Imagine finding yourself in HMP Pentonville, the historic British prison, amidst a COVID-19 lock-down. Picture it as your new dwelling place, surrounded by cold, stiff bars. It's a life shift, a jolting leap from your comfortable norm, isn't it? Thrust into a reality where coping mechanisms take a darker twist and the lure of substances like 'spice' hang heavily in the air, urging you to succumb to temporary escape. The experience swiftly spirals from a mere inconvenience to a profound personal battle that tests far more than just resilience. 

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"Pentonville is not merely a prison, it becomes a personal challenge; a crucible that can either break or craft a stronger 'you'."

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In this uncharted territory, you are bound to encounter arbitrary cellmates - strangers whose presence may disturb your peace and even incite self-destructive behaviors. You're not simply facing a pandemic; you're confronting the complexities of the human condition amplified by enclosed environments and limited social interactions. Yet, it's through this crucible that you might find a way to heal and grow stronger.

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Here I am again, confined within the grim walls of Pentonville prison, living under the harsh guidelines of COVID-19. Activities are nonexistent and endless lockdowns are the new norm, only stepping out of the cramped cell for exercise or a quick, hurried shower. The rulebook now seems to scream category A, openly infringing upon everyone's human rights. However, it's swept under the rug, justified as a necessary measure amidst a pandemic. While many are fortunate to receive a reduction in their sentences due to COVID-19, I find myself left in the lurch. No thanks to Tuckers, my lackluster legal firm who shrugged off the responsibility of applying for my sentence reduction. Of course, I didn't push either, so I suppose I shoulder some blame too. Isn't it always the way? Despite their alleged expertise, I'm the one left to wear the consequences. Sometimes it feels as if this nation is bursting at the seams with corruption, and then people have the audacity to question the rampant crime rates. Perhaps they ought to take a long, hard glare at the mirror, see the unsightly reflection of the country they have allowed, before passing judgment on individuals like me.

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My initial cell companion, Leroy Fearon, didn't take to me readily. Mysteriously, my spanking new sneakers sprouted a hole during my co-habitation with Leroy. I can't shake the hypothesis that he might've been spitting on my visage as I slumbered in the daylight. Our shared quarters were designed with a pipe tracing not just a single wall, but two. In the age of COVID, for reasons unbeknownst to me, the prison complex decided to jack up their heating system. I promise you, that cell mirrored a sauna's high temperatures. With clothing becoming unbearable once the door was shut, we'd find ourselves continually perspiring in our undergarments.

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When my 14-day quarantine with Leroy ended, I was ecstatic and ready to part ways. Leroy was bound for G wing, while I was headed to E wing, lifting a massive weight off my shoulders. My initial observation of E wing perplexed me. It felt rather compact for a wing on every landing, but to my surprise, it was recently spruced up offering a fresh vibe. They settled me in a cell with an individual who appeared decent, a lad from Romford, someplace I consider home turf.

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The evening I dozed off for the first time, a sound erupted around 10 p.m., rousing me from my slumber. "Michael," came the stern voice, seasoned with an edge of irritation, "Your snoring is so severe, I can't possibly share this space with you, sleep will elude me all night." Of course, I was aware of my persistent snoring problem, but the innovative solution that was proposed took me aback, in its ingenuity and audacity. 

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This suggestion, as utterly eccentric as it was, called for a staged performance of sorts. A role-play, where he'd threaten me with the prospects of scalding if we were not separated. No sooner had he finished outlining this plan than he pressed the service bell, calling for assistance. As soon as the lady made her appearance, he didn't hold back. He launched into a tirade, demanding a change of cellmates with a tirade aimed at me, desperately exaggerating the audibility of my snoring. His choice of words was stronger, more colorful, threatening unruly harm if his appeal wasn't duly regarded. 

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Initially, it appeared that this wacky plan would dissolve into nothing more than an ineffective noise. But suddenly, I was given the cue to join in, and I naturally obliged. I picked up where he left, mimicking his severity, professing fear for my safety and demanding an immediate resolution. As the lady disappeared from the scene, he unleashed a simulated act of rebellion, dousing me in cold water from the nearest tap, triumphantly announcing that he'd done it. 

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Incredibly as it may sound, the plan worked, the door was flung open under the cloak of night, facilitating my transfer to a cell where solitude was my only companion.

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For a time, my prison cell was a double, but I had it all to myself. I often wonder if it wasn't due to the pigeons that had made the window sill their nesting spot and had laid a couple of eggs. That Easter, the eggs hatched, and I became the fascinated onlooker of two fledgling pigeons. The way it is when pigeons first emerge is rather translucent, and you witness the food from the parents traveling down their throats. Their growth was rapid, and soon the first signs of yellow feathers sprouted, a fact that was new to me. It gives you a fresh perspective on why Big Bird from Sesame Street is yellow, it appears he takes after a baby pigeon. Co-habitating with pigeons however, isn't the most pleasant of experiences, considering the mess they make around their nests. But when the authorities caught wind of my unsolicited feathered roommates, they transferred me and presumably evicted the pigeons.

