Day 1 - April 20th 2007

When I left that courtroom, my friends, family, normal life and worst of all, Jilly (my other half), I felt nothing but numb. Only a few steps behind the courtroom and you’re in a whole new underground world. The guard handcuffs his arm to mine, he’s a decent guy in a shitty job, my chirpy small talk is probably a pleasant change for him. I’m only hiding the shock, though. We arrive at the holding cells area of the court to a reception desk, where it’s goodbye to my belt and tie- you know why, too. Lots of form filling follows, whilst my now worldly possessions are removed, inspected and logged from the bag I’d brought with me. Never has a pair of grey briefs looked so fucking pathetic.

I’m told I can’t take most of the toiletries I’ve brought with me, such as toothpaste, shower gel (no soap on a rope) and shampoo. They’re bagged up separately and given back to my barrister upstairs. HMP Durham is the usual first port of call for custodial sentences from Carlisle, but as the prisons are so full, the guards downstairs can’t confirm where I’ll be going tonight. Four hours in a bare cell with just a wooden bench. A million thoughts are still gliding aimlessly through my mind. I can’t complain, this is all about punishment and no better time to start than now. “gez scouse on tour”, “kellez kendal krew” and hundreds of other works of art list the previous tenants who’ve enjoyed my surroundings. At least reading those takes my mind off the stench of piss. It’s about 4.30pm, another short walk, handcuffed again, and we’re on the wagon. At least it’s movement, at least something’s happening. It’s confirmed Durham have space, and with that, we’re off.

The cells in the prison wagon are about half the size of a plane toilet, you sit on a hard moulded plastic seat, and the cell wall in front of you has a cut-out for your knees. At 6’ I just manage to fit in without struggling, God knows what it’s like if you’re pretty tall? There’s a window to look out of, you’re on the other side of those blacked out windows that press photographers try to snap through when someone (in)famous gets a ride from Her Majesty. It’s a warm, sunny late spring Friday afternoon and as we head out through the Carlisle traffic, the everyday people are leaving their everyday schools and jobs, planning their everyday, legal Friday nights. In freedom. It’s hard not to begrudge all those happy looking people, very hard. I won’t be planning my Friday nights, or any other night for a while. For now my nights, and my days, will be planned for me.

Around 6pm we arrive at HMP Durham. It’s moments like this you realise how much your freedom is a gift, as four of us are unloaded and herded into the prison, up the stairs and into the reception area. Five or six prison guards are behind a large desk, scurrying around, creating the paperwork to put us into the system. We’re told to wait in large, perspex walled waiting rooms until our names are bellowed and you begin answering what become standard prison questions; “Been in Durham before?”, “Been in prison before?”, “Drug problems?”. Somehow I feel unique in answering no to all three. I’m asked if I know what to do if I discover a prisoner who’s overdosed. I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest.

Back to the perspex room and wait for another shout, where I’m given my prison number, VT4352, and handed some of the clothes I’ve brought into prison with me. I’m allowed 12 items of clothing, a couple of writing pads and my nearly empty toiletry bag. Every item is logged, signed for by both the guard and me and the items I can’t have are put into storage. Next up is another room to be fingerprinted. No high tech, just an ink pad and sheet of card. I stand against the wall as my photo is taken and ID card is produced. Mustang Sally is playing on the radio and the guards don’t waste an opportunity to take the piss. Thank god these guys are human. At the back of the same room is a hatch manned by inmates, where I’m handed my prison issue clothes; two T-shirts, tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirt, prison jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Then it’s into a cubicle where I’m stripped and searched, my suit put into storage, I won’t be wearing it for a while.

Luckily I’m allowed to put my own clothes on. As sad as it sounds, familiar clothes have a strange comfort to them, like they’re braving a strange journey with me. A quick interview with a nurse, weighed, then another guy in another office. The three question repetition; “Been in Durham before”, “Been in prison before?”, “Any drink or drug problems?”, no, no and no. Still.

E Wing is an induction wing, I arrive clutching a clear plastic bag full of my clothes, bed sheets and paperwork. Like all the staff so far, the officer greeting me was very polite and very concise, although a little flustered by having so little time due to staff shortages. He runs through some of the basics, hands me my pack of plastic plates and cutlery then explains some of the routines, but by now it’s passed 9 o’clock, I’m emotionally and physically wrecked, there’s too much to take in. “You’ll pick it up” he assures me. Not like I’ve got much else to do, is it? I’m given some emergency phone credit and use the phone by the wing office to ring Jilly. I’m too headfucked to crack up over the phone, but it’s so amazing to hear Jilly on the other end. Only 9 hours ago I was holding her in the waiting area of court. It feels like that happened in a previous life.

I’ve found out you’re allowed a special reception visit when you first come into prison where loved ones or friends can come for one visit in the first few days. Jilly, Mum and Dad have already phoned the prison and booked themselves in for tomorrow. I wish it was tomorrow now. As much as I try to reassure her I’m OK, she’s cracking up. It’s harder for her than for me. Mark, my new cell mate, is a star. I arrive at cell 3-15 like a lost puppy, a bag of clothes in one hand, linen in the other and more cloth in my head than both put together. Without a prompt Mark’s got me organised. It takes him a minute to do what would have taken me hours, sorting the bedclothes, putting stuff in cupboards for me. Finding someone decent for a cell mate has been the first good thing of the day. The only good thing. Having a portable TV in the room was a godsend I wasn’t expecting. More useful as background noise, helping me doze during the evening, proper sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I grab a few minutes here, a few minutes there. I’m not exactly a conversational masterpiece.