Nine Foot Tall Read online

  You could go to the shower block to knock one out but that was some form of nasty degenerate shit in itself. You see, the showers weren’t like you see in the films, with all the guys in one big shower room, nah man, there were six cubicles, for three hundred prisoners! The cubicles, to be fair, had a curtain, but there was always a line of fuckers outside waiting for their turn. They knew what you were up to so it was still embarrassing, curtain or not. But worst of all, the cubicles had the plastic shower trays that you stood in, with a plug hole that, more often than not, was blocked. So these trays would fill with water and body scum, but more horrifyingly, when you shot your load it also went into the blocked tray. Imagine, you’re the twenty-third to get in the shower today, your feet are swimming in twenty-three different specimens of spunk, man. Double nasty. Everyone got some sort of fungal foot disease after using those showers, man.

  Nah. Fuck that, cleaning duty wasn’t for me. I wanted a job where I could work all day to pass my time quickly, and where I wouldn’t have to resort to wanking in the spunk shower all day out of sheer boredom.

  I fell lucky. I got a job in the kitchens, pot wash, 7am till 6pm. Perfect. Wash dishes and pans and shit all bleedin’ day long. It went really fast each day and I got to chat bollocks with the guys. It was a cushy number for me coz not only did it pass the time and give me some well needed conversation, it made me money!

  Now listen up, I’m not talking about the wages, I only got five pound fifty wages for working eleven hours a day six days a week. No real chance of becoming Rockefeller with that, are you?

  No, man, I became a food dealer!

  Anything I could scam from the kitchen I would, but my main deal was coffee and cheese. The guys would go mad for it. I’d nick it and they’d come to my pad and pay me top dollar for it. I had jars and jars of coffee round my pad, and giant industrial slabs of cheese under my bed.

  I wasn’t exactly Joe Cocaine, but it got me by, and it gave me a buzz.

  All the lads in the shovel were mostly okay, there were a few cunts, but you get them anywhere, not just jail. But the blokes in here, in the main, just wanted to get their heads down and do their time. Nobody went round bumming and bashing, leave that to the young offenders and maximum security gaffs. This place was nice and easy, sell some cheesy.

  My pad mate was a top lad, Shuffles was his name, on account that he walked funny, bit of a leg dragger, a shuffler. Despite his inability to walk in straight lines, we had a little scam going from our cell that worked just fine for us both. Because I was earning a few quid with my kitchen dealing, I was also able to be “The Pop Man”. This involved selling vodka to the other guys. There were plenty of fellas selling drugs in there, but fuck that, too risky, man. A bit of booze is no great shakes though.

  It went like this. Get Shuffles to go round the pads taking orders, vodka only, it’s easier to conceal in your orange juice or wherever. Then he’d come to me with usually about a ten bottle order, I’d give him the money, and then he’d just walk over the field and into town to the off licence. Bold as fuckin brass! It usually took him an hour or so coz he was a shuffler, but he got the job done. Bless his filthy, never been changed or washed, cotton socks.

  He’d come back with his backpack full of vodka, that had cost me seven fifty a bottle, and then we’d sell it for twenty quid. I always paid for a bottle for him, that was his cut for doing all the dirty work, it’s all he wanted. Everyone’s happy, everyone’s a winner.

  I got to meet lots of different types of fellas in The Camp, some more memorable than others. I’d often write about them in my letters to Steve. Everyone in prison writes more or less the same shite in every letter: I love you, I hate you, let’s get married, I’m gonna change, I’ll never do it again, honest, and blurgh, blurgh, blurgh. Not me, I just wrote about the people I met, sometimes over exaggerating to make it more interesting, sometimes not having to at all. Steve’s letters to me, however, were very short and to the point, to say the very least. Always six words long. Always.

  Letter to Steve

  Hey up, Stevie Baby,

  How’s it going up there, man? Hope all is well and you’ve not got yourself into too much grief, pal. Anyway, bud, I enjoyed your last letter, all six words of it. Since then I’ve met quite a few new mates. You already know about Shuffles, he’s a good lad, he gets out in a couple of week, but I’ll be okay, man, I’ll get a new pad mate and just carry on doing me time, pal. Same old same old.

  I don’t write to Katie, man, can’t be arsed. I only write to you and me mam, odd letter to the kids, but they’re only young so don’t really understand.

