Written on: Wednesday 19th February 2009

Out of sight, out of mind. It is a phrase that could have been invented to describe prison life. Once that steel door has slammed shut for the first time, you may as well no longer exist as far as the civilised world is concerned. Friends, family, girlfriends and business acquaintances; through every man’s life these come and go to a varying degree. Upon his incarceration, however, they mostly go. Such companions, hangers-on and well-wishers may start off with good intentions, but by the time a few weeks or months have elapsed, the letters, visits and fonecalls start to dry up. It was thus with great surprise that the inhabitants of Craiginches woke up this morning to discover that the entire country was suddenly fixated on their plight and that for one day only, The Lost Boys were very much in sight and in mind.
The first signs that someone – other than the screws – was watching our every move appeared in The Daily Record, which ran a story about the poor standard of laundry service provided by the jail. Apparently, this resulted in prisoners’ boxer shorts being lost in the wash, forcing them to have to wear their fellow cons’ kecks instead. It was flattering to know that the nation was choking on its cornflakes in righteous indignation over the whereabouts of my cum-stained CKs. It was also baffling however to think that The Daily Record was more concerned about my dirty underwear than my mum had ever been. Why had the national press taken it upon themselves to highlight this previously undocumented prison phenomenon? As a page-turner, the story must be right up there with The Plight Of Endangered Water Voles and Revised Wheelie Bin Collection Days.
But it wasn’t just the Record who wished to go on the record regarding the welfare of us poor prisoners. The Daily Telegraph had a similar tale of woe, focussing on the shocking standard of jail food. Coming from a broadsheet whose readers’ idea of slumming it is downgrading from Marks & Spencer to Waitrose, I found it comforting to know that they were thinking of me as they nibbled on their pain aux chocolates. What issue of prison life would the press decide to document next I wondered - the lack of conjugal visits? The paucity of silver cutlery and china teacups at mealtimes? The reason for the glut of seemingly random jail stories finally became apparent when I picked up The Press & Journal to be greeted by the headline ‘Inspector issues a damning verdict on Aberdeen Prison’. To celebrate the publication of the Prison Inspector’s report on Craiginches, the paper had devoted two pages to cataloguing the many woes to have afflicted what was apparently Scotland’s Shittest Jail.
It began: ‘The people of the north-east have been let down by “dreadful” conditions inside Aberdeen Prison – leading to more crime on the streets… Andrew McLellan found it was badly overcrowded, short of staff, had a “shocking” drugs problem, a building not fit for purpose, and “no chance” of any improvements being made…Conditions at Aberdeen Sheriff Court, meanwhile, were also criticised by Mr McLellan… “The conditions at Aberdeen Sheriff Court are disgraceful. Dramatic improvement is needed immediately.”’
Fair point, Mr McLellan, although it doesn’t require the title of Chief Prison Inspector to deduce that the Sheriff Court is a bit poopy. I was not exaggerating in a recent blog when I observed ‘The holding cells are a series of squalid concrete rooms, each barely bigger than a domestic bathroom. Inside them, up to ten prisoners at a time are crammed together to await their court appearances. In these grim, squalid dungeons, the talk is of slashings, beatings and stabbings.’ If the inspector had only bothered to read The Trash Whore Diaries like the rest of the SPS staff, he need never have set foot inside that filthy, not-fit-for-purpose prison.
The intense scrutiny of Craiginches wasn’t just contained to the print media. On the way to the Education Department after lunch, we passed two Scottish Television trucks in the yard, one fitted with a giant satellite dish for live broadcasts. At six o’clock, STV would be presenting a half hour news special from the beleaguered jail, boasting ‘unprecedented access’ to the prison that everyone was dissing. It was officially open season on Craiginches.
Although the bewildering barrage of media attention gave the cons something to speak about other than the usual drugs/violence/more drugs, we all knew that the ‘damning’ findings would not serve to better our existence. Even if the public were able to muster some sympathy for the inmates in Scotland’s worst jail, we would be out of mind (or maybe just off our minds) by the time the broadcast had ended. It was Comic Relief Day but without the red noses. Does anyone really think about those poor African villagers with no running water on the other 364 days of the year?
