NEVER MIND THE BACON
In 2018, I found myself incarcerated in a Dublin jail. It was there that I discovered a surprising new passion: writing. This prison diary attempts to capture those moments of levity in the midst of chaos and provide insight into a world often misunderstood.
As Bill Hicks once said, "comedy reframes reality."
CRIMINAL COURTS, DUBLIN
FRIDAY
“If you judge them, you have no time to love them!” Mother Teresa
Today is my big day in court – to be sentenced. I am wearing my new tie especially for the occasion and sporting a pair of black-framed thick lensed spectacles. The specs are not mine, but I’m hoping they will convince the judge that I am an intellectual.
The outcome of today’s proceedings is just a formality, as I have already pleaded guilty to the offence. Although exactly who I have offended nobody can tell me. I had presumed that this matter would have been the pivotal part of the prosecution’s case against me, and I helpfully point out this fact to my barrister. There is the standard thick Perspex safety screen that separates the defendants from the rest of the courthouse and thank God – because every time I present my brief with a perfectly reasonable query, he looks like he wants to come over and punch me in the face.
So, here we all are, gathered together this morning to hear what his old Lordy Lordship deduces is a suitable amount of time for me to be banished to the wilderness, locked in a small room to contemplate my sins. I imagine it will be a lonesome place, where I will pine for my lost freedom. Perhaps dreaming of a spectacular starlit night … the soothing calm of an ocean …or trying to remember what a ‘Stuffed Focaccia’ tastes like.
I find it a strange concept to get my head around: that being, that somebody I have never met before has the remarkable authority to instruct me how long I should be prevented from enjoying a bit of artisan bread. The procedure is straightforward enough. The evidence is put forward by the prosecution; my barrister agrees with the evidence but then tries to mitigate my offense by attempting to convince the judge that the man in the dock facing him is in fact Saint Francis of Assisi in disguise. My counsel does an excellent job and almost succeeds in the deception, with a brilliant speech about my ordinarily good behaviour. It’s hard for me to hear him clearly from the back of the court but I think he says I could be much more useful to society if I was left on the outside doing a job of some kind, where I could continue paying my taxis?
I’m not sure how my barrister knew this. But it’s the truth.
The judge retires from the court to contemplate his verdict, taking with him my massive folder of lies sorry, I mean letters – photos and references, some sent from my associates, friends and well-wishers …and others I just made up. I had considered asking a friend to photoshop them, to impress his Worship. Perhaps one of me playing golf with Barack Obama or opening a recycling centre with Greta Thunberg? But my barrister suggested It would be “overegging the pudding.” To my surprise the judge emerges from his back room deliberations to announce the most monumental verdict of my lifetime after just seven and 3 a half minutes. That’s hardly enough time for him to use the toilet and put his wig back on straight, never mind read through the whole of my dodgy dossier of character references and holiday snaps. He coughs, then bangs his mallet, and gives me three and half years in prison, and that’s it! Finished! For some reason my barrister thanks him.
I am taken down to the cells, flabbergasted at him only taking 7.5 minutes to reach his verdict on my one and only life. That’s 5.6 months a minute! Even Brian Cox, who is a professor, would find that equation difficult to comprehend. SEVEN AND A HALF BLOODY MINUTES!
He probably spends more time arguing with his conscience when he’s in Tesco’s trying to decide between getting the ‘Steak Tagliatelle with Tenderstem Broccoli’ or the ‘Lemon and Ricotta Hot Cakes with Blueberry Syrup’.
I vehemently protest to the court solicitor about this obvious inconsistency in his ruling, but he explains to me that there is nothing he can do about it. He patiently tells me that my calculation is not relevant to the case, because as a general precedent, judges do not shop at Tesco’s.
Below, in the depths of the court cells, I sit dejected with my head in my hands, imagining my fate. My barrister enters and gives his cheerful commiserations and farewells and after he has made a few recommendations regarding my right of appeal he instructs the jailor to allow him to return upstairs.
As he finally departs, he pats me kindly on my despondent shoulders and chuckles: “Maybe we should have included that photo of you with Greta Thunberg after all.”
