The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (32 page)

I was small compared to some of the rugby players. Some of them were massive men. And there was one particular rugby guy they all called “Killer” because he’d killed a man on the rugby pitch when he punched him during a row between players. He was a very, very aggressive rugby player. Obviously passionate about the game, but aggressive and that’s what he was in prison for.

There was a lot of attitude within the prison but at least we were out from 7.45 in the morning to 8.45 at night. You were able to walk the grounds and had to go to your prison jobs. There was what’s called a tally four times a day: at 7.45 a.m., 11.45 a.m., 4.45 p.m. and 9 p.m. you had to be in your room, they’d come round and check. Some of the rooms had televisions, but not all of them. Connolly and I were over on one side of the building. After 9 p.m., you couldn’t go to the other side of the building. There were two TV lounges our side of the building and two TV lounges the other side of the building. In the day, each of the TV lounges had a designated TV channel but after 9 p.m., though, there was sometimes a bit of fraction between people who wanted to watch
different
programmes on the only two televisions they could watch.

I didn’t go in the TV lounge much anyway because the
documentaries
and the soaps don’t appeal to me. I’m a film man. I spent most of my time writing letters and stuff. On this particular night my brother asked me if I wanted to come down and watch this film,
Air Force One
. Gary Oldman is in the film and so is the one from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
[Harrison Ford]. So I said, “I’ve seen the film, Connolly, loads of times.”

Anyway Connolly for some reason insisted on me coming down to watch the film. I thought to myself, “Well, he’s insisting that I go down, so I’ll go down.” As I was on my way down to watch the film, there were a lot of lads who wanted to watch the film standing outside this TV room. They were small, insignificant guys, including one particular guy we’d nicknamed Joe 90 because that’s who he looked like, but we didn’t call that to his face because we didn’t want to bully him.

So I walked past them and there were eight or nine of the rugby team in this particular TV room. Now, most of the time they were upstairs in the other TV room because Killer, one of the rugby guys, was on the landing upstairs and a lot of the rugby guys used to congregate around him. He seemed to have respect among the rugby players because of his rugby aggression and his passion for the game. When I walked into this particular TV room, Killer was sitting there with seven or eight other rugby players, which was strange.

So, as I walked in, I said “How’s it going, Killer? Are you watching the film?”

He said, “No, the snooker’s on.” It was the night that Peter Ebdon was playing Stephen Hendry in the final.

I said, “Oh, there’s a good movie on.” And Killer looked at me and he said, “I’ve just told you the snooker’s on.”

I thought to myself, “Say nothing.” I’d earned being in Category D. I’m not saying I was enjoying my sentence, but I was enjoying this particular prison a lot more than the lock-up. So I thought, “Over a TV film? No. I’ll walk out.” So I turned and I said, “No problem, lads.”

As I’m walking out, there’s the group of insignificant guys that I’ve come past. As I’m walking out, I could see in their faces that they couldn’t understand why the big man was walking out. Connolly’s obviously told these young lads that his big brother Joe was going to get the film put on for them. And he’s now wondering why his brother, who in his eyes is a tough guy, is walking out. It’s not like me.

So Connolly said, “What are you doing, Joe?”

“Ah, they’re watching the snooker, Connolly, leave them to it.”

“No, we all want to watch the film, there’s a load of us want to watch the film.”

“Sorry, lads, let them watch their snooker.”

“Joe, the snooker’s on upstairs as well. Half of them are cheering Ebdon and half of them are cheering Hendry. They’ve got both rooms.”

“‘What! They’re watching the snooker upstairs as well?”

“Yeah. They’ve took both rooms. They’ve put us all out.”

“Ah, I’m not having that.”

So I turned and I walked back in. I walked to the television and I switched the television over. I turned and I looked at Killer. “The film’s on. You got a problem with that? If you haven’t got a problem, just get out. If you’ve got a problem, stand your ground.”

And he looked and I could see the blood drain out of his face. Because I thought to myself, “If he says anything, I’ll just cave his face in where he sits.” Even if he’d attempted to stand up, I would have shafted him.