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To my alarm, Leeroy showed up on E wing, apparently due to some disagreements on G wing. He wasn’t particularly active, but his demeanor towards me was daunting. I found E wing disconcerting and desired a change, and so, initiated the move. Fulfilling my request, they relocated me to F wing - a place notorious for housing sexual offenders on the upper levels. It was a distressing situation being confined beneath them, to say the least.

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I was subsequently relocated to F wing, designated as a drug-free zone. It's essential to grasp that ironically, it’s the drug-free wing that hosts the serious addicts. Consequently, scoring drugs there is quite probable. Without a doubt, the 'drug-free' wing was more flooded with narcotics than any other. This dichotomy is simply the unique dynamics of the system. I was assigned to share a cell with a racist inmate, a rather noxious character. I still recall the incident that clearly defined his toxic nature. A news piece on Grenville was being aired, and there he was, standing before the TV, laughing while spouting derogatory comments, stating “serves you right, you foreigners, should have returned to your homelands”. I couldn't bear his presence anymore and ousted him from our shared cell. The cell however, wasn't any better. It was bereft of any furnishing, a rather desolate place to live.

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In a difficult twist of fate, I wound up sharing quarters with a Romanian chap who spoke no English, repeatedly preferring to close the windows despite the stifling heat. I confess it drove me to the edge, prompting episodes of self-harm due to my inability to cope with the stresses of Pentonville. Eventually, a relocation offered a glimmer of hope, albeit short-lived. Random individuals were frequently introduced as potential celllmates, to which I objected. If you stand your ground and refuse to share your space, there's little they can do. Sure, they'll strip you of certain privileges like TV and canteen access but beyond that, you're untouchable. I clung to my self-proclaimed high-risk status for days, which acted as a shield in this trying time.

 

One time, a pint-sized guy pitched up at my door and, like always, I initially declined to partake in a 'padded up' activity. Nevertheless, something about him compelled me to trust him, leading me to reverse my decision. At this point, I'd been dabbling with Spice in small paper-contained amounts. Currently, Spice has a firm grip over prisons and the authorities have essentially lost the battle to control it. It's a man-made psychoactive substance, offering a high that outperforms even cannabis. However, this vertically-challenged fellow took the term 'Spice head' to entirely new heights. He was constantly craving it and I would hear his tireless pleas on the phone to his girlfriend, begging her to fund his Spice fix. Despite his threatening tone and abusive manner, she gave in for some inexplicable reason. He would camp out on his bed, inhaling enormous amounts of Spice within mere seconds, seeking an intense hit and subsequently zoning out in an absurd fashion. Whenever I had Spice, he wanted a share of mine. When he had his own, he was quite selfish with it. Once he ran out, however, he'd then resort to begging me for some of mine and this cycle repeated itself incessantly.

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Turns out, the wee corner I found myself crammed into was shared with a fresh arrival from solitary confinement, who’d gotten there because of his unfortunate propensity for violence. The rationale behind such behavior often eluded me, but then again, correctional facilities aren't really hotbeds of reason, are they? One particular evening after lockdown, my bunkmate set about boiling the kettle, then curiously, unplugged it and waited, poised in anticipation. Realizing how this could go horribly wrong, I navigated across our confined space and swiftly poured the boiling water down the sink. Not surprisingly, sleep evaded me that night. Come morning, I sought out the Officer in Charge, who by then was aware of the traumas marring my childhood, and earnestly requested a change in accommodations. 

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Bound for what's popularly known as 'Gaza Wing', I'm heading to the most expansive prison wing in all of Europe - G wing. Upon my arrival, Jude LeBaga warmly welcomes me, promptly offering to share his cell with me. Now, Jude is quite a character, maintaining an ever-lit ambiance in his quarters, the TV constantly buzzing in the background. There would be times this guy would start cooking up a storm in the middle of the night. Over time, however, I grew accustomed to his eccentricities and even developed a fondness for Jude. But life had its ironies - he got slapped with a hefty 14-year sentence for orchestrating an armed heist.

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Picture this - Jude found himself at odds with one of the prison guards, a novice still wet behind the ears. When the newbie reached for his panic button, seeking reinforcements, Jude warned him sternly, "If you dare hit that button, I assure you, the assistance will arrive too late to prevent your trip to the hospital." Many would deem such a menace as grounds for isolation, yet Jude managed to intimidate the rookie, who was virtually petrified and couldn't summon the courage to press the button. In another episode, Jude found himself cornered in the showers by yet another guard. The panic button was hit that time, and I took it upon myself to help him with his complaint about the incident. Jude, adept at bending rules to his will, managed to conceal a mobile phone in his cell's floor. As a seasoned inmate, he was also into the business of selling and making spice.

