A Bit of a Stretch

The Diaries of a Prisoner

Chris Atkins

• Publisher: Atlantic Books
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9781838950170
• eBook ISBN: 9781838950163
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: Social Sciences

'Shocking, scathing, entertaining.' Guardian
'Incredibly compelling.' The Times
'Heart-breaking.' Sunday Times Where can a tin of tuna buy you clean clothes? Where is it easier to get 'spice' than paracetamol? Where does self-harm barely raise an eyebrow? Welcome to Her Majesty's Prison Service. Like most people, documentary-maker Chris Atkins didn't spend much time thinking about prisons. But after becoming embroiled in a dodgy scheme to fund his latest film, he was sent down for five years. His new home would be HMP Wandsworth, one of the largest and most dysfunctional prisons in Europe. With a cast of characters ranging from wily drug dealers to senior officials bent on endless reform, this powerful memoir uncovers the horrifying reality behind the locked gates. Filled with dark humour and shocking stories, A Bit of a Stretch reveals why our creaking prison system is sorely costing us all - and why you should care.

1

Trauma and Toothpaste

In which I check into E Wing – aka Beirut – and am surrounded by mentally ill drug addicts, but luck out with my first cellmate.

Things I learn:

1) How long I’ll have to spend in Wandsworth

2) The grim realities of prison cuisine

3) A curious new version of apple bobbing

Things get so bad that I consider faking Christianity, and I eventually depart to the uplands of A Wing.

1 July 2016

I wake up at 7 a.m., and lie in bed hoping that this last week is only the remnants of a terrifying nightmare. Radio 4 is commemorating the Battle of the Somme, which began exactly a hundred years ago. If those young men could run at machine guns, then I can probably handle a stretch in prison. I walk over to Lottie’s flat to have breakfast with Kit. He knows that something is up as soon as he sees I’m in my court clothes. I bought a new suit from M&S specifically for the trial, which Kit hated me wearing from day one.

As we play with his little cash register, he keeps saying, ‘Hello, customer, what do you want to buy today?’ When it’s time to go, he gives me a hug goodbye. I don’t want to leave. I’m really, really scared. He decides that I need another hug, and leans over and holds me extra tight. This releases a huge surge of confidence and energy that I’ve never felt before or since. I feel as if I’m cloaked in an impenetrable force field.

‘I can do this,’ I whisper to myself, and stride out the door.

I’m accompanied to the sentencing by Lottie’s brother and her mum, Debby. She’s been a tower of strength, and we had nightly debriefs in her garden throughout the trial. When we get out at London Bridge, the sun is streaming down, and we head round the corner to Southwark Crown Court. Three photographers are waiting for me and jostle to get my picture. One of them shouts, ‘Good luck, mate!’ and I walk up the steps for the last time.

In Court 5, my friends and family are packing out the public gallery. After a couple of minutes, Judge Beddoe whisks in. My barrister pleads for leniency, but when the judge starts speaking, he doesn’t sound in a very forgiving mood. He accepts that I didn’t know precisely what Potter was up to, but is going to punish me for facilitating the scheme. He says that I should get six years for the main count, and two years for a side count, which ought to run consecutively.

My internal ticker tape is now up to eight years. Prisoners usually serve half their overall sentence, so I’m constantly halving the figures to work out how long I’ll be inside. I start zoning out as everything gets quieter and further away. Kit’s hug is still protecting me. The judge then looks at me and says that my sentence is five years, and I’ll serve two and a half inside. I suddenly snap back into the room as if I’ve been given defibrillation. ‘Only five?!’ I shout in my head. ‘Get out of here before he changes his mind!’ I stand up and give a moronic wave to the judge. The journalists in the press gallery look as if I’ve gone completely batshit as I bowl out the side door, where I’m cuffed up to a custody officer who is a dead ringer for Eric Idle from Monty Python.

‘Are you sure he said five?’ I gibber.

‘That’s what you’ve got,’ he replies, and presses a button to call the lift.

Not surprisingly, backstage is a lot shabbier than the customer-facing parts of the courthouse. It’s like accidentally taking the service elevator in a hotel. The doors open into the basement, and I’m led to a small desk, where an officer takes some basic personal details. I’m then cuffed up to the young guard who sat in the dock with me during the trial. We got on quite well and I’d sometimes chip in on his Sudoku puzzle when we hit peak boredom.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

‘Guilty on the lot. Got five years.’

He smiles sympathetically. ‘From Judge Beddoe, that’s not too bad. Cells are through here.’

On the wall is a large whiteboard listing the names of my fellow prisoners. Next to Cell 5 is scrawled CLIFFORD.

‘Is that Max Clifford?’ I ask the guard.

He nods proudly. Clifford is still serving his original prison sentence, but has now been hauled back to court to stand trial for more historic sexual assaults.

‘I sort of know him,’ I whisper.

The lad checks that no one else is around. ‘Do you want to have a word?’

‘Fuck yeah.’

There’s a little round porthole on the cell door, and I peer inside.Clifford sits hunched at the back of a tiny windowless kennel. He looks nothing like the cocky king of PR I filmed eight years ago; rather he resembles a geriatric Osama bin Laden.

‘Hi, Max!’

He edges up to the door, smiling carefully. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me. Chris Atkins. I turned you over in my film Starsuckers.’

’ He looks extremely rattled, probably assuming that I’ve come to torment him further. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demands.

‘I just got five years for fraud.’ I hold up my cuffed hand to illustrate the point. ‘For funding Starsuckers, funnily enough.’

His mood brightens. ‘Right, OK then. How are things otherwise?’

‘Yeah, not bad. Couldn’t believe the Brexit result.’

‘Incredible, wasn’t it?’

