Lee Duffy once helped me trap a nonce in Armley Jail. That Leeds jail is one filthy shit tip. I collared this nonce in the showers; Lee Duffy was with me. Lee was a Middlesbrough lad, a hard fucker. He got out and was stabbed to death. Lee held this maggot while I opened up on him. I hit him a good 20 times, then I held him and Lee hit fuck out of him. Later that day, I found a tooth in my right knuckle. I felt quite sick to think I had a nonce’s tooth in my body. Lee Duffy was a good lad and he hated nonces too! RIP.

Schaefer the Pen — I can’t forget this con’s name, up on D-Wing at Wandsworth in the 1970s. His father died and some slag screw upset him and it sparked him off. I was in the seg unit and when they dragged him down, I shouted, ‘Leave him alone, you bullies.’ Lovely fellow he was. Later, that same screw got done. That’s how prison is, see. Even the screws can’t always get away with it, we all have to pay a price, same as me. One day, I’ll get it in the neck and maybe the screws will kill me. Nobody can escape in jail. Take the Strangeways Prison riot — who was safe there? I’ll tell you — no fucker was!

Princess Fergie visited Wormwood Scrubs the day I was in the block. I saw her out of my window with all the faceless people. She got some verbal that day off the lads: ‘Show us your tits, Fergie.’ ‘Give us a butchers at your bush, Fergie.’ ‘Give us a wank, Fergie.’ It was funny … I got fed up shouting after a while.

Leon Brittan visited Parkhurst when I was there. I’d have loved to have wrapped him up; what a hostage a Home Secretary would make! He was a nasty piece of work as far as Home Secretaries go. Jack Straw was a pussy compared to old Leon. Michael Howard was a little ferret! He caused some trouble! They just don’t realise the trouble they cause when they get silly with new rules — why can’t they leave the jails as they are? A jail is a jail; why pretend it’s anything else?

They go on about how they are there to help offenders return to a non-offending life and what a cushy time we have in here — bollocks! Stop kidding yourselves … accept it, we come in and go out later to catch up on where we left off. Behind every door there is a dream! In my case, it’s a fucking nightmare!

Tommy Tedstone is a top legend from the ‘Port’ (Ellsmere Port), which was only a small place at one time, but it was a place to be proud of; its fighters are hard men, particularly Tommy Tedstone, also known as House Brick.

Look, we’ve all got skeletons in the cupboard that we hope to run from! I’m gonna come clean now. This is my confession to clean up a crazy incident. Fuck me, it’s so long ago, but I’ve gotta clear a guy who all the Old Bill believes it was. So here goes!

Ellsmere Port, late ’60s. I was living with my grandparents for a spell in Great Sutton, Belington Road. I was a hod carrier earning good cash, but I was also half a villain; nothing big, the odd smash and grab, the odd nicking a motor and the regular punch-up or two. The Ellsmere Port lads were a tough breed, guys like Ray Williams, Ray Hitchen, Scully and Eric Bell, brother of Bobby Bell, the wrestler.

So I got nicked and ended up in the ‘old cop shop’. The new cop shop is opposite the Viscount pub, but the old one was down by the magistrates’ court, in the town centre. The ‘pigs’ were kind of rough with me. Fuck me, I was only a lad, so I swore to myself, ‘Round two, I’ll have ’em!’

They charged me with criminal damage, but never nicked me for hitting out with a chair or jumping on them. Why? ’Cos they then gave me some of what I gave them — fair play. I’ve no problem, but I still want round two; that’s how I am, see!

So I thought hard about it and decided they deserved a lesson. It was a Friday night; I’d been paid that day so I was buzzing. I shot down the alley of the ‘pig shop’; all was peaceful and, in those days, only a handful were on nights.

I squatted and had a crap! I shit on a rag I found. Hell, I was laughing as I did it – well, I was half-pissed – then went to work. I put shit on the car door handles, gates, doors and bicycles, everywhere, even on the dog kennel doors. Took me ages, but I did it and scarpered.

Some time later, I bumped into Tommy Tedstone and he told me the story about when the pigs pulled him in and laid into him for shitting their place up.

‘No!’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘and I never did it, Chas, but I’m only fucking saying, I never.’

‘Bastards,’ I said. ‘Hey, I wonder who did it?’

‘Fuck knows,’ he said, ‘but if I find out, I’ll kill him!’

Confession time — Tommy, it was me, mate, sorry, pal … but what could I say or do? That’s how life is, brother. At least you’re a man who can take what they can give and at the end of it all, you came out on top.

Andy Dougall was a big 19st Scotsman. I first met him in the 1980s in Ashworth. They were terrified of him; one day he just lost the plot and wrecked the ward; it looked like a fucking bomb site. They injected him and slung him in a van and moved him back to Parkhurst. The asylums just could not handle Andy! So that proves what a load of crap it all is. They want people off who are violent in prison, and then when we get out of hand in the asylum they can’t handle us, so they re-write us off as sane and send us back to jail; it’s mad, all mad.

But what do they send us back to? Treatment in torture? Andy originally got lifed off over castrating a poof. This guy actually found Andy half-pissed and sleeping rough as a homeless victim living in London sleeping in boxes and doorways. The geezer took pity on Andy and took him home. What a fucking brainless prat he must have been by taking Andy home!

Andy was one of Glasgow’s most dangerous men. And when he awoke in the poof’s bed, he found a hairy pair of bollocks in his face! That did it; the blade came out and off they came; his dick was cut off along with them. Amazingly the poof survived, but Andy got life. It’s always the same, the good get the worst, as I don’t know any man who wouldn’t have done the same as Andy. Well, what would you have done? Think about it. You’re waking from a lovely hazy dream and a pair of bollocks are dangling in your face, so what do you do?

Prison turned Andy mad. Up in Wakefield Jail, they got Andy on a lot of psychotic drugs but they just sent him more violent. He jumped a screw and almost bit his nose off, so they built a cage for him in the hospital. After a spell, he moved to Ashworth, then Parkhurst. It was at Parkhurst I next met him; it was on C-Unit, which was for violent men. Andy, now 21st, was sad to see. One day, big Chris Moody chinned him and Andy was so drugged he could not even hit back. I grabbed Moody and smashed his head into the wall; Moody was a big, fat, brainless prat from Hull. Andy later went to Bristol Jail, to their lifers’ wing, and that’s where he mysteriously died.