For the live broadcast, the STV anchorman was to be positioned in one of the prison halls, where he would link between pre-recorded sequences and live interviews with the governor and the Scottish Justice Secretary. Thankfully for them, the cons would be locked up at this time, thus preventing the show from degenerating into a raucous, expletive-laden PR disaster. Those gouching, gurning faces would be safely out of sight behind their doors. Of course, containing the threat provided no guarantees that the show would go off without a hitch. If there is one thing prisoners are good at, it’s being heard when not seen. To prevent a barrage of abuse from flooding through the cracks in the cell doors and drowning out the anchorman, the governor had sensibly opted to film the event in B-Hall, the smaller, more civilised of the two halls. B-Hall is where old lags who can’t stand the hustle and bustle of jail life go to die. Unlike its rowdy neighbour, A, B is devoid of hyperactive Young Offenders and newly-admitted junkies intent on booting in their doors as they sweat out the gear. To err on the side of caution, the governor also visited each cell in B-Hall at lunchtime and warned the inhabitants to behave. Nothing was being left to chance.
At six o’clock, as the cameras cut to the intrepid STV anchorman embedded deep in the bowels of Craiginches, the A-Hall cons cheered and booted their doors, the traditional way of acknowledging any shared TV moment such as a goal being scored in a live football match. For the next 30 minutes, we were treated to footage of prisoners fighting and getting caught passing drugs in the visit room. One of the screws showed off a cardboard box full of contraband that had found its way into the jail – mobile fones, syringes, screwdrivers and of course drugs. Much to the relief of the governor, the live sections passed without incident. The B-Hall cons, who had the power to sabotage the show, were as good as bad men can be. Just as I was starting to think they’d been spiked with double methadone and had all fallen asleep, the inmates finally found their voices as the anchorman was signing off, emitting a few belated whoops and cheers. Children and animals are regarded as the two biggest liabilities on live television. Convicts can safely be added as the third.
After the show had finished and we were unlocked for rec, I stepped out into the main hall of a jail that, according to the Prison Inspector, had a ‘shocking drug problem’. To the casual observer, surveying A-Hall, it would be easy to conclude that the Inspector had perhaps been egging it a bit when he made this claim. As far as the eye could see, there were no drugs or drug-related activity taking place, just a load of convicts running about and playing pool. Was it really that bad? ‘Here, Kai.’ A voice beckoned to me and I turned round to see a familiar jail face. ‘Kai, do you want a line of coke?’ I didn’t need to question the pope’s Catholicism or the bowel movements of bears in woods. If the Chief Prison Inspector had decreed this establishment to have a shocking drugs problem, then I would take it upon myself to clean the place up… by taking all the drugs myself. I followed the boy upstairs and we ducked into his cell. Inside, it was a veritable cave of iniquity. Coke, smack and hash lay on the worktop, as did the tools of the trade; clingfilm, tooters and scorched foil. The con tipped some light brown powder onto a Caramel wrapper and, clenching the tooter between his teeth, lay back on his bunk and lit it from underneath. He inhaled deeply. His padmate, who was already wasted, rummaged about in his socks for a while before eventually producing a knot of hash, which I gratefully accepted. I then proceeded to rack up two lines of ching, one for each of us. After polishing off the white powdery goodness, I thanked the pair for their hospitality and left them to polish off their brown powdery badness. Drug problem, what drug problem? Everything your habit needs can be found under one roof here at HMP Craiginches. No problem at all.
Of the many Craigie-centric reports to have surfaced in today’s press, the best one of all was not actually about drugs. Like all things concerned with Craigie, however, it came back to drugs in the end. Under the heading ‘Inmates vanish with savings scheme cash’, the Press & Journal reported: ‘Crafty prisoners signed up for savings accounts behind bars – then vanished when they were granted loans on the outside…Bill Harkis, of the North East Scotland Credit Union, said: “One or two of the prisoners ripped us off. They came out, got a loan and didn’t pay us back. It’s frustrating, but part of the credit union is dealing with financially excluded people. There’s a bit of a risk involved sometimes.”’ Bit of a risk? Lending money to prisoners in the expectation that they will pay it back is a banking decision that even the much-maligned Sir Fred Goodwin would baulk at. The folly of issuing sub-prime mortgages seems like a good bit of business compared to issuing credit to Craigie’s sub-primates. The report concluded ‘Some of the prisoners who took advantage of the system borrowed loans of up to £200 for white goods then failed to pay them back.’ White goods? So that’s what they’re calling crack cocaine these days.