‘Madness. Good luck in your new case.’

‘Cheers. Mind how you go.’

The guard leads me a few doors down. ‘You’re wasting away,’ he says. ‘You should have some lunch.’ He’s not wrong; I barely ate during the trial, and my weight has plummeted. Now that I know my fate, my appetite is flooding back. He offers a microwaved chicken curry, and I order two.

I’m locked in a dingy box, about three feet by five. It’s the first time I’ve ever been detained against my will, but I feel oddly elated. The judge indicated that I might get eight years, so receiving only five seems like a lucky escape. After 20 minutes, the food arrives, but there’s nothing to eat off. I balance the microwave container on my lap and bolt everything down like a starving dog, dropping much of it on my M&S trousers.

An hour later, I’m led through a holding bay and into a big white Serco van. I squeeze into a tiny box in the back. It makes flying Ryanair seem luxurious – there’s no seat belt and the legroom is nonexistent. The van drives out from under the courthouse and starts to crawl across south London. Through the darkened window I can see people with that Friday-afternoon spring in their step. I try and fail to come to terms with the fact that I won’t be joining them for some considerable time.

The van finally pulls to a halt. I squint up at the sinister Gothic architecture looming above us. It looks like Castle Grayskull from the He Man cartoons. A gate opens, admitting us into a massive courtyard, and we reverse towards a vast Victorian prison wing. There are some Portakabins tacked onto the side, and a big sign says HMP WANDSWORTH: RECEPTION.

I’m let out of the van, and join six other prisoners inside one of the Portakabins. The room is pretty bashed up; in the corner is a loo cubicle with no door. The other inmates are all black, and much younger than me. One lad is shaking and twitching, I’m guessing through drug withdrawal. Everyone else is wearing tracksuits, while I stand awkwardly in my curried court clothes. One by one our names are called, and the others start heading round the corner to be processed. I’m the last to be summoned, and I walk hesitantly through. Standing behind a desk is an officer who presumably got the job based on his highly intimidating appearance. He’s bald and bearded, with various sinister tattoos, and reminds me of the cave troll that skewers Frodo in The Lord of the Rings.

‘Right, Atkins. You’ve just got five years, do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ I reply as confidently as I can manage.

The troll looks me up and down. ‘You’re remarkably calm for someone who’s received a long prison sentence. Are you a calm kind of person?’

I shrug. ‘It’s probably just the shock. I expect I’ll completely lose my shit in a few days.’

He shrugs back. ‘This is your first time inside, so let me warn you – this place is full of slime. Total vermin. Isn’t that right, Dave?’ The equally huge screw to his left grunts in agreement. ‘Of the sixteen hundred prisoners in this joint,’ the cave troll continues, ‘there are about fifty I could have a reasonable conversation with. The rest are pond life.’ At the time, this seems like an unfair slight on the population of Wandsworth.

‘Do you smoke?’ he asks.

‘I just quit,’ I reply, and mean it.

He fills in some forms. ‘You stick out like a sore thumb, so the vultures will soon come knocking. Say no to everything and you’ll be fine.’ My photo is taken, I’m given a prison number – A8892DT – and then I’m locked in a holding cell on my own. The other arrivals were existing Wandsworth residents, so I’m the only newly sentenced prisoner being processed.

My system is flooded with adrenaline. I’m sharply focused on everything that’s happening around me, only nothing is. It reminds me of when I did undercover filming, minus the constant reassuring knowledge that I could walk away at any moment. There’s a poster on the wall: Welcome to Wandsworth. The photos show a spotlessly clean cell, a privacy curtain shielding the toilet area, and a small desk. Two jolly officers are smiling and waving at the camera. That doesn’t look too bad, I think to myself.

I’m called out of the room and told to follow a winding grey path that feeds through reception. It’s like a dystopian Yellow Brick Road, with flatulent prison officers instead of Munchkins.

First stop: clothing. I’m led into a little booth, and instructed to undress. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the naked squat over a mirror, but the officer just gives me a cursory look. I’ve brought in the recommended cheap tracksuits, but apparently I won’t be able to wear my own clothes until I’ve been inside a few months without causing trouble. In the meantime, I’ll have to make do with prison-issue kit. I’m handed an overstretched pair of grey tracksuit bottoms that feel like they’re held together by itching powder, and an enormous thick blue T-shirt that resembles the smocks worn by medieval peasants. The officer assures me that these garments have been thoroughly cleaned, but they nonetheless smell like someone’s died in them. My court clothes are stuffed into my ‘prop box’, a flimsy black plastic crate that will store items I’m not allowed on the wings.

Next stop: property. A barrel-shaped screw produces my bang-up bag and empties my possessions onto a conveyor belt. Another officer starts removing prohibited items, which he then shoves into my prop box. I watch with eager anticipation to see what makes it through. It’s like an austere version of The Generation Game. I lose the radio, quite a few toiletries and a hardback notebook. The officer inspects my brand-new Argos watch, and tosses that in the box too.

‘Er, what’s wrong with that?’ I timidly ask.

‘It’s got a stopwatch,’ he ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Preface
• Introduction
• Chapter 1: Trauma and Toothpaste
• Chapter 2: Lockdowns and Love Actually
• Chapter 3: Showers and Slips
• Chapter 4: Goodfellas and Goldilocks
• Chapter 5: Biohazard and Back Rubs
• Chapter 6: Suicide and Sellotape
• Chapter 7: Spinsters and Spiceheads
• Chapter 8: Murder and Mutiny
• Chapter 9: Courtrooms and Cheeseburgers
• Chapter 10: Despair and Dancing Queen
• Chapter 11: Paedophiles and Prizes
• Epilogue
• References
• Acknowledgements