It was breakfast time at the hot plate; he threw a wobbler and smashed it up; the screws jumped him and he later died — they said it was a heart-attack. So many end up like Andy Dougall. I call them the walking dead — drugged up, fucked up and waiting to die. But we always say that a violent life ends violent. We have to accept it; we are what we are, so it’s no good crying about it. Screws fear us, so when they come in to get you it’s not with kid gloves and kindness. It’s violence. ‘Get the bastard, lads, kick his fucking head in; strangle the fucker; break his legs.’

Rosemary Kingsland and Terri Stevens got passed to see me when I was in the Wakefield cage. I had never met them before; Rosemary is a famous writer, having been responsible for the PJ Proby biography and many bestsellers. My favourite was the one she did on the natives of South America. She actually lived amongst them for two years to research their way of life; one brave lady. Terri is a brilliant singer; she’s been compared to Shirley Bassey. Two lovely ladies I admire.

Rosemary was going to be writing my life story — or I should say we were discussing it — but it all fell flat. As usual, that’s how life is … up and then down, but no problem. There was a queue to do my story, at least ten good writers; in the end, Ackroyd did one and Richards did two others and a good job they did, too.

But that visit was one of the most amazing visits I ever had, if not the most amazing visit in the history of penal visiting. I was in the cage, a gruesome hole, in the belly of the beast; Rose and Terri sat outside.

We got chatting and I said, ‘Terri, can you sing a Timi Yuro (Rosemarie Timothy Aurro Yuro) number for me, it’s called “Hurt”.’ Timi Yuro is known primarily as a one-shot artist for her fantastic version of ‘Hurt’ in 1961. It was a record Ron Kray let me hear and it’s a favourite of mine.

Terri said, ‘I sing that number in my act.’

Well, to say I was bowled over … I was blown away.

She sang it loudly:

The whole fucking jail could hear it. When she finished, the screws were clapping and cons were cheering; it was brilliant. Reg Wilson was in the next cage; he said later it was brilliant. Reg was serving natural life, and he got more time for trying to strangle a governor. Hell, that was one visit I’ll never forget.

Stories like this you couldn’t make up; it’s just fate, meant to be, it stays in your head, a lovely memory. And do you know what? She cried as she sang it, just like Shirley Bassey does, right outside my cage door. What a memory! What a singer! What a visit! Terri and Rosemary were both sad and disgusted over the conditions I was kept in, but that song just done it for us all. It was a part of history in the making.

Screws said later they had never heard a voice like it, and with it being in the dungeon it echoed so it was three times as loud; noise travels in a dungeon, that’s why you hear the screams of the tortured souls having nightmares … or getting a kicking. I’ve not heard from Terri or Rosemary for years, so thanks for that day. Fucking awesome!

Curtis Warren was in Armley Jail when I met him in the ’80s, on remand for a big drugs trial. He was acquitted, then he later got nicked again and copped a 12 stretch out in Holland. Whilst serving the sentence, he allegedly killed a fellow con — such is life! He’s said to be worth £100m, so they say.

If I owned that much I’d buy my own prison and have Dave Courtney as the governor and I’d have a special furnished cage built just for me. It would have all the mod cons, TV, bar, jacuzzi and I’d have my wife, Saira, in for Saturday nights. I’d make it a lovely jail and there’d be no trouble in the Cat ‘A’ section. Any trouble and then all the troublesome cons would be shot, simple as that. I’d have no fucking about in the Bronco jail, neither would Dave Courtney, but you’d be treated decently.

Tony Balderesso got out and blew his own brains out! He got trapped after a robbery; he could either give himself up and come back to jail for 20 years, shoot himself or let the pigs do it. He did it himself — bang! One good man he was — he chose heaven instead of coming back to hell.

Mick Ahmed is an old mate of mine. I first met Mick in the early ’70s up in Hull Jail. Fuck me, he could have a serious fight, and that’s probably why I took to him — I love a fighter. Whilst Mick was serving his sentence, his missus was playing about … so he got out and blew her away. He sadly got life, but what a smashing man.

Big Patsy Flanagan carved Mick Ahmed up in Gartree, and almost took him out! Mick, to this day, has a big hole in his chest, but he was strong and survived. Patsy, I must say, took him a bit slippery, as Mick was just getting out of bed and was half-asleep. They were pals, too!

I was in Gartree in the 1980s when Mick’s dad died; a sad day for Mick, I felt for him. His father was a proud Asian man, a very well-respected man; it blew a big hole in Mick’s life. He’s now out and doing well.

Ron Gibson got seriously served up in Parkhurst by a mob of Londoners, but Ronnie deserved it. He did get silly at times but he survived it and kept silent. That’s how you suss a guy out. Many grass, go for compensation, play on the sympathy side and it may get them parole, but they’re just rats and reptiles.

Sonny Carroll was a funny fucker, a typical Scouser. He got up on the bathhouse roof in Walton Jail for a spot of sunbathing. An all right game fucker, but done too much bird.

Les Joyce had a nice escape when he had it away from Maidstone Jail; he later died on the run. At least he died free!

Micky Fenton had a nice escape, too, off the van! We all knew he was gonna make a break; he was on his way for accumulated visits to his local jail from Parkhurst. He pulls out a tool and hijacks the van. Sadly, he only lasted a short spell and we were all gutted when he came back to Parkhurst, but it was a legendary escape.

That’s always been my dream, to escape, but I’m under such heavy security. I’m forever cuffed up to two burly screws, plus I’m cuffed to myself! If I’m not like that, I’m in a body belt! How can I escape? It’s just not fair, they don’t give me a fucking chance! But now I’m older and wiser, I see no point in making an escape, ’cos I’ve got my family to think about. I do want to spend my autumn years with them in freedom … legally!