  Anyway, let me tell you about some more of the gadges I’ve met.

  There’s Slinky. He’s alright I suppose, he looks a right cunt though, bubble perm like an ’80s Scouser. Always got a dirty face an’ all. He’s doing an eighteen monther for nicking an old bloke’s watch. Sounds a bit harsh till you realise that Slinky had gone to help the poor old cunt who’d just been run over by a Renault Clio at a junction, he spotted the Gucci watch on the old fucker’s wrist and, instead of helping the poor twitching cunt, took his fucking watch off and hit the wind, man. Bit dirty I suppose, but hey ho! I asked him if the old fella lived and he just shrugged his shoulders, man. He buys cheese off me every day!

  Then there’s Bad Luck Bill. He’s coming to the end of an eight stretch for manslaughter. He was originally doing two years for burglary, which he denied. Anyway, he got into a fight in Durham nick and killed a bloke. The bad shit is though, man, that his appeal for the burglary came through in his favour, with DNA or summat, he wasn’t guilty after all, shouldn’t have even been inside in the first place, man, but the poor cunt’s still got to do the eight year for the manslaughter! Ha ha, I know it’s not funny really, but it kind of is. He buys cheese and coffee off me now and again.

  There’s Paddy. He’s a Paddy, from Dublin like my dad, he’s small and scrawny with untold amounts of acne and tells everyone wild stories, bit like me, man! He keeps trying to convince everyone that St Brendan discovered America a thousand years before Christopher Columbus. And that he went in a little rowing boat from Galway. And wrote about Red Indians in his diaries! Who knows, man, could be true, but you know what I say, never believe an Irishman! Ha ha.

  There’s a guy who’s Russian, Blood Piss is his nickname. Don’t know much about him, no-one does. He just comes to my pad, buys some vodka, listens to all the bullshit on offer and then fucks off. None of us even know what he’s in for. He doesn’t speak a stroke of English, man; only one word I ever hear him say is ‘BEETROOT!’ when he comes to the canteen for dinner. All he eats, man, fucking beetroot. Makes his piss red by all accounts. I haven’t had a look, Stevie Boy. And don’t fucking intend to either! Ha ha.

  There are four pikeys that come round for vodka all the time. They’re alright, no bother, can hardly understand ’em though, they just laugh and slap their big pikey hands on the table and on each other’s backs and talk gibberish to each other. All four of ’em are called Johnny Boy! All of ’em, man. Mad.

  Frankie Fat Knackers is funny, Stevie man, you’d piss yer sen if you saw him, he’s got Bollocks as Big as a Bread Bin! He’s got a party piece that he does when he comes round. He likes to get his giant nads out and then shows you that he can’t even fit one of ’em in the top of a pint glass. It’s gross, but funny. He does it all the time when he’s on the out too, in pubs and shit, even in the bingo hall, man! All the old dears love it apparently. He even got a job on the outside to accommodate his big spuds, lying on his back on a little trolley underneath cars, in a garage or summat. Each one is like a fucking Big Red Grapefruit. But heavier! The weight of his bollocks has even dragged his cock inside his body, leaving a great big, wet, gaping, doughnut hole where his cock should be. Looks awful, Stevie man. If he had a wife who loved him and doted on him, which he hasn’t, even she’d be sick, man. He doesn’t buy fuck all off me,
just comes round to get his plums out.

  Then there’s Jack the Cat. He’s called that because he’s died eight times! Yeah, man, keeps overdosing and dying for a minute or summat then coming back alive. Only one life left for that cunt, man. He’s only doing three month, shoplifter, junkie, you know the score, man. He seems okay but we all watch our shit when he’s about. You know what they’re like, man, them coat-feeling cunts, especially if they know they’ve only got one life left! Ha ha.

  Then there’s Bang Bang, another smack head, doing nine months for robbing shops with one of them toy guns that the red cloth thing comes out the end with BANG written on it! Daft cunt.

  There’s Chinese Sammy, who’s English but looks Chinese, funny yoks and that, and his mate English Jimmy, who is Chinese but tells everyone he’s English coz he’s from Hong Kong. Funny pair them two. I think they’re at it to be fair, if you get what I mean. They asked me if I could get them some beef mince! Ha ha.