Who lives here? Ooh I guess that'll be me then. Yep, that cosy top bunk was mine for the majority of 2009. But how on earth did I manage to take a picture of my homely prison cell? Surely that would have required access to some sort of camera device and a means to transmit the image wirelessly to a third party outside the jail. Perhaps something like... a camera phone? Contraband items such as cellular telephones in Scottish prisons? Surely not! Next thing you know they'll be smuggling drugs in as well.

Written on: Friday 13th February 2009

‘Here.’ I proffer the tooter to Huxley who looks up from the book he is reading. (Guns & Gangs, a history of black gun crime in Britain.) ‘Nah dude, you go first,’ he insists. I lean over the worktop and demolish a fat slug. Standing upright, I push a finger against my right nostril and snort, waiting for the cocaine hit to kick in. ‘Mash up, mash up!’ exclaims the stereo. I instinctively turn up Annie Mac and wait for the tune to drop. It builds up slowly, the beat repeating over and over as it builds towards the climax that is preceded by the inevitable pause. And then it drops. ‘Dun-du-du-du-du-dun’ goes the phat bassline. Fucking tune. Huxley reaches over and demolishes his rail. He is feeling good. So am I. The tunes are banging. It’s Friday nite, which can only mean one thing – Snafu. Knock back some Havana, straighten my hair, have another liney for the road and get ready to rock and roll. There is just one hitch; the front door is locked and I don’t have the keys. Neither does Huxley. As it stands, we ain’t going nowhere. Not tonite, not tomorrow, not even this month. Jail really fucks up your social life.
I jump onto my berth on the top bunk and glare at the resolute cell door, willing it to open. It doesn’t. It is of little consolation to know that we are not alone in our frustration. In cells the length and breadth of A-Hall, the cons are in a similar predicament. Only not all of them are as keen to leave as we are. It all depends on what they’ve been taking really – uppers or downers. On the second flat, a ghetto blaster has been cranked to the max and the bass is pumping out at ASBO-invoking levels. It shudders through the hall before escaping through the gaps in the window bars and out into the yard. That will be the Yardies, bringing the party as usual. One of them sourced some bicarb earlier and, after obtaining an eighth of Huxley’s powdery white goodness, set about trying to rock it up. By the sounds of it, his chemistry practical has been a success. They must be climbing the walls in there. In the adjacent cell, the neighbours are more placid. Indeed, they don’t seem remotely perturbed by the hard house vibrating through the bricks that separate them from the blacks on crack. That’s because they are smacked off their tits thanks to the parcel that one of them took in earlier at a visit. One swift kiss from his blonde, one almighty swallow and, back at the hall, one bout of induced vomiting. On the bottom flat, the YO’s are stoned as usual. But because the Young Offenders are young and offensive, they can’t just chill and enjoy the vibe like self-respecting potheads. No, they have to jump about like toddlers who’ve necked too much Sunny D, making animal sounds through the crack in the door, vandalising the window panes and shouting obscenities through the resulting holes. From the cell across the hallway, there comes a dull thumping. This is not another competing bassline but the sound of someone desperately trying to summon the screws. The thumper’s cellmate has spewed everywhere and then passed out. It transpires that the boy has lapsed into a coma after nailing his week’s allocation of vallies in a oner. Holding back one’s medication is a common jail practice that involves pretending to swallow your tablets in front of the nurse, only to spit them back up once out of sight. Save up a few days’ worth, bosh them all at once and you’ll get a proper dunt. That or just lapse into a coma. On the top flat, a similar incident is taking place. In the end cell, an inmate is convulsing, rolling about on the floor in a series of violent spasms. His cellmate presumes that the boy is just strung out and leaves him to rattle off the worst of the gear. The next morning, he learns that heroin had nothing to do with it for once; the guy was actually having a series of epileptic fits.