Did you know Patsy Kensit’s old dad was once nicked with Ron and Charlie Kray (nothing big), but it’s probably his claim to fame to be nicked with the Krays! Jimmy Kensit was his name. Ron told me years ago, ‘Strange how a lot of the big stars like to hang around with the “faces”.’ Well, stay clear of me — you’ll get a bad name with me. You’ll end up in the asylum, I tell you!

Patricia Jude Francis Kensit, born 1968, in Hounslow, London, says that, early in her career, she was advised to pretend her father was an antiques dealer. Patsy’s childhood memories are of criminals coming to her house. ‘When I was little, I remember opening a door and seeing all these men doing what they called a “count up” in our living room. I’d never seen so much money. It was difficult for me as a child because I was never allowed to have friends over to my house like other children.’

Frank Conteh, John Conteh’s brother, was a flash fucker. I think Frank was serving a six stretch — may have been seven. He thought he was his brother, John, and lived off John’s image. What a fighter John was … awesome! I’d say he was one of the finest fighters we’ve ever produced in his weight division; a natural born fighter he was.

Harry Roberts, Freddie Sewell, John Duddy, Charlie McGhee and so many other cop killers … I’ve done bird with them all and all of them, believe it or not, are nice guys. Freddie used to make clocks; Harry used to make jewellery boxes and Charlie used to rebel against authority! He later died up in Frankland very mysteriously. Duddy died in Parkhurst from a heart-attack. You’d be amazed at how many die in jail, especially under mysterious circumstances.

Winston Silcott has had a tough old time of it. In 1984, Winston was the victim of a knife attack by three men at a party. Winston was handed a knife and ended up stabbing Anthony Smith. Winston reported the attack to the police, and was arrested. Two weeks later, Anthony Smith died from the knife injuries. His face and abdomen had been slashed, he had a lacerated lung, and had been stabbed in the heart.

Winston gets bail. But the following year, 1985, a police officer, Keith Blakelock, was murdered during the Broadwater Farm disturbances in North London. Three men were arrested — Engin Raghip, Mark Braithwaite and Winston Silcott.

All three men protested their innocence. Police photographs of Winston were released to the press forever condemning him a murderer. He was guaranteed an unfair trial for the death of Anthony Smith in the atmosphere of retribution.

So Winston was banged up for life with no future, but in 1991 the ‘Broadwater Farm Three’ were pardoned and freed. Mark Braithwaite and Engin Raghip were released, but Winston remained in prison, serving a life sentence for the death of Anthony Smith. Now that’s what I call insanity! You win some and you lose some!

Big H McKinney killed five … but did he? Some say he was a London hit-man, all 6ft 7in of him, but I say he got a raw deal. John Childs, the supergrass, went QE on Big H, putting him away for life, but ‘H’ is still fighting his case after more than 20 years. That’s a long time to fight — endless time! He’s still in max secure, an old man dying. I believe he’s innocent, I really do!

Eddie Browning got life over the Marie Wilkes murder. It was a horrific case. She broke down on the motorway; she was pregnant and she got stabbed to death. Browning claimed he was innocent; I believe him and it turned out he was when he won his appeal, but not without serious mental scars. Browning has since cracked up and ended up in a ‘nuthouse’. I hope he can fight it, I really do, but I doubt he ever can.

The compensation can’t ever make it right! The system destroys people, turns them mad. Go ask the Birmingham Six how they feel or the Guilford Four, or all the other poor sods who have spent years in jail under this insane system. Go and ask the families how they feel, or see the graves (many died from the stress). Compensation can’t bring them back. That’s what it does, first insanity and then death! You die mad … no one wants to know, people forget.

Ruth Ellis — do you remember her? You should do, ’cos this country killed her, hanged her ’til she was dead. She killed her lover, a crime of passion, and we killed her. Did you know women who hang have to wear big plastic pants to stop their insides falling out? It can be messy! You probably don’t want to know, as you may not like to know the gruesome details.

Did you know most hangings never even snapped the neck of the alleged criminal, they choked to death? It’s fucking madness; we hung Ruth Ellis in the mid ’60s; she was the last woman to be topped in the UK. Not so long back, is it? A true tragedy of British justice. Ruth Ellis was the fifteenth and last woman to be hanged in England in the twentieth century. Fifty thousand signatures on a petition for mercy were sent to the Home Office. Typical of them, they took no notice of it. Just like the Home Office of today … out of touch with society.

Albert Pierrepoint, the notorious hangman, had dropped more than 400 in his 25-year reign as king of the hangmen. At Holloway Prison, Ruth Ellis was led into the execution chamber at 9.00am on 13 July 1955 and, without fuss, Pierrepoint was to have Ruth swinging within ten seconds of her entering that room.

Her wrists were strapped behind her back and her ankles were shackled. She was then placed over the gallows trapdoor. Pierrepoint then placed a white hood over her head, securing it with the noose. He tightened the rope around her neck, adjusting the rope’s suspension point about one inch in front of her lower left jaw. The lever was pulled; the doors opened with a bang — CRACK! Ruth Ellis’s neck snapped and she was dead.

I met a screw in Wandsworth who had worked in Holloway, and he swore he saw the ghost of Ruth Ellis. I believe him, ’cos if I was Ruth I’d have come back to scare the shit out of the system. What a wicked nation we are! I’ve met cons in the death cell waiting to be hanged; obviously, by the time I met them, they were reprieved and left with a life sentence.

Big George Wilkinson was maybe the most violent man in the system that I can recall. In the ’70s he was a feared man, a big strapping six-footer with a 56in chest; no gym, just natural build. He was a Geordie, and he fucking loved a hostage or two. The cages were built for the likes of George, as he had awesome power; in Durham Jail he took the doors off!

Big Lenny McLean never did much bird; he was too smart for it. He knew how to stay out, but the bit he did, he did his way; if Lenny had ever got big bird, I think he would have found it hard to get out. Sure as day turns to night, he would have ended up in a cage for the incurable if not the insane, as it was Lenny’s nature to lash out at idiots! Fuck with people like Lenny and you got a slap, so he would have been slapping screws all day long.