Whether I would have took the rest of them, I don’t know, but I knew I was going to cave him in. Now this is a man that has killed a man on the rugby pitch. But I don’t like bullying. He bullied me so that I had to walk out; I’d swallowed my pride and I walked out. But now I knew that he’d bullied a group of insignificant guys and my younger brother.

I’m standing over him. And I thought to myself, “If he makes even an attempt …” I’ve been in a lot of situations where I’ve had to look men in the eyes, and he didn’t want to look; he didn’t want the eye contact. He hadn’t got the heart for the fight. So I’m looking down at Killer, I’m standing over him. And he’s looking up at me, and then he eventually looks down. And I could see the rest of the rugby team sitting behind him and they’re all waiting for him to make his move. When he looks down, I knew then he was a beaten man. I knew then the fight had gone out of him. So I stepped back. “Are you going?” I said. “Get out.”

He stands up, puts his head in his chest and he walks out. I looked at the rest of them. “The rest of you out, out now.” And the rest of them stood up, head on chest, and walked out single file, like a herd of sheep. Next of all, Joe 90, Connolly and all these insignificant guys filled the room and you could see them all buzzing because the bullies had been put out. They walk in and they sit down.
Air Force One
goes on. So I sit down for a couple of minutes and then I just leave them to watch the film.

After that, no problem, no problem whatsoever!

Normally, when you went to the gym, you had all these weight-lifters and power-lifters. They’re the ones with first access to the weights.

I’ve gone up to the gym and me and my brother were training in the gym. And the weight-lifters and the rugby team seemed to have full control of the weights, the machines and everything else. So you had to sort of wait your turn for these guys to finish.

So, anyway, me and Connolly were up there and there were two of the power-lifter guys – they weren’t in the rugby team, but they were the big muscle-barons. I picked up the weights that I could use, but there wasn’t much left as they had most of them. They’d sets of weights all around them on a particular bench. An octopus couldn’t lift the weights that they were lifting. You’ve only got one set of arms, so you can only use two weights at a time, but they had six sets of weights all around them. There were twelve prisoners that couldn’t use anything while these muscle-barons had them. Connolly couldn’t lift the weights I had picked up, as they were a bit too heavy for him. He looked across and he said, “Them ones there, Joe, I can lift.”

I said, “Well, them lads aren’t using them. Ask them if we can use the weights.”

So Connolly walked over and he said, “Excuse me, can we use these particular weights?”

They said, “We’re using them.”

So he walked back.

I said, “What’s wrong?”

“They said they’re using them.”

“They’re not using the weights; they’re nowhere near using the weights. They’re using the other weights.” They might have
eventually
used them, but they were not using them now. So I said, “They’re not using them. Go and ask them again, can you use the weights.”

So Connolly walked over. I was standing near watching. He said, “Lads, you’re not using the weights, can I use them?”

“I’ve just told you, haven’t I? We’re using the weights.”

So I stepped in. They’re bigger than me – they’re full of their muscles and their steroids. I said, “You’ve just told him, have you? I’ll tell
you
. See you, I will rip your arms clean out of your body. I will smash you to bits with your own arms. He’s using them weights, OK? You got a problem with that?”

And his balls dropped. The fact that I’d got the courage to stand up to him, his balls dropped, he didn’t want to know. And he says, “No, no, no problem. I don’t want any trouble.”

So I said, “Connolly, take whatever weights that you want.” I looked around. I said, “The rest of you lads that are waiting, you take whatever weights you want as well.”

And they came in.

I said, “You pair, go over there. Stand over there and do your weights over there. These lads are all going to use this position here now.”

And all the lads that were standing there waiting like sheep to use these particular weights then walked over and they used the weights. They were bullying. I didn’t want any confrontation with anybody but you can’t stand idly by, especially with your brother.

While I was in prison, one of the prison officers, Mr Higgins, had a heart attack. I’d been in the St John Ambulance and I knew a bit about first aid, so I attended to him. He was an OSG (Operational Support Grade) officer – old guys doing a bit of part-time work helping in the prisons.