  Hope I’m not boring you yet, Stevie baby. I know you’re doing a big bitch sentence so I like to keep you occupied, me old mate, not like the six word letters you send me! Nah, only kidding, pal, I know you can’t write very well. Ha ha.

  Anyway, there’s a kid called Hypo, always in and out, man, three month here, five month there, all that shit, burglar and shoplifter. Anyway he’s a right hypochondriac, man, always in the clinic for summat or other. When he was on the out his doctor got that sick of him coming everyday with whatever bullshit ailment he said he had, that he had him admitted to hospital and got ’em to take his appendix out to shut him the fuck up. So he’d have a scar to show off. Nutter, man! Now he goes on about his throat and his teeth and his bones are loose and all manner of shit, man. He gets vodka off me though, so I like him. Loose bones or not!

  Then there’s Jacko, a little Brummie, always fighting with cunts and getting locked up. Anyhoo, last time he was in, he got in a rumble in the kitchens and some cunt stuck his hand in a pan of boiling stew, took all his skin off, came off like a glove, man. One of his hands is fucked now, man. One ungloved hand, hence Jacko! He’s alright an’ all, chats shit, but he’s alright. He can’t sing like Jacko though.

  A good lad that’s been looking after me, making sure I don’t get any shit or owt, is Frosty, Gideon Frost, big black fella. I sort him out with vodka, he makes sure no cunt wants to rip me off. He gets out around same time as me so it’s good good good, man. No cunt messes with him, Stevie boy, and that in turn means no cunt messes with me! Result! Big Black Rupert tried to start with me the other night in the telly room. All I did was fart, man. It was ripe enough, I’ll give it that, but not to the extent that Mad Black Rupert should start shouting, ‘It’s not human, man, I’ll keeeel you,’ and all that shit, so Frosty went up to him, whispered summat in his lug, and he shut the fuck up and toddled off, Bumbo clarting under his breath. Ha ha haaa!

  There’s one kid, Junkie he’s called, and he’s not a junkie, never touched drugs, doing twelve month for fraud. Nah, man, they call him Junkie coz his name’s Tom Major and when he was at school in the ’80s the teacher would do the class register on a morning and when he got to him he’d say his surname first then his first name, Major? Tom? then all his class would shout out the lyrics to Ashes to Ashes and Major Tom being a Junkie! Every morning! Poor cunt. Even the teacher sang it.

  Then there’s Puddy. Steve man, he’s a weird one, not really scary, but a proper weirdo. He’s coming to the end of an eleven-year stretch, man. He won’t tell us what he did, just keeps saying that he was set up by them bitches, but I had it on good authority, one of the better screws, that Puddy was a kidnapper. Not in the “we want a ransom” sense, nah man, apparently all he did was kidnap pregnant women, tie ’em up for half an hour, milk ’em, then let ’em go. Yep, you read that right, Steve man, fucking milked them! Ha ha ha ha. Eleven year though? Bit harsh. Ha ha.

  There’s a nice old fella that comes round for a vodka, about seventy he is, man, Christmas Pete he’s called, just coming to the end of a ten stretch. Seems like butter wouldn’t melt in his snaffle, but he’s a cool customer, man. A few Christmases ago he was sat in a bar in Hull, where he’s from, minding his business, when three young out of town pricks started tormenting him, calling him a fossil and chucking peanuts at him and shit, thinking they were ten men, with a sixty odd year old bloke. Anyway, as it so happens, Christmas Pete is well respected round that way and there were some local young hard nuts in the bar playing pool.

  Watching.

  Now, Pete noticed that the locals had seen what was going on, so he gave the pricktards an ultimatum. He said, not shouting, just calmly, ‘Right, children, I’m gonna give you two choices here. If you look over there…’ he pointed at the local nut jobs, ‘they’re gonna beat you till you’re all paralysed, with pool cues, PA-RA-LYSED!’ He said you could hear them all gulp, and the fear in their “not so fucking hard now, are they” eyes was clearly visible by the well of tears coming in to them, when one of them piped up, trembling like a baby lamb, ‘What’s the other choice, Mister?’

  ‘Ha, or, young man, I’M gonna beat you, with a pool cue, till you are paralysed, all of you.’ And at that point he raised his voice, ‘PARA-FUCKING-PLEGIC!’ then flew at them like an animal. The locals flew at them too, and they and Christmas Pete did indeed give them the hiding of their sorry, soon to be not a very good quality of life, life.