Billy Williams, or Bill the Bomb, is a classic example; anyone who knows the ‘Bomb’ will say, ‘He’s a diamond, a top guy, a true Eastender!’ But in jail, Bill gets into lots of aggro, as it’s his nature to lash out at mugs! If you fuck with Bill, you get a right hook, simple as that! And you could never count how many copped hold of that ‘Bomb’ … you’re out cold. But he’s not a bully: he’s just a man who lives by a code of conduct; he will warn you, tell you to behave, ask you to behave and then, if it don’t work — BANG! Lights out!

Proper men are never gonna accept the life of a budgie; it’s frustrating and soul destroying being told when to eat, when to get up, what to do and what not to do by a bunch of fucking idiots who come under the label of ‘officer’. Well, they’re screws, not officers; they’ll never be anything in my eyes. They’re jailers, faceless people; in fact, I’ll go as far as describing them as misfits, ’cos I just could not see half of them getting a job anywhere else! Fortunately, there are always a few who shine through, decent men doing a fair job. Without the small minority, the whole system would fall and crumble at the seams!

The Ape Man strangled Catweasel in Whitemoor with a fellow inmate called Caine. They both got life for it. Catweasel was a right nonce; they should have got a gold watch each. But the Ape Man is no angel himself; he got put away for life for killing an old woman, and before that he did time in Ashworth asylum for ‘noncing’ a kid. I actually met the Ape Man in Ashworth in the early ’80s; he was only a lad of 18 or 19 at the time. He looked like one of those Planet of the Apes stars; same face, eyes and nose. I always laugh when I see him, as he makes me feel good … well, compared to him I’m like Brad Pitt. But when he snuffed out Catweasel, it sort of told me he’s not a bad chap; he did society a favour there.

I think I’ll write a book, Evil Bastards, ’cos I’ve met so many of them. Do you know most evil bastards are basically cowards? Take that Hamilton scumbag who did the Dunblane Massacre. Why did he kill all those kids? Evil! Why did Robert Black kill those three kids? Evil! Evil is evil! There is no reason. Why did Ronnie Biggs nick £2m? To live to enjoy, but look where he ended up … back in old Blighty and in the clink!

Harry Johnson (Hate ’Em All Harry) I met in Walton Jail, Liverpool, in 1974. It was my first meet with him. Now all you so-called psychos out there, you’re just fairies compared to Harry! Harry was the original psycho, fearless, hateful and violent. He could offer you a sweet with one hand and stuff a blade in your gut with the other … and then take his sweet back!

There was this dickhead on our wing, who put his nose where it didn’t belong. I gave him a gypsy’s warning, ‘Oy, be careful,’ but like all dickheads he didn’t listen. Harry wanted to weigh him in for real. Bear in mind, Harry was now serving 20 years and he’d only started off with seven! I told him, ‘Nah, leave it to me!’ Dickhead was lucky it was me. I bumped into him in the recess at 30mph and knocked him out stone cold! Suddenly, Hate ’Em All rushed in with a table leg and gave it to him! CRACK! WHACK! I had to hold on to him. ‘Blimey, Harry, slow down, you’ll fucking kill him!’ It was only then that I realised the true meaning of the word ‘psycho’! It was all over Harry’s face, eyes bulging, saliva and that sick grin; it sort of made my skin go tight.

I’ve fought from becoming a psycho; I don’t want to be one. There’s a time in a man’s life when he needs some peace. Sure, we all need to turn it on at times of pressure, but Harry was stuck in the psycho league, and he later died in prison.

But I loved Harry and always did; I believe prison turned him into the madman he was. A true legend, he cut George Ince; and he fought his way through and attacked his fair share of screws. That’s why I loved him … he did the screws. And when he cut Ince, that was good for me. Yeah, Hate ’Em All Harry was the original psycho!

Charlie Kray may as well have been given the death sentence when he got his 12 years for drug-dealing. They locked him up in Parkhurst. He was unwell, a bad ticker! What the fuck were they doing putting him in Parkhurst? Why not a low-category jail, a cushy jail where there’s proper treatment. Some humanity.

So he takes a turn for the worse; they rush him to St Mary’s Hospital. They bring Reg over from the mainland to see his dying brother. Reg had been inside for 33 years; he, too, was an old man, and he was cuffed up like a dog. Then Charlie died. Before Charlie, it was his other brother, Ronnie, and eventually Reg — three brothers. The Krays are no more — RIP.

Charles Bronson, me, I’m a serial hostage-taker, the only one Britain’s ever had, and all my hostages have been taken inside. I’ve taken 11 hostages over the years, although the total is not strictly true because the Dr Wilson incident at HMP Winston Green was a half-hearted effort. I just had him in a head lock for a short time before having the shit kicked and punched out of me — all caught on prison CCTV video, and seen by Jack Straw.

On the video, you see double-fisted blows pummelling into my torso; you see the boots flying in and you see upwards of 50 screws attending to my urgent need for a good kicking. The video footage was banned by the High Court, so you good people wouldn’t see what really goes on inside prison. If this is a lie, then let the Home Office sue me and sue the publisher of this book. My legal team has the evidence; maybe Mr Blunkett might be interested in seeing it.

Each hostage siege is different; let’s take the last one where I did the teacher Phil Danielson at Hull. I lost the plot, I was afraid, in fear of my life. Sure, I did it, but what made me snap? The system made it happen, like it makes me lose my mind, it drives me mad! They tell me lies and I swallow them and then I choke. Then I have to hurt people.

They want to see me in a hole. Pour more shit on me. Torture the mad dog. I never wanted it; I never deserved it, and so I grabbed the teacher. I tied him up like a Christmas turkey. He was all mine!

I got depressed, I mean big time — dangerous! I ripped out the washing machine; there were three inches of water on the floor. The room went black. My heart blew up. A death chamber; death row; sizzle! The live electric cable had dropped into the water I was standing in! That’s how it is with insanity, but I survived it!

Two-and-a-half days later, I let him go free. I went back into the hole of shit, pain and agony, screaming all the fucking way. In that time, Phil Danielson, while in my custody, accused the Prison Service of abusing his human rights. It can be clearly heard on tape, which was recorded by the Prison Service. Now doesn’t that tell you something?