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Let's delve into how prison spice is concocted. In the beginning, you'd need spice crystals, which for instance, Jude accessed by having them mailed, inconspicuously hidden within the confines of a cardboard box. After obtaining these stealthily delivered spice crystals, the first subsequent step involves grinding them into a finer form. Post that, one must blend them with a portion of distilled alcohol to prepare the final mixture. This amalgamation is then sprayed over a paper to create a highly intoxicating consumable. For Jude, as an example, although he never indulged in vaping, yet he was heavily engrossed in the practice of using 'spice', which often had him up into the late hours. Before long, he transitioned to a different arrangement and started sharing space with a known acquaintance after his cellmate got released. Now, this new mate possessed a mobile device, which was crucial for Jude, as he had an established network outside the prison, hailing from the area of Barking. 

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It was a relentless game of roommate roulette in the Gaza wing, and I can't deny that perhaps, I was the difficult one to get along with at times. When tension ran high with an ill-suited cellmate, my response was often to harm myself - a regrettable habit I kept up in there, but in truth, it was my way of dealing with stress. Trouble was, I was frequently bunked with the ones no one else wanted for a variety of reasons. Sharing a cell isn't a walk in the park; it’s your living, eating, and even restroom space. The experience of sharing such intimate space, especially during bodily functions, is degrading - a fact recognized by the EU, which has banned such arrangements in prisons, much like the use of razor wire. Back when we were part of the EU, the UK dealt with this by paying off the penalties incurred from this cramped setup. Whether they still practice this fashion is debatable in the post-EU landscape.

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When taking my cases to court, I expressed my intention to alter my pleas to not guilty, but rather than take this into account, it seemed the court dismissed this outright. It suffices to say, I felt as though I was being unjustly shut out by the legal system, symbolically tucked away in Pentonville after I made my intentions known. Showing my discontent, I plugged my fingers in my ears and turned my back on the judge. My trust in the legal system has been severely damaged after this experience, prompted by my disappointment in my former solicitors at MK Law. Initially, they guided me into entering guilty pleas on all charges, only to later change their guidance, indicating they could only help me avoid imprisonment if the sentence did not exceed two years. I felt deceived and manipulated, lashing out with strong words against the firm. I'm of the impression that they duped me into confessing guilt for some unknown, self-serving motives. Furthermore, the constant harassment from the police at my residence noticeably strained me, and I can't help but point it out as a contributing factor to my current predicament.

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My journey with spice ended on Gaza wing, motivated by the devastating effects I was witnessing and my own dwindling resources. Until then, I was earning my supply by drawing portraits of family members for others. That's when I met Toff. As a listener, and given my propensity for self-harm, our paths crossed frequently. I respected him, he was intelligent and compassionate, incarcerated for fraud, if I'm not mistaken. We both worked in the Tailors, manufacturing boxer shorts. It was there that I encountered Cherisse, and that began an agonizing saga in its own right.

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Cherisse had a flirtatious charm and a quick wit to match. As our supervisor who was reporting to a higher-up named Michelle, she often found herself at the helm with no other staff to support her. But she wielded a courage that was fearless in the face of us, the cons. If Cherisse didn't take to you, she had no qualms about making her feelings known. Our exchanges, cheerful and flirtatious from the onset, never invited a reciprocal flirtation from me. She shared a notable closeness with an Albanian prisoner, often engrossed in conversation with him while we toiled on in the backdrop.

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In the Tailors, we had the benefit of a shower, providing a level of privacy that exceeded what was offered on the wing. Hence, we would take our toiletries and towels to work. One notable incident involved an Albanian co-worker deciding to take a shower while Cherisse was within sight of the glass-windowed door. He made quite a show, banging on the door and displaying his bare chest with gusto, leaving Cherisse seemingly mesmerized. Was it a prearranged signal? I can't say for sure. Cherisse had a tendency to stand up for the Albanian, who constantly clashed with the guards. It seemed she had a penchant for getting involved in situations that were perhaps beyond her professional responsibilities.

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In time, engaging with Cherisse held more allure for me, I began to foster our interactions. Emotions surged within me, thriving beyond my command. There was this unique day when she was guiding me on operating a new machine, and this Albanian kept hovering around her, evidently grudging the time she spent teaching me. He lurked near us, his hands dangerously close to her legs, she invariably wore skirts. Her rebuke to his nagging presence was unflinching, declaring she refused to live in his shadow of intimidation. That was the same day the prison went into lockdown due to a pair of missing scissors, and I have since held the belief that it was the Albanian who made away with them.

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After the infamous scissor incident, Cherisse was quickly dismissed, triggering a wave of harsh criticism and a barrage of complaints about her. The reverberations of scissor gate led to an unexpected consequence for everyone at the Tailor's, their cells were thoroughly searched and inquiries were launched. However, the elusive scissors remained unfound and the Albanian was promptly transferred away before long.

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You may have found yourself amidst a moment of clarity, much like I have. It was in that particular moment that I came to understand a fundamental truth about my existence. That the love I felt for those who accepted me for the person I am, was a love that has been unwavering. I always had the impression that Cherisse held some affection for me and valued my presence. This impression has played a substantial role in shaping my life journey. It's true; not many have loved me. However, those who did were met with the same affection from my end. The question remains, though, have I ever truly experienced love or is that simply an idea engrained in my mind?