I was looking forward to a warm welcome on my first night in prison in old Dublin town. In the van on the way, the guard's joke that the jails over here are not too dissimilar to your typical Irish pub. I briefly daydream, imagining there will be a bit of Van Morrison piped through the Tannoy system perhaps, horse races blaring from the television, portraits of Seamus Heaney and a couple of tourists in a corner painfully learning to play the traditional bodhrán drum. It is not the least bit like that at all. I find myself thrown into a cold, grey three-bunk committal cell that is already occupied by two nasty-looking thugs. It appears that they have been designed by the makers of Grand Theft Auto, recently constructed down at ‘Felon’s Fabrications’ then carefully styled by the editor of Fascist Weekly magazine – But at least there are no tourists banging on a bodhrán.
Before you get as far the committal cells you have to be processed and searched (including a sit-on x-ray machine) in the area called the ‘The Reception’. I have passed through a number of hotel receptions in my time and as I recall not one of them EVER x-rayed my arse before they gave me the key to the room. There are a few other differences to any reception desks you may have passed through on your travels; firstly, you have to strip off all your civilian clothes so you can get a, let’s say, ‘extensive’ search from the burly lobby commissionaire who has abandoned his regular pristine white gloves for a pair of blue latex ones. Secondly, you are forced to undergo a procedure where he asks you to perform lots of spreading and bending movements. You could be mistaken for thinking you are working out with your Pilates instructor, until he gives you an unexpected poke right up your downward-facing dog.
If you manage to survive this welcoming evaluation exercise with your self-esteem still intact, be prepared for this to quickly evaporate when you are made to wear a second-hand, one-size-fits-all grey tracksuit and some white plastic slip-ons, presumably from last season’s prison-issue romper wear collection. I cannot work out why it is mandatory to wear an old grey tracksuit and slip-ons? If you’d recently been given the ‘Smartest Man in the World’ award it might be considered a punishment, but otherwise all it seems to achieve is that it makes your average prisoner look like they are on an all-inclusive geriatric yoga retreat.
With all the niceties done and dusted you are asked to stand against a giant ruler holding up a clipboard with your name and prison number chalked on it. I ask the prison guard what these photos are actually used for used for, and much to the amusement of his colleagues he kindly informs me that it is going to be put into the ‘special folder’ with the Governor’s Christmas card collection. Finally, you get to see the jail house doctor. A very strange fellow, who considerately advises you that the best way to get through the whole ordeal ahead is to start smoking, stay de-hydrated and swig methadone. The arse X-Ray machine does deserve a special mention; it’s a big grey plastic throne which holds centre stage in ‘The Reception’. You are asked to mount it and sit whilst you are still undressed and if there’s an issue with your fundament a big light flashes and it beeps loudly to let everybody know it has detected an object “à la derrière”. The reason this appliance is needed here, at this reception rather than say, the one down at your local Holiday Inn, is all down to what's known as the ‘Prison Pocket’. The officers tell me that it’s mostly used to conceal drugs, but I’m amazed to hear even phones have been found up there! I managed to pass the arse X-Ray with flying colours, but unfortunately the general mood of euphoria was short lived. As one of my criminal compatriots behind me gets processed the machine beeps loudly: “Unexpected item in the bagging area?” one of the guards helpfully remarks and every man (except for the guilty man) cracks up laughing.
After this holistic induction parade is over, I am escorted to the three-bunk committal cell for a ‘through the keyhole’ meet and greet with my new prison family. I hail my new cellmates with cheery hellos but receive no reply in return. I wasn’t exactly expecting the red-carpet committee and a finger buffet, but Jesus, even a faint nod of the head in recognition would have been more than adequate. However, all is not lost, because, at least I now have the privilege of knowing what it feels like to be a large joint of salted pork, marinated in rum, lovingly served on a platter of ship’s biscuits and gently washed ashore right in front of a hunger-ravaged Robinson Crusoe and his shipwrecked shipmate Boris. Boris is salivating as he eyeballs me up and down and the expression in his face blatantly states, “Look Robinson! Fresh meat”.