Tony Crabb is a good pal of mine; he got life for a murder he never committed. His case will never go away. His solicitor, Vicky King, will not let it go away either. Vicky is one of those solicitors who fights all the way. She takes on cases others run from. Tony is in his middle 40s. Recently, he’s been collapsing, with blackouts and serious head pains. It’s fucking obvious to us all that he needs proper treatment, tests. His blackouts are regular! Screws have had to go into his cell, pick him up and put him on his bed. What the fuck do screws know? So you can see the madness in prison life. I’m a lunatic, but even I know he needs proper treatment; but the poor guy can’t fucking get it in here.

Joe Varadis (Joe the Greek) got 18 years for armed robbery, all 5ft 3in of him. I rate Joe as one of the most violent men I’ve met. Screws and cons were terrified of Joe. Fuck with Joe and you get seriously hurt. It was at Bristol he put 48 stitches in a screw’s face. The screw thought he could take liberties with Joe.

Joe slapped him, or so the screw thought. He saw his shirt turn red and he soon realised he had been cut. Another time at Parkhurst, somebody said to Joe, ‘Get to an outside hospital, it’s easy to escape.’ So he cut his stomach so badly his guts popped out! Joe was just violent, no fear.

He later got deported back to Greece but was shot dead on an attempted escape. That’s Joe — pure madness at its very best. Born violent, lived violent and died violent. I met Joe in the Scrubs block in the ’80s. At that time, I myself was very violent; it was around that time I dived on the new governor, and strangled him. Oh well, that’s life. Unfortunately, the screws saved him.

Frank Birley was a tough fucker — fearless and awesome! One day, up in Full Sutton, two guys stabbed him, cut him up big time. But could they put him down? Could they fuck! Frank survived it. He got 15 years at the age of 20 for big-time robbery. He served his sentence like the man he was.

Once, up in Frankland, he hit a screw so hard he broke his jaw and cheekbone. Frank got out months later and was shot dead in an accident. His mate was carrying a gun, he slipped on a grassy bank and the gun went off! A sad end to a great man we all liked.

Frank had this aura of fear around him; when he walked into a room, you knew it. All knew it. Frank spent his time in max secure, all of his years. He gave them his best shot.

Winney McGee was another violent Jock! I met Winney in Parkhurst in 1976. One night he got a knife and chased all the screws off the wing. Winney loved a fight. He served his ten stretch, got out and was stabbed to death. That’s how it ends — death! Madness is just waiting for us madmen! And when it comes, you can’t stop it. Few of us, if any, rot away in a hospital bed riddled with cancer, having our arse washed by some nurse.

Barry Robinson hijacked a police car with an Old Bill in it from Rhyl, North Wales, to Blackpool, back in the early ’70s. They lifed him off. Barry was ex-Broadmoor and a great artist. I met him in Hull Jail in the mid-’70s. He did a painting for me. I got it framed and was gonna hand it out on a visit to my mum. Sadly, some Scottish prick upset me. Would you believe he came on heavy to me in my cell, so I nutted him and he fell on to my painting! That only upset me more, so I smashed the granny out of him.

Les Hilton was a man of fear; it oozed out of his paws. Les was a good pal of mine and so was his brother, Arthur — two hard men. Les was a big guy with a head of stone — one nut off him would put you in hospital. I used to play Scrabble with Les years ago, and I can tell you he took his game seriously. We played for Mars Bars. I was up a good 20, then some idiot upset him and off he went. When Les lost it, everyone knew about it; buildings trembled and bodies got busted up.

When Les was in Borstal in the ’60s, a mob tried to take him out. He’s lived with the welts and scars ever since. Ten could not put him away. Sadly, he got a 7in blade in his back in a Leeds street. He died free, as many in jail predicted he would die. Les was a hard man. He once bit a man’s throat in a fight. An awesome fighter and mad as a hatter.

Vee Jay was a woman I’d met in Holloway. She began to write to me. We built up something between us. For a good year, we wrote to each other. She sent me photos … she looked lovely. Then she got out; so she was up to see me, but she never said the photos she sent me were 20 years old! She had put on stones! It was like a fucking baby hippo walking into the room. Now I don’t want to be nasty, but it put me off my porridge. For a week after it sort of shook me up.

Now I blame my old pal, Lord Longford (RIP), as I sent him up to see her in Holloway. He never told me she was a hippo! He should have warned me. I never saw her again. We were supposed to be getting married, but I soon put a stop to that by saying that, once we were married and I was released, we wouldn’t be having sexual relations … what else could I say? Fuck me, she frightened the life out of me. She had shoulders on her like Frank Mitchell and hands like George Foreman. I could have got badly bruised with her in a clinch.

When big Stevie Lannigan took a works screw hostage in Wakefield Jail in the ’70s, they brought in armed cops. Steve got sent to Broadmoor for it. Would you believe he’s still locked up? I bet he wishes now they’d shot him.

Peter ‘Jock’ Murray was and is a bully. He was on C-Unit in Parkhurst with us in the ’70s. He was serving a six for violence, but all he ever did was cry about it, which was pathetic. At the time we had Ron and Reg Kray on the unit with a recommended 30 years apiece. One day, Murray got lemon in the kitchen area and I stuck a tool into his neck and told him if he ever moaned again I’d stuff it right in him. He was a big fat piece of dry shit, but sadly he got out and killed three youngsters up in Manchester and got life. He also abused and disrespected the Krays, who later made it known what a slag he was. I’m sorry I never plugged him that day, as it may have saved three youngsters’ lives. Dirty, fat, useless Scottish rat, I hope you die in a cell, you scumbag, and so does every decent con.

Emma Humphreys was a lovely girl; she served 10 years of a life sentence, got out and died of a broken heart. Such a sad life she had; some prick put her on the game when she was 16 years old; she stabbed him to death, but she should have got manslaughter. Emma, I still remember her so well; such a sad girl!

Big Webby was a lunatic and still is — a lifer, 20st of him, it’s his ambition to become the longest-serving lifer in history! What can you say to that? It’s one title I don’t fancy challenging! What a crazy fucking dream to have! If that’s not the classic sign of institutionalisation, then what is? Webby has lost his soul, mind and heart; he’s even lost his vision; that’s sad! Insanity drove him mad!