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Then there was Scooby, a somalian looking type of child form. To me I saw Scooby more as a child than a man but we never exchanged more than pleasantaries until the mad man took a swipe in the yard at Scooby and I was the only man there. I pounced upon the mentally ill twat and made it clear his beef was with me. I always defend the weak, it is in my nature to do so.

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I mixed with the likes of Jordan McSweeney and we engaged in vandalism together. He always was a racist, I remember him departing Gaza wing when he launched a broken kettle at the asian king pin on the wing. Very calculated and exceptionally dangerous. As for his License well that was a scar on British identity till the end of time. He was always thuggish and is part of the fabric of whom he his. Jordan McSweeney went on to sin beyond sinity, I regret having known him and having exchanged words with the man.

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I was approached by Erin from Stand Out at my cell, she equired if I might like to design a Christmas Card for their organisation. Yeah I smashed it totally and the design was on their Christmas card that year. The only reward was gratitude and actually it was enough. I went on to do the Stand Out programme and still engage with the organisation.

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As I hopped from one cell to another, problematic cellmates were a recurring issue. Toff recommended sharing a cell with a particularly serene inmate he knew. We both relocated to an unoccupied cell, sparking some hope in me for stability. However, the new cell was notorious, with tiny roaches crawling from the sink plug. On one unexpected morning, I was called upon for a court hearing that I hadn't been informed of. The hearing was connected to the B & Q case, a matter cloaked in suspicion considering the police took over a year and a half post my confession to press charges against me. One must question why the charges took such a long time, especially as they only surfaced after more severe accusations were made. That very morning, I started displaying COVID symptoms again, losing my sense of taste and smell, thus the court hearing didn't happen.

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Enduring COVID-19 while confined to a jail cell was an excruciating experience, a stark 14-day period of isolation even from daily refreshment routines like taking a shower or engaging in some form of exercise. Within the four walls, I had to share the claustrophobic space with a cell mate. Thrust into my life on the first day of lockdown, this companion carried the weight of autism and a harrowing coping mechanism: swallowing razor blades. Believe me, he would even cough up pieces of the blade, leaving me pleading him not to repeat the hazardous act. Once the mandatory quarantine lifted, my first order of business was ensuring distance from this individual by relocating to a different cell.

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When I crossed paths with Flora at Pentonville, it was as though a beacon of light broke through the gloom. Together, we delved deeply into my issues with substance misuse, relating it to my past offenses. After much introspection, it became clear that alcohol had been a consistent antagonist in my life story. Although I managed to remain alcohol-free throughout my 20s and 30s, the plot twisted during a vacation to Croatia. Travelling with Deborah, we indulged in a seemingly endless supply of all-inclusive cocktails. At that moment, it felt as though I had triumphed over my alcohol addiction, and upon my return home, I started amassing a collection of several kinds of spirits, all the while envisioning grand family parties filled with lively clinks of cocktail glasses. 

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But, alas, no parties were thrown, and when the hard times of lockdown descended upon us, I found myself reaching for these spirits, one after the other. This is where Flora showed me the paradox of my choices. She helped me see that the cocktail shaker, which I thought of as a symbol of victory, was ironically leading me down a self-destructive path. Flora’s expertise and guidance shed light on my missteps, eventually leading me towards a path of awareness and self-discovery.

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Imagine a certain fellow I was acquainted with, who set up a somewhat dubious tobacco trading scheme. However, he critically bungled his operation due to a misguided attempt at running the entire show single-handedly. This gentleman had managed to charm a woman on the brink of retirement, who served as an education tutor. Their connection was flirtatious, almost romantic. In this odd transactional relationship, she would compensate him with tobacco, or at the very least procure it for him. Their illicit liaison, unfortunately, met with an abrupt end during an intimate moment. As he sampled her seasoned wonders, a curious glance from a passing security officer through the window sparked their downfall. The repercussions were inevitable: he was swiftly transferred out, while she lost her job. Despite the unsavory ending, there was a brief moment when he was considered the toast of his environment. 

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In prison, a vape was something I always had at hand, acquired with the help of my artistic prowess and my younger brother's monetary aid. Inside these walls, you can exchange cash for vapes, though their cost is significantly inflated, thus fueling a thriving trade. Typically, I'd secure around five packs every week at a rate of £25 per purchase.

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Having braved COVID-19 twice, the specter of a summons to Basildon court loomed over me. I was ready to face any consequence, even if it meant transferring to HMP Chelmsford. Truth be told, HMP Pentonville had lost its charm for me. With my name poised on the 7-day list, I stayed on my toes, reaching out to my attorneys at Tuckers each evening. I wanted to be sure I'd have time to pack up the remnants of my months-long stay, and of course my cherished collection of art materials. But, in spite of my diligence, Tucker's didn't arise to the occasion and they constantly assured me I didn’t have a court date. So, when one morning I was unceremoniously awakened for court, I boldly declined. Pack up in such haste? I simply couldn’t. This caused a falling-out with Tuckers, yet circumstances bound us together. In my absence, a 14-month sentence was handed down. Tuckers neglected to account for my COVID discount that most were granted, and made no effort to seek a sentence suspension.