I massaged his chest, kept him calm till the other officers came along, and said an ambulance was on its way. The senior prison officer said, “Right, you’ll get a commendation off the governor for aiding Mr Higgins.”

When I got into the open prison, I got involved with the Windsor Project which was to help the community and also get the message across that all prisoners weren’t bad; how we weren’t paedophiles, we weren’t rapists, and that some of us were ordinary people that just turned the wrong corner and we needed a second chance. I got a commendation for the Windsor Project.

I went out to speak to Job Centres. I went out to speak to
potential
bosses, to give prisoners a second chance. I did OK under the work scheme, and I got my parole on the first attempt.

I served two years. The court battle went on for eighteen months because I wasn’t well so I genuinely couldn’t go to court. I couldn’t sit for a long time. I was very, very sick, and my weight was dropping. Even though I’m big, I was gaunt and I had yellow jaundice. I was very, very ill.

While I was in prison, the doctors told me that, because I’d had abscesses cut out of me, there was a possibility that the abscesses might come back.

This day I was in the showers washing myself and I felt a lump in my back passage where I’d had an abscess cut out before. I felt sick because I thought, “Oh, Jesus, they’re back.” When you get the abscess cut out of your back passage, they don’t stitch the wound, they kind of pack it instead. And I didn’t want this again. So I was panicking.

I contacted the senior officer who was on duty. He was the same senior officer who had seen how I’d helped Mr Higgins. Straightaway he checked my medical forms on the computer and saw that there was a possibility of abscesses. He took me to the local hospital that night. When the nurse touched the abscess, I spun around,
screaming
“Ahhhh!” with the pain. The officer heard the scream from the other room.

She said, “Yeah, it’s an abscess.” She could see it sticking out.

On our way back in the car to Leyhill Prison, I said to the prison officer, “I feel sick, you’ll have to stop.”

It was a genuine man who took me to the hospital. I’m not just talking about a prison officer; I’m talking about a man who took me to the hospital off his own back. He knew that I was genuinely ill. He went against whatever authority; he took me of his own accord.

So there I am, projectile vomiting outside the car. I got back into the car. He said, “Thank you for not vomiting in my car.”

It wasn’t a prison car, it was his own car!

I said, “I wouldn’t do that to any man, especially not a man that’s prepared to put his neck on the chopping block to help me.”

Next day, I was taken back to the hospital and it turned out that it wasn’t another abscess, it was piles! But it was a relief, yeah, a very big relief.

Ruth doesn’t want to be seen as a Florence Nightingale, even though she did clean up my blood, sick and shit when I was ill. She says she doesn’t want to see Lisa portrayed as a glamour model and her portrayed as a skivvy!

She has got a good heart and she’s a girl that has stood by me.

Before prison, when I had to get rid of the Lyndhurst pub, I put the money that I’d saved and the money that I’d got from the Lyndhurst and everything else into raking over the Moseley Arms. Now the Moseley Arms was in a derelict condition when we took it over. We spent three months gutting the place and we got the pub to where it was beautiful. At that stage, over the period of three months putting money into it, it wasn’t looking good in the court battle, and it was looking like I was going to prison.

So I said to Ruth, “I can’t run this pub if I’m in prison. All my money is gone. All our money has gone into this pub.”

At the time, Ruth was working with the Halifax estate agents. She’s a professional woman, a career woman. Her sister, Lisa, is a senior bank manager and her other sister is a senior psychiatric matron. Ruth had been with the Halifax for four-and-a-half years and was working her way up to become the mortgage adviser. Anyway, she had prospects, a career. She’d worked
parttime
in the pub and had also worked part-time as a barmaid in her teenage years, so she knew a little bit about running a pub. And, when I asked her, she took her redundancy from the Halifax to come and run the Moseley Arms, and she became the licensee.

And, if she hadn’t, everything I put into that pub would have been gone because, nine days after opening the Moseley Arms, I was sent to prison and Ruth was thrown in at the deep end.