Mad Mitch was an errand boy. Ron Knox used to use him for picking up ‘bacca’. I met him in Parkhurst way back in the 1970s. Some of the tobacco would dwindle down, but you’ve got to make allowances for Mad Mitch (well, he had to be mad to fuck with Ronnie) and let’s face facts, there is no escape, not in a jail there ain’t.

It was just a normal day when my door hatch opened; it was Mitch, with his silly grin. He was on cleaning duty. ‘How much will you give me for this?’ he whispered while holding up a black wallet.

‘Who does that belong to, Mitch?’

‘I’ve just nicked it off a screw,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Yeah, out of the tea room, it was in a jacket.’

‘Fuck me, let’s see,’ I say.

‘There’s no money in it, but there’s documents and photos and the like.’

‘Give it here, Mitch.’

‘How much for it?’

‘I’ll get you some bacca!’

He slung it in and shut my hatch. Fuck me, a passport photo of one of the slags and his address and some other bits and pieces.

Now at this time in Parkhurst there was a lot of brutality going on, so it was only right to get back at them — but I had to work fast. I went on the yard and buried it in a bag, as I sensed Mitch would shout his mouth off … and how right I was. At 1.00pm that day, my door burst open. ‘Where is it?’ Eight of them, all in those boots!

‘Where’s what?’

‘The wallet Mitch gave you.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said.

After a good search, they fucked off. The next day, I got it back. The following day, a pal passed it out on a visit. It was all set. The screw got some strange calls. Funny how that place got better overnight. ‘More cake, Charlie?’ ‘More spuds, Chas?’ Life got so much sweeter for us all, but nothing lasts. That screw mysteriously left, plus Mad Mitch was never seen after that! Little rat. But the cake was nice while it lasted.

Scullion, the little prick, got two life sentences for murder. It was in Long Lartin in early 1992. He was a hobbit, a strange one. His cell was done out like a shrine — candles, Bibles, etc. He spoke little to anybody and he was a scruffy fucker. All my pals were there — Noel Gibson, Alan, Chris Haig, Stan Thompson, John Anslow, Alec Sears, John Bowden, Dominic Gallagher — so many legends. Great guys. Respect. Now I love a lunatic. Something about a madman is like a magnetic force to me.

Scullion, I noticed, was a loner, the silent type. I peeped in his cell … it told me the madness was there. I saw him in the recess. ‘Hi … I’m Charlie.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said. I shook his hand.

‘Scully, they call me.’

‘Oh, right! Err … do you like a drink, Scully?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t get much,’ he replied.

‘Sorted. You and me are on the piss later,’ I said.

I got a bucket of hooch (prison liquor); it doesn’t taste so good, but it works. I paid a tenner for it. I shot in his cell, but I had no clothes on … all I had on was a white sheet like the Pope. I also had a big wooden cross on a lace. I love a laugh — it was a joke. The party began. Scully and me were about to enjoy some madness. It was about 6.00pm. Lockup there was 9.00pm, so we had three hours of supping time.

By 7.00pm, I was fucking gone. We got singing songs, religious ones, but I changed the words: ‘He’s got the whole life world in his hands,’ I sang. ‘He’s got a sawn-off shooter in his hands,’ or ‘He’s got a plate of fish ’n’ chips.’ I was laughing, screaming, I was rolling in madness. Scullion was dancing and I was rocking. It was madness at its very best. I even blessed him. How the fuck I got back to my cell, God only knows; I was out of this planet.

I fell asleep in my Pope’s outfit, then — crash! My door flew open. Shields came at me: it was morning and all hell had broken out in my cell. They were trying to drag me out. I fought for my life. Fear, it drives you on. Madness is power. Would you believe they ran out, all ten of them with their shields and MUFTI gear on.

Next, all I heard was banging and shouting. ‘Leave him alone, you cunts. Charlie’s done fuck all.’

My head was whizzing and my mouth was cut. I felt like I was in a nightmare. Then a governor arrived. ‘Charlie, you have to go into the block.

‘But why, governor?’

‘A serious allegation is being made against you. I have no choice but to isolate you whilst we investigate it.’

‘But I’ve done fuck all, governor.’

‘Leave him alone, you slags.’ More bangs.

‘Look, let me speak to the lads,’ I said as I walked out. The entire MUFTI squad was up the top. I went to Noel Gibson’s cell. ‘What’s up, Noel? What the fuck have I done now?’

He said, ‘Best you go down, and we will all steam into the office to sort it out.’

I shouted to the lads, ‘But I’ve done fuck all.’

Simon Bowden, the block cleaner, came to my door. I got on well with him. He’d escaped from Durham Jail in the late 1980s. A lovely escape. He’s also a good armed robber. The Newcastle boys can be proud of our Simon.

‘Chas, what the fuck’s up?’

‘I’ve done fuck all, Simon. I had a drink last night and they come into me like a herd of cattle before breakfast. Go and find out, Simon.’

The governor said to me, ‘You’re alleged to have raped an inmate!’

‘What!’ I went fucking mad. ‘Raped a geezer? Me? How? Why? I couldn’t. I’ve never even had a women’s arse, let alone a geezer. It’s not me; so there it is.’

A police investigation — I could not believe it. The governor knew it was all shit. It turned out the inmate is a nutcase and he had made similar allegations three times before and all were the same lies.

The police came in! I took a blade with me on the visit, hiding it in my mouth. My lawyer was there and two Old Bill. I pulled the blade out. ‘Move and I’ll cut you all.’ I shouted to the screws, ‘Get me a plastic mug.’ I then sliced open the back of my hand. Blood rushed out like a tap. I then let it drip into the mug. Those mugs hold one pint. When it was three-quarters full, I then tore my T-shirt off and wrapped it around my hand. I gave the Old Bill the blood. I said, ‘Right, let’s stop fucking about. If I’ve shagged this inmates arse then test it. Here’s my blood to prove I haven’t. Now fuck off and get me the examination I need, as I’ve not fucked nobody’s arse, but I sure will with a table leg if this isn’t sorted out … and fast.’