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It's clear that Tucker's motivations were not aligned with my own, driven instead by underlying personal goals. The 14-month sentence seems excessive, a perspective influenced by subsequent events at B & Q. Don't you think it's possible that if the Police had addressed the incident at B & Q upfront, the events that unfolded afterwards might have been completely avoided?

 

When I found myself bound for Pentonville, I arrived armed with a hefty suitcase chock-full of personal belongings, among which were various art supplies. Each item within my luggage was, in fact, permissible within the prison confines, alas, the majority were seized at the receiving point. It was a lengthy process, nearly a year in duration, but following an appeal to the IMB, the prison was instructed to return my hobbyist materials. With these, along with acquiring some pieces from the Art department, I managed to produce incredibly captivating pieces of art.

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There I was, bouncing between the twos, threes, and fours, yet some argued I had no business straying from the fives. That's where I'd been with Jude. My longing for the fives got me tangled up with an eccentric cellmate. A fellow who used his own attached hair to floss his teeth, a hairy oddity. I have a short fuse but what utterly pushes my buttons, is someone who haphazardly sprays the toilet, leaving an unpleasant mess in his wake. My fury unleashing, I demanded he clean up after himself, an order he was reluctant to follow through. One restive night, he made an attempt to cook some noodles, setting the kettle to boil. After the water was boiled, he began pacing our cell, cradling the kettle in his arms. In a chillingly calm manner, he said, "I'm convinced you're plotting to end my life, I better take you out first." A button press summoned the guards, who promptly cut our cell's electricity for the remainder of the night.

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That next day, I decided to take a stand. I visited the S.O. office, set on requesting a transfer, but my plea fell on deaf ears. My cellmate incessantly muttered to himself, answering his own queries in an unusually different voice. The situation had become intolerable. I decided not to go back to that environment and chose instead to plant myself outside the S.O. office. I was firm in my resolve and I frankly threatened that things could take a brutal turn if they forced me back with him. Despite my protests, I was forcefully taken back to the cell. Nonetheless, after a mere five minutes, they relocated the problematic inmate, who clearly suffered from severe mental health issues. Consequently, I chose to re-impose my High-Risk status, refusing to share my space, a decision I believe was entirely justified for my wellbeing.

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Fast forward to Christmas 2021, where, single celled and relaxed, I found joy in a rather quiet holiday season. Post-Christmas, however, one of the prison officers, genuinely distressed, sought my help. Sonnah Hannay, she said, was having an awful fallout with his cellmate, and no other space was available but mine. The officer's plea struck a chord in my heart, and for her sake - a woman who had always treated me fairly - I agreed to share my cell with a new companion. Sonnah, of Turkish origin with a pinch of Kurdish lineage, had a grandmother who was an immigrant in Turkey. It's quite undeniable that I put up with Sonnah longer than any of my previous cellmates during my tenure at Pentonville.

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My relationship with Sonnah centered around art commission projects and our collective attempts to woo his girlfriend, who hailed from Romania. His rap sheet included managing an expansive drug operation that ultimately confined him, not within prison bars, but via electronic tagging due to the COVID pandemic. However, he bore this intrinsic marker of guilt with the caveat of remaining outside London's limits. Hailing from Tottenham, accusations from those under his command branded him as a facilitator of slavery - a notion that seemed preposterous to me. Sonnah maintained a protective persona, expressing concern for his crew and ensuring they were adorned in the same designer attire as him, subsidized by their collective profits. An extensive sentence of multiple years awaited him, much to his shock; though a significant portion was served under electronic surveillance. His world tilted further off axis when his girlfriend severed ties shortly after our collaborative art venture, leaving him heartbroken.

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Sonnah and I frequently unwound with some cannabis, an indulgence facilitated by his acquaintance with Rash, a gentleman of Turkish ancestry. Rash served a lengthier sentence, putting him high up on the echelons of the prison hierarchy. Rash's connections extended to Maz, another individual carrying a significant influence. We relished these shared moments of marijuana usage, often taking our moments of respite to the yard. In an isolated corner, substances frowned upon by the authorities were routinely indulged in.

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I crafted a clandestine stash for Maz, consisting of a matchstick box with a hidden compartment cleverly tucked away in its base. The box's opening mechanism was subtly masked by a sliding panel, and its locking system was ingeniously formed from matchsticks as well. To construct the base structure, I joined six duo Jaffa Cake boxes, which were later removed and refined. I also fashioned Rash a covert stash, molded from a fiber-board panel, tailored flawlessly to fit the wardrobe drawer compartment. Rash had expressed a desire for a stash box, yet with a distinct opening mechanism compared to Maz's, a request I fully intended to fulfill. Maz and Rash were, after all, my caretakers. And in our circumstances, having drugs on hand, hidden away, was nothing short of a luxury.

