No toilet joy in "The 'Joy"

During my visit to Mountjoy jail a couple of Monday’s ago I had some great “craic” with a group of long term prisoners. I am never too sure about the appropriateness of me going into prisons to “meet the residents.” I guess that’s because I remember all too often how embarrassing it used to be when visitors came into prisons where I was serving my time. For one, nobody is exactly looking their best. Gawping outsiders traipsing about the place with a prison officer in tow telling them how good the facilities are etc etc used to be so frustrating. There were some amazing facilities in many of the prisons I experienced for sure – but only a minority of prisoners ever got to take advantage of them. It was always a fierce competition to get anywhere near the front of the queue for opportunities. And then there were those who really didn’t want to compete – they needed more help, more encouragement, more of everything – so they got left behind. The guiding prison officers rarely mentioned those truths. In Mountjoy it was different. I agreed to go in to talk about writing – share a bit of my journey, before, during and after prison. It might inspire a bit of hope – I never saw anyone who had been in prison come back in to share something positive with us when I was in. I only ever saw people coming back who had failed, for whatever reason, and were back for another stint. What struck me at Mountjoy was how, (ahem,) honest everybody was. The teachers I met were amazing – as usual in prisons everywhere, these people treated the prisoners like students – and there was a holistic approach to their work. They weren’t just teaching subjects, they were providing social care and support. I met the music teacher, the ceramics teacher, a psychologist and a counsellor – they were just amazing individuals. The big bear of a teacher who organised my visit could not have been more positive about the work they were doing. “We are trying to encourage hope and the belief that there is a better way to live, even in here,” he said. I shook hands with a prison officer – he was embarrassed about the “slopping out” – the practice of shitting and pissing in buckets by prisoners – I was shocked that it was still going on.  Even the governor was embarrassed when I mentioned it to him. But it is the Irish Prison Service that really should be embarrassed. People go to prison as a punishment – not to have their human dignity undermined more than it already has been by their criminality.

Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox

In the Land of the Free, Vadim Jean’s film about the suffering and injustice inflicted by the state of Louisiana on Herman Wallace, Albert Woodfox and Robert King is a searingly compelling masterclass in documentary making. I had a preview of the film a few weeks ago and when it finished, the small group of us present, sat motionless and in silence for several minutes. The power of this injustice was just so overwhelming, Vadim Jean has marshalled the facts superlatively. America is a great country, but like any western democracy it has its flaws. This case is more than a flaw however, it is a bleeding wound in its heart, a shadow over its soul. Hearing Albert’s voice crying out to be heard after more than 37 years in solitary was like listening to a silent scream. His voice trembling but his courage and nobility intact, he sent his message to the world over the telephone from Angola prison. “Our primary objective,” he says, “is that front gate. That is what we are struggling for and we are actually fighting for our freedom. We are fighting for people to understand that we were framed for a murder that we are totally, completely and actually innocent of.” It was a privilege to write about the case for the Guardian.

Vadim Jean: “Anyone who wants to help right this dreadful injustice should write letters to Herman and Albert expressing their support.”  The letter template, in the only form acceptable to the prison, can be accessed at: www.inthelandofthefreefilm.com from 15 March. Letters to the Governor of Louisiana, Piyush ‘Bobby’ Jindal, may be addressed to: Office of the Governor, PO Box 94004, Baton Rouge, LA 70804, USA. In the Land of the Free is premiered at the Human Rights Watch film festival in Brixton on 24 March and goes on general release on 26 March. 

I spoke to my friend Big Rinty on the telephone last night. Rinty, who passed his 56th birthday last week, has been in jail since 1976 after he was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to life imprisonment. He was released in 1994 and attempted to make his way in the community, working and living honestly until he was accused of an assault in 1997. He was innocent, he told the police. At his trial he told the jury the same thing. “I’m innocent,” he said loud and clear from the dock. The jury believed him. After just eight minutes of deliberations they returned a firm and unequivocal, “NOT GUILTY.” He should have walked from the court a free man and been allowed to get on with the rest of his life. Instead he was recalled to prison. His life-licence in effect until the day he dies, he is subject to recall at any time on any pretext by the authorities. They said they were taking him back in for “psychological assessment.” Thirteen years later he is still in prison with no indication of when he might be considered for re-release. He bears up well, my friend Rinty. He’s still funny – still got his “inappropriate sense of humour,” as one psychologist put it in a report justifying his continued detention. He still makes me smile – but his courage makes me want to weep too. Last night he spoke about the recall of Jon Venabals. ”He’s not been charged yet,” he said, “but if he does get charged with something and then goes to trial – what if he gets found not guilty? Will they keep him in, for something a jury says he didn’t do? Or will they let him out?” It’s an interesting question, probably baffling the experts at this very moment, (although if the experts are baffled, how the f*** can they be “experts”?) 

“What I’m saying,” said Rinty, hope rising in his voice, “is if he’s found not guilty and they let him out – surely they’ll have to let me out?” Surely they will, surely they will, all things being equal. And by Christ that would be a lovely result for my big friend.

On this morning’s Today programme Jack Straw confirmed that he has still not met with the family of James Bulger – why not? That he didn’t say – he “might” give the nation  – ie the tabloid press – “more details” concerning the arrest and recall to prison of the prisoner formerly known as Jon Venables, later today. Where is the leadership in that? Last week home secretary and former postman Alan Johnson said, “the public has a right to know” the reasons for JV’s recall – until he was slapped down by Straw and closed his mouth on the subject. Johnson has been such a disappointment as home sec – his humble beginnings should have made him a perfect “man of the people,” able to act for the community as a whole – not just sections that he thinks might give him the hardest time. But it is Jack Straw who is at fault here. Last year he slated prison reform charities for their “platitudes” about prisoners. “It’s the victim we should be more concerned about,” he said. The Venables/Bulger tragedy needed immediate and firm leadership. Venables is currently facing no charges, according to Straw. As far as I can see it is Jack Straw who should be in the dock for failing us in one of the most crucial tests of justice in modern times.

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.