It took three weeks to examine all the forensics. I got six copies of it, and I personally hung them on the notice board on each of the six wings in Long Lartin. The inmate stayed in the hospital wing, then moved on to Wakefield, where he belongs with his monster pals. That dirty piece of shit almost pushed me over the edge. Good guys helped me through that bad spell, as they all know it was insanity.

We have to seriously question this incident. If I was Joe Bloggs I may have been stabbed up over it. But everyone knew me and after more than 20 years in jail, a man doesn’t just start pumping arseholes. It’s not in me to do it. And what was the inmate doing on the landing? It was known that he had made such statements before that were also of no substance. Or was he put up to it? Was it a plot to life Bronson off? Was it a plot to make me a target? Whatever it was, it was evil.

Days later, a screw called Brittain fell over outside my door. I grabbed his neck and lifted him up. He ran off shouting, ‘Bronson attacked me.’ The truth is, I never, but I wish I had now. I was moved; such a shame it wasn’t to Wakefield so I could fuck that inmate for real … with a table leg … without any Vaseline!

Delroy Showers is a top legend from Liverpool. It was in Walton Jail in 1974 where we had a sit-in. I got a pair of scissors to stab a screw with, but Delroy calmed it down. Maximum respect.

They made these fishhooks with feathers on and plastic kids’ watches in this workshop. I got half-a-dozen of these hooks, very sharp. This big, fat, useless, beer-bellied screw was on. A rat. Always nicking cons over silly things. We called him the ‘Walton Walrus’.

I said to a con, ‘Get the Walrus off his chair for two minutes.’

‘Here, boss, look at this,’ the slave said.

I strolled over to his chair and pushed some hooks into the cushion. If I only had a camera as the Walrus sat back down on it! He went red, purple, you name it — you could see the pain in his eyes. Our eyes met. He knew. He knew I knew he knew. I just smiled. Fuck you, Walrus. Next time it’s in your neck. We all despise bully screws; even other screws despise them. How can you respect a bully? You can’t. They’re scum.

John Childs was one evil bastard — the supergrass. He got a taste for murder and he started to enjoy cutting them up, putting them in a mincer and then burning them in his fireplace; they call him the ‘Butcher of the East End’. But, strangely enough, he was a fucking good armed robber; he had some lovely bits of work. But like that slag Berti Smalls he had to go and open his fat mouth and put good people away. He may as well have put Big H in the mincer as put him away for life. How the fuck can a grass sleep in peace after putting people in jail.

Bob Maynard and Reg Dudley got life in the ’70s in the Headless Corpse Trial. After they got life, the head turned up in a London toilet. Someone went in for a shit and a fucking head was in the pan, looking at him! A fucking nightmare or what? I met Bob in Wandsworth and then later in Parkhurst where he kept protesting his innocence. In July 2002 both Maynard and Dudley were cleared of the murder by the court of appeal. Good luck, lads.

If a man’s into shaging arses, prison’s got to be home from home. Me, I’ve never even shagged a bird’s arse, let alone a geezer’s. I’m afraid I’m old fashioned — arses are just arses to me. Sometimes I wish I could, as I’d not be as frustrated as I am. I’m just one of many who has to go without sex and pull my dick when I fancy releasing some tension.

Steve Lannigan was a serious customer, another six-footer, a Manchester lad; he got life when he was 17 years old. He’s still in, 30 years later! He took a screw hostage up in Wakefield; they sent him to Broadmoor over that, but Steve caused so many problems there they slung him back into the prison system. He pulled the roof off at Parkhurst; he’s just in a vicious circle! Last I heard he’s got a bad ticker; at 47 he’s looking 87 and he won’t make it … he knows it only too well; the body bag awaits! Just another statistic, sad but true.

Look at that Lily Savage geezer, heart-attack at 40-something! If you don’t look after your body then you pay a price. That’s why I’m constantly keeping fit. Wait ’til you read my book Solitary Fitness … it’ll blow you away!

Ferdie Lieveld is a big black guy. He got life in ’88 over some stabbings, but in the 14 years he’s been away, no man has survived so much violence as Ferdie! He’s been stabbed up, scalded and brutalised. You name it and he’s had it! Personally, I like the guy ’cos I love a survivor and he fights the system, so I admire that. But in Brixton, D-Unit, he had a problem with Charlie McGhee. Charlie was at the time on remand for armed robbery and shooting a ‘pig’. He was a seriously respected face; everyone respected Charlie.

Ferdie stabbed him with some scissors; in that attack, Mickey Reilly, another armed robber, smashed Ferdie with a table leg. Charlie was rushed to hospital and survived, but Ferdie was now a marked man amongst the London faces. Headquarters knew this, so it was their duty to keep Charlie and Ferdie apart.

Two years later, they put them both in the same jail up in Frankland. It happened on the yard. Ferdie got jumped on and stabbed up, but survived. So the question has to be asked, why were they together? Simple — it was planned. They are both Cat ‘A’ and both dangerous; the ‘pigs’ and the system hate both. Putting them together, one will die or get hurt. That’s the only reason, but the headquarters will not admit it. How can they? But they haven’t commented on how they made the mistake! Why? ’Cos they’re gutless, spineless pigs! That’s why, and it happens all the time!

Basically, they’re responsible for a lot of the violence in jails and they cause it! They love it when we attack and kill each other. Last time I saw Ferdie was about two years back in Woodhill unit; he’s still the same — smiling. The system can’t beat that man and it never will! These 14 years he’s served, I bet ten of those years have been spent in solitary. He sings, he laughs and he does his press-ups. Ferdie is a good man! Max respect!

John Cannon was three cells away from me in Whitemoor seg unit. I kept telling him to be a man and do the right thing and top himself; amongst the prison fraternity, they all believe he knows about the Suzy Lamplugh murder.

Old Bill Taylor was a nice old boy, ex-professional boxer; he got lifed off for killing his wife. She was playing about and he snapped and killed her. It was in Full Sutton about ten years back, I walked into the bathroom for a shower and Bill was in the bath. ‘Hey! Charlie, I don’t want to bother you, mate, but look at this.’ I looked at him standing in the bath. ‘Look, Chas.’