The two men sit close together on the bottom bunk in their boxer shorts drooling over me. They are bare-chested and sweating even though it’s pretty nippy in the cell. It appears that they have just finished doing some sort of vigorous exercise. Press-ups maybe? Or God forbid: double squat thrusts? These lads are bristling with menace. They are lithe but muscly, with cold unforgiving eyes, and I can’t help noticing that their tattoos are outrageously violent. There are knives with snakes as handles, just plain knives no snakes, knives with skulls as handles, snakes writhing around swords, snakes writhing around other snakes; there’s even a couple of snakes on their own, sort of just – I don’t know – snaking around…? For Christ’s sake, what ever happened to people getting drunk in Brighton and having one of those red hearts with angel’s wings, or a sexy mermaid?
Boris, who has eyebrows that meet up in the middle and looks a like a long-lost member of the Karloff family, is sporting a particularly disturbing tattoo representing a half man half werewolf. Whilst I am beginning to worry whether it is possible that werewolves have infiltrated the Irish penal system, Robinson suddenly comes to life. He is pointing a half-eaten pack of custard creams in my direction and scowls “Hey YOU. What are you in for”? I confess to them my crimes. Foolishly, I thought that by doing this, I could become one of the gang and we can get the tea on and reminisce over previous ‘jobs’ and indulge in other friendly criminal banter. After all, were all in this together, aren’t we? We might as well make the best of it. Maybe we could even share out what’s left of those custard creams? Unfortunately, Robinson and Boris seem extremely unimpressed with my law-breaking activities and mutter conspiratorially in their mother tongue amongst themselves for a bit. “Cannabis”, Says Boris finally with a shrug, “Is nothing.” “Oh, OK.” “We”, says Robinson, biting a biscuit in half and spitting crumbs on the floor. “We are kidnappers.” “From Lithuania!”, adds Boris. “Oh OK… who did you kidnap? Anyone exciting?” “You not knew them. OK!” Boris snaps. “Oh OK.” There’s rather a long silence, so I try a joke: “Kidnappers, eh? It wasn’t you guys who kidnapped Shergar was it?” “Sherrgaar? Who is Sherrgaar?”. “Shergar, you know, the horse?” “We don’t kidnapped horse!”, spits Robinson. I explain to them that Shergar was a famous Irish racehorse. After a very successful career he was being used as a stud here in Ireland until he was stolen. A ransom of £2 million was demanded but it was not paid and negotiations were soon broken off by the thieves. Poor old Shergar was never found and there were rumours that the IRA was involved. But these predacious prisoners are clearly not interested in the story: “We don’t kidnapped horse.” Boris coldly echoes. “Oh OK.” “Kidnapping horses? Who does that?” says Robinson.
In all honesty: how do you break the ice with a pair of Lithuanian kidnappers? I couldn’t find any advice about this place on Trip Advisor and I don’t think Lonely Planet makes a guide to Irish prisons. There really should be a book for beginners with all this useful information in, or at least a little pamphlet like the ones you get down at the London Dungeon. I think there may be a gap in the market here; ‘Personal Prison Brochures’ could be the next big thing, an excellent idea to pitch to that Dragons Den programme when I get out. As luck would have it, this situation seems to be turning into a useful bit of practice for that scenario if it ever happens. (There is a nauseating predatory atmosphere in the room, while they try to work out if there is any way they can fleece me.) In all fairness to them they are masters of the art of menacing stares; they have such an extraordinary range. I feel like I should pay them compliment and am wondering where they honed their craft? I’m guessing it was back at home at the Vilnius Acting Academy for Abductors. Despite all the enthusiastic frowning action, I haven’t failed to notice that they are not offering me what’s left of the custard cream biscuits. I am, without doubt, the prison novice here, but I am confident that this is a bad sign. They finally finish off the pack, crumbs and all, right in front of me. Then Boris proceeds to crush the empty packaging into a tight ball and toss it at my feet. I try to lighten the mood and crack another joke, but unfortunately for me it gets lost in translation. I think the first custodial Top Tip I shall be recommending, in my new and insightful compendium, ‘The Comprehensive Guide to Irish Prisons, Pokeys, Penitentiaries and Penal Colonies’ shall be: ‘If you find yourself banged up with brace of Eastern European hostage takers, in a North Dublin House of Restitution, for one’s own comfort and preservation, do not, under any circumstances, try to make witty observations about the arse X-Ray machine in ‘The Reception”