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In an unexpected turn of events, I found myself interacting with Slim, a figure as mysterious as he was influential. He commissioned me to create a distinctive piece of art for him, a task that I promptly fulfilled, and his appreciation was evident. In addition to this commissioned piece, he also expressed an interest in acquiring several pieces from my personal collection - including a heartfelt depiction of the late Princess Diana. Slim's resources were plentiful, evidenced by the most generous gift of marijuana I've ever received inside these prison walls, its potent smell permeating my cell. Indeed, Slim was a man of connections, easily providing me with an ample supply of king size rizla and tobacco for my weed. Those were days of carefree enjoyment as Sonnah and I reveled in our temporary fortune.

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At this juncture, I had become the in-house artist on the wing, thanks to Slim who secured me an assignment to redesign the reception waiting room during a bank holiday weekend. A time when there were no new intakes or court returns. I had a helping hand and we did an exceptional job that left the room looking impressively fresh and new. As compensation, a guard at the reception instructed Slim to bestow upon me a smoker's pack. I had assumed I would receive vapes, but Slim ended up giving me an entire box of Polish cigarettes. That feeling was nothing short of self-satisfaction. 

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I found myself once again standing before the judge, this time facing more grave allegations. My plea of not guilty was stifled, trapped in the intricate legal labyrinth for a whole year. The judge's hands were tied due to the stringent sentence already imposed on me in the B & Q case, and she pronounced an absolute sentence, essentially shielding me from any future charges during that same period. My sentences were stacked - they ran consecutively with the B & Q case but overlapped with the Domino’s and Council cases. Ultimately, I was sentenced to 26 months, an unjust duration considering I had already served over a year, the duration was mostly devoured by the lesser B & Q charge. A seemingly lenient charge, it ordinarily would have allowed me an early release under the Home Detention Curfew. But alas, this privilege was stripped away owing to the gravity of other charges I was battling. In my eyes, justice would have been met had the sentences been stacked in the order of their charges. However, due to the delay caused by Snaresbrook Crown Court in addressing my initial accusations, I endured prolonged agony.

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My rapport with Sonnah reached a searing point, becoming untenable. As is invariably the case when I'm cornered with someone I'm at odds with, I start causing harm to myself. The severity of this self-inflicted harm was genuinely horrifying. One fateful night, lost in darkness, my hand seeks a razor, starting a dance of destruction on my arm - perhaps this was my distorted way of battling sleeplessness. I lay there, on the uncomfortable bed, feeling the rhythmic drip of my own blood down my arm. In those moments, it was almost as if a phantom companion was stroking my arm with each terrifying drip, ironically providing me with a twisted version of solace. This disturbing sensation lulled me into unconsciousness, even though an open wound continued to stain my sheets.  

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No more than a few hours later, I was jolted awake. The bleeding had ceased, but my arm was cradled in a ghastly cradle of congealed blood. This night could have abruptly culminated in a much more terrifying outcome - I'm lucky, and more importantly, starkly aware of this.

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At this juncture, my bond with Sonnah was strained to its limit as Rash incessantly tormented him for his box, and consequently, Sonnah passed that stress onto me, making me feel like nothing more than an indentured servant. Rash fell behind on his payments and Sonnah did nothing but amplify the tension. So, I took the drastic step of severing ties with him. Seizing the opportunity while he was at work, I orchestrated a swift relocation. Each of my belonging had been carefully boxed up and removed, all accomplished before his return, a move that undoubtedly infuriating him. But, ultimately, I had to protect myself from the insufferable feeling of servitude.

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Lucas was a good friend of mine, he was tried for murder and found guilty. Lucas is from Eastern Europe but has been here many years and raised his children here. He went on an alcohol fuelled journey topped up with cocaine. In the high of the new drug created in the bloodstream he went on to stab someone to death but has no memory of the event. Dear Lucas, your plight pulls at my heart strings and I feel for your children. We cannot change the past and you have failed greatly. Firstly, I say to forgive yourself as I know you have battled with this and I was there with you. Spend the entirety of your life in the true state of Repent for the day of judgement will come for you. Having truly repented and passed for your own past errors then you will join your family in the Kingdom of Light. God knows a sinner and Lucas you must change my brother and the ability to do so lays only within you. God did not write you off but you must now prove you have turned away from Satan!

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In my time at Pentonville, I sought medical consultation concerning an abnormality I've personally dubbed my "third testicle." It takes the form of a tiny lump located just behind my left testicle. Usually, it's no larger than a petite, frozen pea, but tends to swell to the size of a hazelnut in times of arousal. Despite its proximity to the testicle, this peculiarity of mine isn't actually a part of it. Adding to the complexity is another condition I have: an uncommon grouping of veins on the same side popularly compared to a 'bag of worms.' After getting it scanned at Pentonville, the focus seemed to gravitate more towards this tangled network of veins, while my 'third testicle' was largely overlooked. Discovered in my twenties, this intriguing feature has always been a part of me. Its exact nature remains unclear, but one thing's for sure – I have no intention of parting ways with it.