I couldn’t believe it; his bollocks were like blown-up balloons! ‘I can hardly walk, Chas — I’m in pain.’

‘Fucking hell, Bill, how has it got like that, have you seen a doctor?’

‘Few months, Chas, I think it’s cancer!’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘you gotta get some treatment, you can’t live like that!’

He finally saw the doctor and it was cancer, but it had spread to other organs; he had left it too late. He was a proud old boy; he died within six months. Insanity never had time to drive him mad; it just killed him. I used to have some nice chats with Bill about all the old-type boxers; he idolised Marciano, poor old sod.

Paul Sykes was in Walton Jail with me back in ’74. He got out and fought John L Gardner for the British Heavyweight title. Sadly, he lost. Gardner went on to manage a pub near Newcastle. During an attempted robbery in the ’90s, he was stabbed in the gut and became a shadow of his former self, refusing to even leave his home.

Paul’s a big Yorkshire guy who was born to fight. When he hits you, you go down and stay down — few get back up. In Strangeways on a protest in the yard, he knocked out the biggest screw in the jail. Only to be sticked and restrained by 20 more.

Paul’s got no fear; he is what he is … man amongst men. The crazy thing is his old dad was a screw in Wakefield. I bet his old dad lost some sleep over him. I remember when Paul got the prison cat and made a Davey Crockett hat out of it … he killed it and cut off its fur. That day, a lot of the cons hated him, but it’s incidents like that out of which legends are made!

Some of the best cons I ever met were in Liverpool; Scousers to me are such funny people — good hearts and a good sense of humour. Sadly, over the last ten years drugs have destroyed the Liverpool people and scumbags are taking over Liverpool! Just as in Manchester, a lot of scumbags are taking serious fucking liberties! Even kids are getting shot dead in the streets over drug wars; it wasn’t like that 10, 20 or 30 years ago. You had some proper villains up that way, men of honour and dignity with morals. The Scousers have always been decent to me, so it saddens me to hear about all the filth on the streets now.

Freddie Foreman, Eddie Richardson, Alan Byrne, Charlie McGhee, Ray Johnson, the Dunford brothers and my old pal Eddie Holland were all banged up in the ’80s in Full Sutton; some great guys there. I mean ‘top men’, real villains. Eddie Holland was a great fighter, a Leeds man. When I got out, I went to Leeds on some business and I met Eddie in the Trotters pub; he was on the door. That night, he knocked three out in the car park. That’s Eddie Holland for you — top man! You don’t mess with men of his quality. It was lucky it never got ugly, as that night I had three guns on me! Crazy! I actually thought at the time, Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound! I was buzzing, just out of jail, so shooting someone’s leg off would be fun — to me, at that time, it meant nothing. I’d probably have picked the leg up and bashed his head off with it!

Jack Cronin, my uncle, came to see me on a visit in Gartree in 1987. Kelly Anne was with him and she always used to smuggle me in a drink, vodka, a little treat for me. But on this visit I hadn’t eaten for two days and I was on one of my ‘clean outs’. I often stop eating for two or three days and I just drink fluids. I often like to clean out my system. You feel great; light, fast, healthy and even your shit shines. So on this visit the vodka hit me. I felt the room whizzing. How the fuck I got off that visit is beyond me. I don’t even remember why I knocked out a screw, but I remember waking up in the box in a body belt. That cost me 100 days’ remission and 56 days in solitary and a £10 fine, but that’s how it is in jail — mad!

Only weeks earlier, the most infamous prison escape took place in the UK. Gartree Prison, up, up and away. Bear in mind it was where I was released from 69 days earlier. I was set free, a Cat ‘A’. A Cat ‘A’ is a status of danger to the public; that’s how fucking insane it all is — we are labelled dangerous one minute and then let out the next!

Sid Draper and John Kendall were the two to escape. I know both, but more so Sid. I met Sid in Hull back in 1974; he had just copped a life sentence and 28 years after a robbery that went wrong. On our first meet, we got on great. John I met in Parkhurst some years back; he’s just pure gold, an Eastender, we all love him. So they flew out. The chopper landed on the football pitch and the screws just freaked out; even the dogs looked puzzled.

Good cons held a lot of screws back, so John and Sid could get on the rope. If it were not for them cons, it could not have happened. Men like John Anslow, top guys. Anyway, I’m in the police station being quizzed over the James Tobin jewellery robbery in Luton when one copper just said, ‘Nice little escape, Charlie, the other week.’ I looked at him; he smiled and said, ‘You wasn’t involved, was you?’ I looked again … he smiled. I thought, fuck me, do they think it was me? Sadly, John and Sid got caught. John first and Sid a year later.

Andy Russell was the guy who hijacked the chopper, another Eastender who became a pal of mine. It was while in Leicester Jail, when he was on a hunger strike, I got up on the roof for him to get him some publicity, as they were taking fucking liberties with him and his case. He was a game fucker; he got ten years over that escape and another 16, consequently, for a slag. But he did his bird like a man. He’s out now — well done. John Kendall’s also out. Poor Sid, though, is still in; such is life, but that was a beautiful escape, the only one of its kind in the UK.

Imagine it! You’re out on the exercise yard, walking around in max secure, screws watching, dogs and cameras; there’s two walls, a fence, razor wire and then out of the sky comes a roar, all look up … it’s coming closer. Is it SAS, is it terrorists or could it be a VIP? All stop. It lands on the football pitch, dogs barking, screws running and cons cheering.

Then two cons run for it, get in and up, up and away. ‘Tally ho … toodle pip, old chap … up yours, we shafted you pigs, have a nice Christmas.’

I’ve often thought about it. I believe if I were there that day, then I’d have run and hung on to the bottom of the chopper. I’d have had to. I couldn’t let a golden opportunity pass me by; it was freedom on a plate … flying out of hell. Leave the madness behind! I’d have dropped my pants and shit on the pigs as we went. I’ve always wanted to escape but I’ve as much chance of escaping as a pig can fly. It’s impossible when you’ve a label like me; I’m just a piece of the machinery — that’s what I am … rusted in!