Back in cell 1-11, there is still no sign of the keys. Not only that, but I can’t seem to find the Havana or my straighteners. Oh well, I guess another liney will have to suffice. ‘Ready or not, here I come.’ The Fugees mash-up kicks in and I crank it up. It’s a tune. They all are. Perhaps I’ll just stay in after all and listen to the show. I can easily go clubbing some other time. I run my tongue across my teeth. My mouth is numb.

Written on: Monday 16th February 2009

Monday morning, 9:00am. Rush hour. Cars snake slowly along Wellington Road, their drivers tooting and cursing at each other. Valentine’s Day has been and gone and any love engendered by it has swiftly melted with the snow. Rain falls horizontally, mixing with the slush and salt to form a dirty brown paste that clings to everything it touches, tarnishing alloys and destroying loafers. It is the most depressing day of the week in the greyest, dreichest city in Scotland in the most violent, murderous country in Western Europe. At this exact moment in time, no one wishes they were here, but they are, so collectively they grit their teeth and get on with it; the school run, the morning commute to work, the consignment of fish bound for the A90 and beyond.
I see none of this – the commuters, the slush, the rain and the traffic – but I know it’s all there, just on the other side of the perimeter wall. 30 feet the wrong side of it, in HMP Craiginches, there is no work to go to, no kids to drop off at school and no appointments to be late for. There is no reason for this day to be any more depressing than the 100 that preceded it. Each one is, after all, identical in every way. Yet even in here it is impossible to shake off that Monday morning feeling. Within seconds of being unlocked, 45 minutes earlier, one of the cons on the second flat [landing] dragged a Scouser into the shower area and laid into him. Perhaps their dispute was over drugs. Or perhaps he was just pissed off because it was Monday.
Inside cell 1-11 on the bottom flat, my pad-mate and I are oblivious to the stresses and strains of the outside world. Ours is a scene of domestic bliss. While Huxley boils the kettle, I am busy scrubbing my underwear in the sink, having left it to marinate for a while in Lynx shower gel. The kettle hisses and we prepare to make our respective breakfasts. For my co-pilot, this consists of cornflakes with sugar, milk and a drop of hot water. For me, Frosties, milk and sliced banana. From the stereo in the corner of the cell, generic ned beats pump out. It is the only CD we have and it has been played 100 times over; ‘Watching the sunshine, show me the sunshine, come on give me the sunshine.’ The chance would be a fine thing. Here, on the bottom flat, no sunlight ever pervades these walls to lighten up our day. All we can see – should we care to look – is razor wire, concrete and the occasional low-flying seagull. There is a click and our door unlocks. ‘Kit change’ shouts the screw. I gather up my dirty laundry – an Aberdeen Prison-stamped towel, a pair of Aberdeen Prison-stamped tracksuit bottoms, an Aberdeen Prison-stamped jumper and, yep, an Aberdeen Prison-stamped t-shirt. The items are deposited in a wheelie bin and I am issued with clean ones, like for like. We return to our cell and are promptly locked up again. I wring the water out of my Calvin Klein boxer shorts and hang them on the pipes to dry. Huxley sparks a rollie. Shortly, the door will unlock once again and I will be escorted to the education department. There, I will assemble the jail magazine for the reading pleasure of its illiterate population. After that, the rest of my day will be taken up with lunch, sleep, gym, dinner, sleep, visit, letter-writing, TV and yet more sleep in that order. It is not the most enthralling way to eke out one’s days, but at least mine’s is an existence free of stress and responsibility. No deadlines, nowhere to be, no obligation to get out of bed. If you want to escape from the pressures of everyday life, don’t book into an expensive spa – just go to jail.
On the other side of the wall, the morning rush hour is still in progress as the good people of the world crawl agonisingly closer to wherever it is they are going. As they inch their way slowly through Torry, they barely glance up at the imposing granite wall that shadows the road, or the CCTV cameras that monitor their steady progress. They are not to know that just a stone’s throw away lies Aberdeen’s best-kept secret; an exclusive gated community where living is free and responsibilities are left at the door. As the crow flies, my world is not a million miles away from theirs. In reality however, we are a million miles apart.