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In the United Kingdom of years of late we have been smothered with rain and often far too much of it. Its time to think differently, in the future water could become more valuable than gold and such a resource should not be shunned. Imagine a World where we build underground pyramids, hollow cavities with their own roofs. Cavities capable of sucking up the floods in the right high risk locations and storing the water until it can be sold on the open market. We are talking cavities in the ground the size of skyscrapers. The future calls for innovative solutions and someone on the governments science panel should consult with people like me capable of coming up with the expensive but rewarding projects of tomorrow. We should be sending tankers across the oceans ladened with British Harvested Water. ​ Such projects can be targeted to serve the communities at highest risk from flooding. The storage containers need to be located on countryside or under farmland and will never be further developed. Lets come together and spark a revolution in science and innovation and in doing so provide the innovative solutions of tomorrow. Lets bottle our water to save the planet!

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After sharing my cell with a few more fleeting inmates, my declaration of High Risk status gets approved this time by a CM. Consequently, I secure a single cell at Pentonville just for myself that lasts until my term there concludes. My stay doesn't span for long though, only a few weeks before I get transported to HMP Brixton. Here, my final few months of solemn incarceration dash away bit by bit.

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At Pentonville I joined the Stand Out programme. Stand Out is a private charity whose mission statement is to serve former prisoners and improve their quality of life as well as fighting to keep them on the short and narrow. The run courses in prison that deal with the issues facing each person as well as communication skills in explaining criminal records. There I was met by John and Erin and they save me without even knowing that they did. They were just doing their job was their opinion. Since release I have continued to engage with Stand Out and I greatly commend their progress. These people will fight your corner for you if they need to. They can help with finances. They will not give up until they get you into meaningful employment. 

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One could argue that the culinary scene at Brixton wasn't too shabby. A few years back, Chef Gordon Ramsay had lent his formidable skills to revamp their kitchen, an impact that endures to the present day. Now, when you compare this to the food I encountered at Pentonville, it almost felt like I was dining on gourmet cuisine. I never quite took to the meals at Pentonville; they almost always arrived cold at my door, largely due to the pandemic-imposed restrictions.

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Due to an oversight, the CM at Pentonville overlooked the update of my High-Risk status on NOMIS, the prison administration software. As a result, upon my transfer to Brixton, my High Risk designation was dropped, and I was required to once again share a cell. My new cellmate was an older man named Mark, serving a seven-year sentence, which was no small feat. His crime? A severe altercation involving a bottle, likely fuelled by alcohol. Of all the cellmates I've had, Mark was the most composed. For the entire month I spent on the induction wing, he was my companion in confinement. Interestingly, it was during his prison stint that Mark discovered he had diabetes. His previous time was spent at HMP Wandsworth, known for its rough conditions. Eventually, he secured a single cell on Trinity at Wandsworth and had settled in, only to be unhappily relocated to Brixton. I arrived about a week after him.

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Eventually, my transfer to B wing happened and rumors painted it as a tumultuous place. True to the whispers, B wing was rife with constant disputes and gang skirmishes, keeping the prison officers on high alert. Mark and I, who were transferred on the same day, found ourselves separated- me on the 4th level, he kept on the 1st. Interestingly, my next cellmate was a committed Muslim who after a single night desired to move in with his friends. I had the option to invoke high-risk status and reject a cellmate, but my acquaintance, Dean, was struggling. Dean, who I initially met on the induction wing, was somewhat unreliable, but always amicable. So, I extended the offer of sharing my cell. To say it was a mistake would be an understatement. Dean had severe gastric issues that when unleashed, made me consider vomiting. Additionally, he used synthetic cannabis, also known as "spice", something I'm glad to have steered clear from during my stay in Brixton. My sole desire was for a decent meal.

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Dean was in a fortunate position because he was one of the few who continued to receive financial benefits even whilst behind bars. Although these benefits are supposed to be nullified upon incarceration, some slip through the system and continue to fund their bird. This long-term income stream was channeled into his increasingly demanding spice habit. When Dean met me, he arrived without so much as a dime to his name. I stepped in, providing him with vapes and sharing my canteen's supplies, an act of generosity I didn’t expect anything in return for. Over time, Dean proposed that he would deposit £50 into my prison account. Truth be told, I didn’t have an urgent need for it, as my family were dutifully providing me with my canteen necessities. But having extended the offer, Dean soon began to draw from me, always using the alibi "I've got that money for you." Before I knew it, he'd accumulated about £50 of my money. As fate would have it, I never received a dime from him. This was because the prison had blocked and returned his deposit after his sister, who was already recognized as his money provider, used the same details for me. This set off alarm bells and was seen as a potential red flag by the prison authorities. 

