder. But the asylums are full of psychopaths. Makes even me wonder!

PSYCHOTIC

Mental illness — voices, delusions, dangerous, unpredictable. Treated with strong tranquillisers.

HYSTERIA

Loss of control, unacceptable behaviour; insanity takes over!

PYROMANIA

Fire freaks — they get a buzz out of setting fire to buildings. They’re dangerous, as one match can burn to death a lot of innocent people. Treatment: lock them away in asylums (with no matches).

DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR

They imagine they’re somebody else. I’ve met the Pope, Jesus, Hitler, Hercules, John Lennon — they’re all alive in the asylums. Some will become violent if you don’t believe who they are! These madmen bring a bit of character to the asylums. They brighten the place up.

EPILEPSY

In the years gone by, asylums were full of epileptics. It wasn’t ’til the early 1950s that it was established by the medical journals as being a physical illness, and not mental. But sadly, even today, epileptics are still in asylums such as Rampton and Broadmoor. Obviously, they’re the criminal element. But I’ve witnessed epileptics having fits and they’ve been treated as madman. It’s a fact, sad but true.

So these asylums cater for every kind of insanity. But, bear in mind — we are all criminals … in our own ways. My crime was armed robbery, but I was turned into a madman whilst serving a prison sentence. I became violent and difficult to control. I was created by a very brutal system which meets violence with violence. I became what I am today. I’ll now die with the label ‘mad dog’.

A doctor once told me in Broadmoor something I’ve never forgotten: ‘We only take the best here, and you’re the best.’

I often think about this, and what he said was true. And it doesn’t just go for Broadmoor, it goes for any of the secure asylums. Once you’ve been certified criminally mad, it’s never forgotten. How can they afford to forget — police, doctors, probation officers, social services, courts, prisons and, of course, not forgetting the public? Ask anybody — would you want an ex-madman living next door? It’s difficult enough being an ex-convict. It’s doubly hard for us ‘madmen’. Believe it.

Nowadays, when the police come for me, it’s with guns! One false move from me and I’m dead. They come for me with instructions to shoot. They know it; I know it. It’s a miracle I’m still alive today. On their part, it’s fear of the unknown.

They ask themselves: ‘What will he do?’ ‘How will he react?’ ‘Will he go mad?’ ‘Will he bite?’ ‘Will he be armed?’ They’re pumped up with fear. Adrenalin pumping, fingers tense on the trigger, brains racing. And I’m cool as a cat! The name ‘Charles Bronson’ causes panic! The name ‘Mickey Peterson’ causes stress! The police all love to arrest me, as I’m the most exciting madman they will ever bring in! It’s a fact. So here I am, years later, and I’m still the madman.

There is no escaping my past:

And all for what? All for a label of madness. I’ve achieved absolutely fuck all … just a ‘mad dog’ tag.

Looking back at the years I spent in the asylums, I’m now convinced some of that insanity rubbed off on to me. And I’m also convinced my ending will be a police ambush. They will shoot me dead. It’s a fact of life!

I’m actually lucky to be alive today. Way back on 25 February 1993, I had a dozen police marksmen aiming at my head — from my point of view, not a nice sight. Fortunately, I was with somebody, otherwise I believe they would have shot me dead. It’s a fact of life, which I’ve come to accept!

I have received a raw deal just like Michael Peterson from Durham County in North Carolina, USA. Some would say I’ve dug my own grave. Some would say, ‘Shoot the nutcase.’ Say what you will, but I say, ‘It takes two to tango.’

Mad people are very emotionally orientated! They have complex feelings, they’re easily upset, but are also easy to please! Most mad people have lonely lives, as nobody understands them. So they become ‘lost souls’. They dream a lot, go within their minds to search — some will turn strange and become dangerous. So a madman is created. His world becomes a mission. Bear in mind, every madman was once a lovely, innocent baby; every mother’s little angel. Man was not born to be shot down like a ‘mad dog’. All mad dogs end up in a pool of blood, or a cage for life. Either ending is a disaster; a waste of life. It wasn’t worth being born!

DEAD EYES

I’ve watched the old men in the asylums. Men of 70, even 80, who have been locked away all their lives. I’ve even seen them die, go to sleep in a chair and never wake up. They arrived 40-odd years before in a straitjacket, and left in a body bag. They only ever knew one life — madness.

But when these madmen get to a certain stage, their eyes go dead. There is no more sunshine, no more to see, just memories in a cage. Forgotten men. They’re just waiting to die.

There is a hell before they arrive. I’ve spoken to these old men. I’ve tried to understand them, but they’re too far gone. Their eyes say it all. It’s a bit like looking into a hole in the earth … emptiness!

I’ve always said to myself, over and over, ‘Don’t end up this way.’ Well, I’ve spent nearly two-and-a-half decades behind closed doors and nearly three decades behind bars — I’m still in a fucking cage! So I had better be careful. I don’t want dead eyes — the bullet would be better.

I personally could never come to terms with my label of ‘Criminally Insane’. Just because of my violent outbursts in prison, it doesn’t mean to say I’m mad. Obviously I had become a disruptive element within the penal system. Uncontrollable! Unpredictable! But that doesn’t make me insane!

I’ll go as far as admitting I had problems, severe psychological problems. The reason for this was that my prison life had become a war. I felt every day was a struggle, so violence was inevitable! It was the only way to get myself heard. One doctor once told me I was a victim of my own notoriety. Prison officers saw me as a threat, so they made my life hell. And, basically, that’s what pushed me over the edge.

I survived every sort of punishment and, in the end, there was no more, only to be certified mad. The asylums really opened my eyes. They had a strange effect on my personality. As the years rolled by, would you believe, I became a more compassionate man. For example, in prison I would punch a con’s face in if he had killed his wife or mother, but I soon realised they were very sick people. Asylums are full of tragic cases. Some of these guys killed their whole families while in a depressed state.

I’ve seen them live with the memory, year after year. Smashing their heads into walls, cutting their throats, screaming in their sleep. They live on in horror, in a ‘drug haze’. Yeah, some of these old boys I’ve met in the asylums are tragic cases. They tell me if a man loses his roots, he also loses his soul. I believe this. I swear to God, the thought of me dying an old man in a madhouse just turns my blood cold! If this were my end, then I’d sooner die today.

A lot of these old boys have spent three-quarters of their life inside, so really it would be cruel to set them free. Imagine it! Fifty years in a lunatic asylum, living with dangerous killers, then at the age of 70 they free you! It just can’t happen! There were times I was up on the roof protesting for better treatment and better conditions, when some of these old boys were shouting up to me from their cell windows, ‘Come down, stop tearing our roof off.’

This used to confuse me, as in a prison cons would shout, ‘Tear the place to bits.’ But these old boys were in my heart. They had suffered more years than any men I knew. Obviously, they were mad or had been. One had killed two men with his bare hands. But that was long ago, before arthritis set in! These old boys were legends, historic, myths waiting to be born!

After a while, one learns to accept the madness. I was surrounded with it. Some of the madmen are really fun to be with, and I soon learned to relate to them. I soon became one of them. I ended up the maddest of the mad. There is no one madder than myself! Please believe it. But my madness is still a mystery. There is no cure, as there is no diagnosis. Over the years, I’ve been labelled all sorts. Nowadays, I just don’t care; I’ve taken the Frank Zappa stance. I am who I am! Some love me, some loathe me, some respect me and some despise me. But after all that’s been, I still love the insane, as they’re exciting, dangerous and highly explosive! For me, mad dogs are gentlemen.

I end this chapter with a poem of mine: