Maybe I’m wrong, but I believe that it was poor political leadership that allowed the spectacular expression of national rage to get out of control following the murder of James Bulger by Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. When they were sentenced to a minimum of ten years in custody by their trial judge the Sun newspaper immediately launched a campaign to have their time to be spent in custody increased. According to Chris Rycroft-Davis, who at the time was a Sun headline writer, the then home secretary Michael Howard would have none of it. “He felt that we were speaking out of turn,” says Rycroft-Davis, “that we were trying to influence the way the courts ran.”  When confronted with a petition signed by several hundred thousand Sun readers, Howard caved in and overruled the judge, substituting an extra-judicial 15-year minimum on Venables and Thompson. Howard’s action was a vile self-serving political attack on the judicial process which served neither justice or common sense. Neither did it help the family of James Bulger, who have been treated appallingly by politicians throughout this whole tragic affair. In the aftermath of Jon Venables’ arrest the same pitiable leadership qualities are being demonstrated all over again. Why should James Bulger’s family have had to wait until pressure from the popular press forced the Justice secretary Jack Straw to agree to meet them? Why wasn’t that family the first concern of the Ministry of Justice instead of what the media was saying? And current home secretary Alan Johnson’s performance on various news programmes last week, bumbling and prevaricating was excruciatingly pathetic. Successive governments over the past two decades have proved over and over that they have little genuine interest in the needs of victims of crime and about the same amount of respect for the sensitivities that are necessary in their attitudes towards the families of murder victims. What chance true justice then in their treatment of perpetrators?

Prisons for young people – or Young Offender Institutions, as they are officially termed also came up in our conversation. If prisons are “scary places,” YOIs are places where real fear is generated. In design and operation there is very litlle difference between them and adult prisons. Jack Henry Abbot christened the reform institutions that he was confined to as a boy: “Gladiator Schools.” I have referred to our prisons for young people in the same vein in my writing on numerous occassions over the years. But now a more accurate phrase has been coined. The Fear Factory. The Fear Factory is a documentary film made by Spirit Level Films, which lays bare the blatant shenanigans played by our politicians and the media which has totally distorted our view of young people who get caught up in the criminal justice system. This film is a must see for anyone intersted in the truth – it is one of the most intelligent comments on this issue I have seen for a long long time. The film will be screened at the Empire, Leicester Square on 1 March at 10.30am. There will also be a Q&A session featuring some of the people who have taken part chaired by Roger Graef. Tickets are available on a first come first served and can be requested at info@thefearfactory.co.uk The film is currently not for broadcast but available on DVD. Forty penal interest charities have joined together as a coalition to champion the message of the film, the production of which was funded by the Nationwide Foundation. Hat’s off to them.

Arthur Koestler

The launch of Michael Scammell’s definitive biography of Arthur Koestler took place at 70 Grosvenor Street in London last night – it was a great event for a terrific book. Buy it here - you won’t regret it.

EJ Outside Skien Prison in Norway "Better to be outside a jail than inside one..."

 Filming my contribution to the BBC4 programme, Dear Diary, broadcast a number of times this week and again on Sunday 10 Jan at 7pm, was quite a poignant experience. The film makers took me back to Wandsworth prison where I began my life sentence. We were not allowed into the prison, so it was decided that Richard E. Grant, who presents the series, would talk to me outside the prison gates. I spent the first of my twenty years ”inside” on Wandsworth’s D Wing – but I never saw the grim looking gatehouse as the prison van drove me in so I had no idea what it looked like from the outside. Standing there with Grant for the film really brought home to me just how far I have travelled since those dark days.  I went in with no hope of ever achieving a worthwhile life. With no skills or abilities to speak of – all I really had going for me was that I was reasonably literate and healthy. At the time I could never have guessed how valuable these two aspects of my life would become during the years ahead – nor how rare a combination they were amongst my fellow prisoners. Despite these glimmers of light however, my prospects were poor and I firmly believed that my failings were insurmountable. 

My reception into Wandsworth prison determined my attitude for most of the time that I was there – defensive, guarded, untrusting. ”This is Wanno,” said a prison officer, “we do it our way here.”   There were many bully boys among the prison officers then. But the one officer who stood out for me was Mr Barker – a tall, confident, polite man who seemed to make a point of always speaking to you as though you were a fellow human being. His impact on me was such that his is still the only officer’s name I remember from all those I encountered that year.    

For the Dear Diary programme I was asked to read my favourite prison diary The Pain of Confinement by Jimmy Boyle in a mock cell on the set of The Bill. Boyle’s diary remains one of the most powerful testaments to the failure of the UK prison system. He was a success in the end – but he won through in spite of most of what he encountered in prison. I described my own feelings about standing outside the prison into which I disappeared more than twenty five years ago as, “triumphant.” But of course there is no real triumph in my situation. While speaking to Grant I just remembered how bleak that dire place was and how crushing. To stand outside it all these years later with a sense of purpose and direction and optimism was exhilerating. There is nothing I would not do if it would mean I could change what happened in the past. But any good that came from my prison journey came in spite of the likes of Wandsworth prison.     

Foy Vance "Bringer of Hope"

 Foy Vance, I wrote in a piece for the Guardian music section last year, writes some of the most hopeful songs I’ve ever heard. (This is my favourite.) The first time I saw him was at the Brighton Dome. He was supporting Bonnie Raitt, one of my all time favourite artists. He came on stage, just him and his guitar and his trademark cap - few of the audience had heard of Foy before that evening – but when he hit those strings, man, everybody listened. The voice was like tooled granite, delivering lyrics that went straight to the heart. He made a lot of new fans that night, me included. Of course I never imagined I’d be hooking up with him sometime in the future for the Guardian feature on musicians who play in prisons. I met him in Belfast before his gig. We had a drink and chat and then I followed him to the venue. One of the best vantage points at any concert is standing at the mixing desk and that’s what I did. Foy was absolutely mesmerising – by then he was well into using the “loop” and it was like there was a stage full of Foy’s up there. The Belfast crowd love him and welcomed him with open arms when he decided to “crowd surf.” After the gig I sat back stage with him for a while chatting for my piece – what a terrific personality, a genuine good old boy with grace and humour in abundance.  Last week I managed to catch him again, performing at the Glee Club in Birmingham (supported by Kill it Kid.) Foy seemed a bit under the weather – he said he was poorly and to be honest he looked a bit pale. His voice took a while to warm up – but when he did he blew us all away with his power, integrity – and banter. It was supposed to be the beginning of a 17 date tour – sadly he had to postpone the next few dates due to his illness.  What a trooper – we would never have known he was suffering that badly. Top man. Foy Vance.

Noble Sacrifice

 Standing among the trenches on Hill 62 in Sanctuary Wood, several kilometres east of Ypres in Belgium, I have a vague flavour of what life must have been like for the soldiers holding the British frontline in the Great War of 1914-18. The trenches snake around the hill, preserved exactly as they were ninety-one years ago, bolstered by more recently added corrugated iron sheeting shoring up the sides and acting as bridging. Concrete bunkers every few yards provided Spartan shelter during bombardments, the evidence of which – craters pooled with late autumn rain – are scattered around the hill.

It is raining again this morning. And the wind is blowing, beating down the last remnants of the dying, golden leaves. The weather must have put off visitors, for I am the only one present, which adds to my sense of privilege at being here. I jump down into a trench and walk carefully, following the steps of the khaki-clad patriots who would have inhabited this plot of disputed soil for months at a time, honoured to be in their noble space. Did anyone die here? I fear they did. I saw the evidence of sacrifice in the fading photographs displayed on the walls and in cases in the old museum building you have to walk through after paying your fifteen euros to get to the hill.

The desolation of the killing fields between the two front lines is hard to take in. Paschendale, the Somme – bleak, loveless, landscapes, where hope has been obliterated along with all sign of life. Images of the fallen abound, many in grotesque death poses: twisted limbs, eyes and mouths agape, frozen in moment-of-death expressions. Bandaged, legless corpses lie in the mud next to flyblown cattle carcases and wrecked carts. The mud, wet, deep and ubiquitous holds tight anything or anyone who weakens. Amid the desolation a strong man smiles at the camera. He has just taken a draw on a cigarette and whistled out the smoke. He has a thick moustache and his helmet sits at a slight angle on his head. It is a black and white picture, but his eyes are so piercing you feel sure they must be blue – blue smiling eyes, despite the wounded arm hanging from his neck in a filthy, ragged sling. Blue smiling eyes despite the carnage he must have witnessed, despite his beyond human trials, despite the mud. You hope he made it home.

Back on Hill 62 you imagine his comrades, seeing them clearly now, huddling in the trenches, coping, living in constant anticipation of eternal silence. Did they go, “over the top”? Perhaps some did. You get the feeling that many never got the chance. I tread carefully around the hill in awe, in wonder. I want to cry. I wish I had brought flowers, wreaths upon which I could have left messages, “To the unknown soldiers,” of whom there are too many to count in the war graveyards of Belgium and France. Unknown – but as much as the known, never forgotten.

John Thompson and Emily Maw

 John Thompson spent 14 years on death row before evidence came to light that showed he was innocent. It is one of the more bizarre stories to emerge from bungled death penalty cases in the US in recent years. The prosecutor at his original trial knew the foresnsic evidence that would have cleared Thompson was available, but decided to conceal it from the defence. Why would he do that? “Because,” says John, “all he was thinking about was his career.” I listened to John Thompson speak at the annual Life Lines conference last weekend – it was the only time I had ever been moved to tears by a speaker. Yet there was no bitterness in his words, no self-pity in his voice – just a passion to share his experience and to show us why the death penalty is so wrong. Five years after his release he campaigns with the same vigour and determination as ever. Through his organisation Ressurection after Exoneration he provides a voice for other exonerees whilst giving them the support and guidance they need to readjust to life after death row. I felt so privileged to sit on the same platform as John, alongside Life Lines founder Jan Arriens and director of Innocence Project New Orleans, Emily Maw. The Life Lines audience were magnificent in their warm heartedness. I attended the conference expecting to give a little of myself – but came away having gained more than I could have ever anticipated – almost overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of open handed humanity on offer.  (The Book Welcome to Hell: Letters and Writings from Death Row – edited by Jan Arriens is available here.)

Reading a passage from my first book A Life Inside at the Komedia in Brighton last Tuesday night was great fun. It was hot, the theatre lights were burning down and the room was packed, which meant lots of body heat. But the response was terrific. The event, a cabaret style set of performances by people interested in and connected to Arts activities in prisons was organised by the Arts Alliance – a group of Arts driven charities who work with prisoners and ex-prisoners, introducing creative activities to people who often have had no previous arts experiences. 

Superlative compere Jason Barnett fielded some great people including the wonderful actress and divine singer Denise Black (pictured) who sang with her band The Loose Screw. Eileen Mascoll, who had been supported by Music in Prisons also sang beautifully. Clive Hopwood of the Writers in Prison network gave a fantastic talk and gave us a very funny example of Oral Story telling. As he said, few prisoners can write very well so he uses the Oral tradition as a way in. The final act was the Great British Treasure and rib-breakingly funny Jo Brand - “my husband hates me snoring, especially when we are having sex…” A very generous lady.  

The impact that taking part in creative activities such as music, drama and writing, can have on troubled lives is hard to quantify. But I saw first hand in prison how people made to feel good about themselves were moved to be more considerate towards others, less angry and frustrated and more likely to seek a better way of living. It seemed to me that most people I met in prison did not feel much that was good about themselves, yet when encouraged to feel that they, we, were valuable and had some real worth, were less inclined to want to cause anyone else any harm or distress. It is one of the reasons I passionately support the arts in prisons.  For victims of crime, especially of serious crime, the idea of people in prison appearing to have “fun” with the Arts may be hard to stomach. That is why Jack Straw announced a clampdown on “fun activities” in prison – which did not pass the “public acceptability test.” To me this was a misguided edict – resulting from Mr Straw’s kneejerk reaction to news that the brilliant Comedy Club was running a stand-up comedy course in Whitemoor prison. A niggerdly prison officer leaked the  news to the tabloid press which caused a scandal. Instead of standing up for what Arts activities can achieve for prisoners, increasing confidence, self-worth and the ability to communicate more effectively in a positive way, Mr Straw succumbed to the headlines and shouted from the roof tops NO MORE FUN IN PRISONS!

 Actually if he had that would have been funny – instead he got the Prison Service to issue a PSI (Prison Service Instruction) with the vague public acceptibility test loosely defined. I don’t think that did anything worthwhile for victims and did a lot to undermine the good work that Arts charities do in prisons - not giving prisoners “treats” but helping them find the better part of themselves so that they are less inclined to cause further harm and distress after they are freed. What Mr Straw should really have been incensed about is the outrageous reoffending figures. Across the board around 70 per cent of all released prisoners reoffend within two years of release. That’s what I find hard to stomach.

Soroptimist International. What a great name!  But what do they do? I found out a little more last week when I visited Croydon to speak to the local branch at the Shirley Park Golf Club. I met President Patricia Painting and her husband Laurie and many of Patricia’s colleagues, including two who were visiting from the US. Soroptimist International was founded in Oakland California in 1921. The name is derived from the latin soror which means sister and optima meaning best – the term Soroptomist therefore represents “the best for women.”  There were mostly women at the event, an excellent dinner, but there were a number of men present, husbands I think. I took some good questions after I had finished speaking and I was really encouraged by the interest shown in what I had to say about the way our criminal justice system and in particular how our prison system works. One of the visitors from the US was a retired deputy Prison Warden who came up and thanked me warmly. It was such a pleasure to meet such committed women. All strength to them.

The news of Frank Deasy’s passing came as a dreadful shock. Such a talented writer and still so young with so many unfulfilled years ahead of him. I met Frank last year when I was asked to advise on the prison bits of the drama he scripted, Father and Son, starring Dougray Scott and host of other fantastic actors. I read the scripts, copies of which I still have and was completely drawn in by the drive and power of the writing – the emotional pace of the story matched the action. I knew it was the work of a  real giant in scriptwriting but I never expected to meet him. When I did he was incredibly generous, warm, welcoming and encouraging. He seemed like a very gentle man and quite humble. I had no idea he had such serious health problems. All I knew was that I was shaking hands with the man who scripted The Grass Arena - the brilliant depiction of the life of John Healy from the his book of the same name. Reading now about Frank’s life, his family and his wonderful campaign to persuade people to sign up to carrying organ donor cards – I see he was an even bigger man that I realised.