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As a spice merchant, John O'Shea hailed from Bromley-by-Bow. Initially, I couldn't shake off the impression that he was Joe Buckley due to a distinctive scar that adorned his face and having heard he was from Bow. Let me tell you about Buckley – we were hospital mates back in the 2000s when an infection following my neck surgery led me to become a temporary resident of Whipps Cross Hospital. Next to me in that ward was Buckley, nursing a face mutilated at a local Country Club. He hailed from Bromley-by-Bow and had engaged in various conversations, however, due to his facial bandages, I could barely remember his facial features. I approached John and asked, unsure, "Could you be Joe Buckley?". He responded with sheer dread, questioning my identity and how I knew Buckley. After I revealed the hospital story, it turned out that Buckley was his business partner and they were the best of friends. It indeed is a tiny planet we inhabit.

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Learning that Dean had deposited cash into my account sent John into a fury. Funnily enough, this wasn't the first time Dean had tried this stunt, with previous attempts also being rejected and the funds returned. Dean had previously made a promise with John stipulating that any money transfers would only go directly to John's account. I could see that John was on the verge of losing his temper with Dean. He was called into John's quarters, giving us no idea about what was exchanged in their conversation. What was clear, though, was that this encounter seemed to curb Dean's habitual begging with me.

 

COVID has struck me once more, yet my taste and smell emerged unscathed – it was the fever that took hold this time. Both myself and Dean tested positive for this pervasive virus, yet memories of my time in Pentonville stirred a strong aversion to another bout of quarantine. Begrudgingly, we pressed on, ignoring the symptoms as if they were non-existent. Similar decisions were being made all around us in the prison, but can you blame them? Quarantine meant surrendering our most fundamental rights for a fortnight. The pandemic caught the prison system off guard. Nevertheless, they could have improved the situation by implementing a more reasonable quarantine routine.

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Dean encounters a bout of spice-induced discomfort in our cell, his body convulsing on the bed and eyes rolled back in their sockets. Upon seeing this, John responds with a chuckle, making light of his predicament. This spectacle was hardly a secret, yet drew scant concern. In the aftermath, I found it best to distance myself from Dean. Instead, I wound up sharing a cell with a fellow named Reg, an acquaintance of Mark from Wanno. This arrangement would last up until my eventual release.

 

You've heard my name by this point, right? I've made a name for myself crafting portraits for all and sundry. Slim, too, decided to team up with me at good old Brixton. Occupying the lifer area off of B-wing, Slim and I would often find ourselves exchanging words in the exercise yard. Brixton's got its perks, one being this expansive, often freely accessible exercise yard. Given my popularity, sourcing weed was no big deal - we got our daily fix, even finding innovative ways like infusing our vapes with weed. We used to light up right on the landing. Turning a blind eye to the drug culture was just part of the Brixton's screws modus operandi. And the transaction? I had this guy who would trade a spliff for a menthol cap - it was a cycle that just kept spinning.

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In B wing, the kitchen was notoriously overrun. The crux of the matter was that the food was so delicious everyone coveted an extra serving. However, they were sticklers for portion control - one meal per person, no exceptions. Some individuals managed to snag additional servings, effectively stealing from their comrades. I found myself on the losing end this game once on a Friday. With the highly anticipated fish meal depleted, I was left high and dry — an incident that led to an outburst of self-inflicted harm. In the harsh reality of prison life, trivial matters often evolve into towering hurdles. I've even witnessed individuals getting their faces cut over an unpaid debt as measly as 80p.

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My last cellmate, a relaxed local lad from Brixton named Reg, was arguably the most easygoing cellmate I've ever lived with. Serenely enjoying his music from his cot, he enabled me to have full access to our shared confinements without hindrance. As fate would have it, his release was anticipated shortly after mine, which prompted me to unhesitatingly bequeath my remaining belongings, which I didn't require any more, for his convenience and use.

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News landed from MC Token that Lee Clarke had lost his battle with cancer. Iy was growing in him all through COVID and he only survived two weeks from diagnosis. The cancer had spread to his spine. Lee Clarke was oart of the old Runwell days. We were not as close as he was with MC Token. None of us from Runwell times was wanted at the funeral and that was a bitter pill to swallow.

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As I neared the end of my commitments, I tackled my remaining tasks with a new level of energy, ready to complete them all and return to the comfort of my home. It was a challenging period, undoubtedly one of the most difficult I have ever encountered, and I believe the COVID pandemic played a large role in that.

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Prison Life by Michael Ezare Barrett

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Within these walls, despair finds space, Prison is a cold, unyielding place. 

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Glimmers of freedom feel so far, Behind these bars, you bear each scar.

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Silence screams, and shadows dance, Time drips slowly, stuck in trance. 

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Lifeless days and endless nights, Hope is dimmed by countless fights. 

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Walls that taunt with no escape, A sorrowed heart and dreams misplaced. 

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• Fear and anguish, constant stakes,

• Fading light, where darkness wakes,

• Strangers' faces, haunted stares,

• Isolation, burden shared.

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In this place where spirits break, A heart of steel, for sanity's sake.