  Christmas Pete was true to his word. Each of them ended up either para or quadriplegic, man.

  Moral of that story, Stevie man, never chuck salted peanuts at some old gimmer sat at the bar, or it could well be Stephen Fucking Hawking time!

  Nice bloke though. Buys cheese, coffee and vodka!

  The last fella I’m gonna tell you about, Stevie, is a real horror show, man. He’s coming to the end of a life sentence, mate, the big bitch. He’s got two years left to do in here. He’s already done twenty-two years, man, all over the gaff, Wakefield, Broadmoor, now here! He’s not all there, man, but keeps coming round asking for cheese and shit, and nobody dares to say no to him.

  Angry Leonard’s his name. He doesn’t seem really angry now to be fair, and he’s only a little fella, about fifty, bit of a Bobby Charlton comb over that looks a cunt, but before he got sent down, man, he was one angry, mean-spirited, horrible little cunt.

  Apparently, and it was in all the papers, he was bang at it all the time on gin and throttle, pissed out of his tits and whizzing his brains off. Anyway, he went out of his tiny mind one day and killed his pregnant girlfriend, with a screwdriver, stabbed her up bad style, man, all over her head, in their own living room. Then, when she was dead on the carpet, he went in his kitchen, got a Budweiser out the fridge and sat and drank it, staring at her mangled body. After he finished the beer, he broke the bottle over her dead head and cut her belly open with it, pulled the baby out of her guts and killed it an’ all! He pulled its eyes out with the broken bottle then went in his garden and tied the dead baby to a breezeblock, walked fifty yards down the street to his girlfriend’s mam’s house and threw it through her living room window while she was sat watching Sale of the fucking Century man. He then sat on her garden wall, lit a cig and waited for the law to come, mumbling and crying to himself. That’s nuts that, Stevie man. He’s nuts, man. That Angry Leonard definitely has Dreadful Demons Dancing in his deranged head! And now they think he’s okay to come here, with us normal cunts, man, even Puddy the Tit Milker seems normal next to this crazy cunt.

  Anyway, I give him cheese for fuck all, daren’t ask him to pay! Ha ha. Even Frosty’s wary of him and he’s a right hard cunt.

  Right, man, hope you’ve enjoyed my letter, my old pal, hope you write back soon, bud. Try make it a bit longer this time, matey, keep out of trouble and I’ll see you when I see you, fella me lad. I’ll write next week, man. Bye for now.

  Your Pal, Gaz x

  And that was my letter to Unsolved Steve, six pages long. I had
fun writing it, passes mine and his time, and I’m sure he shows them to his pals in there and has a laugh. I just wish his letters were longer. I like a good read.

  Steve’s letter came five days later. As always I got a bit giddy, as when receiving any letter. I opened it gently and unfolded the letter. Didn’t take me long to read it though, same six fucking words as usual, it read: “Gaz man, you’re full of shit.”

  23rd December 1998

  Alexander Hamilton, one of the founding fathers of the USA said, “The fondness for power is implanted in most men, and it is natural to abuse it when acquired.”

  I’ve never had a problem with authority, as such, just those who abuse the position. They’re cunts.

  Now, most of the screws in The Camp were cush, fifty and sixty somethings coming to the end of their service, getting ready to retire, not wanting any hassle and just getting on with their time, just like us I suppose. It made for a nice steady atmosphere the majority of the time. However, there were a couple of younger screws, early twenties, just starting out and trying to make a name for themselves. Like cunts.

  They reminded me a little of one of my teachers at high school, Mr McFadden. He was only young, and he was a fucking bully, man. He was my Latin teacher and he once threw his big size ten clodhopper at my Swede for staring him out. I shoulda looked away when he told me to, but me being me, never backing down and never shutting the fuck up when I really ought to, carried on with the stare out. Bosh, leather brogue up side my head. Ah well, shit happens sometimes.

  One such officer was Officer Snellgrove. He was only twenty-three years old, and he was a right bandy legged, knock-kneed, pincey toed, humpty backed, long-necked, big-nosed, cross-eyed bastard. And because he had such ridiculous features, he took it upon himself to be the biggest bully of all, coz he looked a cunt. The cunt.