LIFE IN A MIXED STATE
a village idiot's struggle to find a path to freedom
A Work in Progress
Prologue
The early Years: 67 to 79
Born in the tranquil town of Rayleigh but raised amidst the vibrant life of Leigh-on-Sea, my formative years were defined by strict discipline and unyielding expectations. Leigh-on-Sea, once a quaint fishing village, had evolved into a bustling community—a fitting backdrop for a childhood rich in challenges and lessons. My mother, a woman of immense strength, enforced structure with a firm hand, shaping the foundation of my character. Meanwhile, my father, an ingenious mind and a former Ford research engineer, later ventured into entrepreneurial success. From pioneering a groundbreaking 350cc three-cylinder motorcycle known as the KRM to owning a petrol station, workshops, and an M.O.T station, his achievements left an indelible mark on me. Despite their union dissolving when I turned 18, my mother's resilience remained the driving force in our family.
My childhood wasn’t without challenges. Social workers intervened when I was just seven, and strained relationships with my younger sister would later alter the trajectory of my life. Still, the echoes of my heritage spoke of ambition and skill—my maternal grandfather, a renowned plumber until a debilitating stroke, and my paternal grandfather, an esteemed engineer at Sage of London. Their legacies intertwined with my burgeoning identity.
Cold Reality Hits Home 79 to 86
Adulthood began tumultuously. At 18, a misguided decision led to a six-year prison sentence for armed robbery. The stark walls of incarceration became my crucible, forcing reflection and determination. While in prison, I seized the opportunity to equip myself with skills for the future, earning a City & Guilds qualification in welding. Upon release, I sought to rebuild my life, first trying to emulate my father’s path in the motor trade but soon realizing my aptitude lay elsewhere.
This era was marked by emotional upheavals and severed ties, including a rift with my sister that never healed. Yet, it was also a time when resilience and resourcefulness began to define me. Life was harsh, but the lessons were invaluable.
My Golden Years: 87 to 98
The late 1980s brought a wave of success and self-discovery. I found stability in sales, earning an impressive £1,200 weekly under the mentorship of Leonard Todd, who became a lifelong friend and guide. During this period, I ventured into property development, laying the groundwork for a career that would sustain me for decades.
Amid professional triumphs, my personal life flourished briefly. I married and welcomed my daughter, Abigail, into the world. Her name, meaning "father’s joy," symbolized hope and renewal. Yet, cracks emerged. An affair ended my decade-long marriage, marking the beginning of a journey filled with lessons on love and responsibility.
Travel became a significant outlet during this phase. Seven months in Spain and later a year in New Zealand exposed me to diverse cultures, shaping my worldview and enriching my life’s tapestry. It was also during this time that my father remarried, and I was introduced to Phil Culmer, one of his second wife’s sons. Although I initially disapproved of the relationship, Phil and I quickly formed a bond. Four years my junior, Phil became a steadfast friend, mentor, and collaborator. His intellect and strategic thinking complemented my drive, making him an integral part of many of my ventures. From legal battles to entrepreneurial pursuits, Phil’s unwavering support left a lasting impact.
The Long Winter of Discontent: 98 to 2001
Despite the momentum of my golden years, the turn of the millennium ushered in a period of struggle. A violent encounter at a cashpoint escalated into a serious altercation, resulting in another two-year prison sentence. Though deemed self-defense, the incident was a sobering reminder of my volatile circumstances.
Depression and emotional instability plagued me during this time. However, even in darkness, there were glimmers of hope. The enduring friendships I maintained, such as with Leonard Todd, Phil Culmer and James Webb, provided anchors, helping me navigate the storm.
The Wilderness Years: 2001 to 2010
This decade saw me grappling with identity and purpose. While challenges persisted, I channeled my energies into writing, publishing a beginner’s guide to photography. The creative outlet offered solace and a sense of achievement amid the chaos.
Professionally, I broadened my expertise, mastering high-pressure water jetting—a skill that followed my earlier prison sentence—and expanding my qualifications as an industrial abseiler. These achievements reflected a relentless drive to evolve, even in the face of adversity.
Phil Culmer, who had become one of my closest confidants, played an instrumental role during these years. His sharp intellect and unwavering support were crucial, especially in navigating legal challenges and refining business strategies. Together, we weathered storms and celebrated victories, strengthening a bond that remains unshakable.
Finding Myself: 2010 to 2012
Emerging from the wilderness, I sought to redefine my narrative. Writing became a therapeutic process, culminating in my published book on photography. The act of creation was a declaration of resilience—proof that, even in adversity, I could produce something meaningful.
Friendships deepened during this time, with James Webb’s unwavering support guiding me through ongoing mental health struggles. My connection to the people who stood by me became a cornerstone of my renewed identity. Phil Culmer’s mentorship continued to shape my path, solidifying his role as both a friend and a vital collaborator.
The Best of a Bad Job - Reaching the Consciences 2013
Life took on a different hue as I began focusing on making the best of challenging circumstances. My experiences shaped a unique perspective, driving me to connect with others on a profound level. The relationships I formed—with extraordinary women like Sue, Cathy, June, and Sheryl—were both enriching and reflective of my complexity.
The Phantom of the Opera
The title is a metaphor for the masks I’ve worn and the stages I’ve graced throughout life. From the disciplined boy in Rayleigh and Leigh-on-Sea to the man overcoming struggles through resilience and reinvention, my story is one of contrasts—a symphony of triumphs and tribulations.
Phil Culmer, ever the strategist, has been a cornerstone in my journey, balancing my fiery nature with his calculated wisdom. Alongside lifelong friends like Leonard Todd and James Webb, he forms the fabric of a support system that has carried me through my darkest hours and brightest days.
Today, as I reflect on a life filled with lessons, my heritage and experiences converge into a narrative of hope and determination. The stage remains, and the performance continues.
SO LET'S DIVE IN!
A Prelude in Essex: The Seeds of Rebellion
It all began in the autumn of 1966—a time of subtle promise and unspoken destiny. Conceived in October 1966 on Hatfield Road in Rayleigh, Essex, my entry into the world was marked by an extraordinary twist. During my birth, I managed to tangle the umbilical cord around my neck into a true knot, forcing the doctors to use forceps. Mum has always maintained that this precarious start left its mark on my mental health. I was born on 28th July 67’—a day that, in retrospect, seemed destined to set me apart from the others.
Our family home was a private bungalow, unassumingly elegant and brimming with a comfort that many could only dream of. My father, a research engineer at Ford's Dunton, filled our lives with a spark of innovation and ambition, while my mother, the consummate housewife, nurtured our sanctuary with both iron will and tender grace. Life in those early days was the very picture of comfort—a calm before the storm of destiny.
As fate would have it, the family’s tapestry grew richer still: in February 1969, my sister arrived at Hatfield Road, her presence heralding new bonds and rivalries that would colour our days with mischief.
Then, as if by design, our lives took a sudden turn. In 1971, we moved to Leigh-on-Sea—a coastal town that would soon become the stage for my youthful escapades. I began my early education at St. James's Church Hall on Elmsleigh Drive, a modest play school tucked at the west end of Manchester Drive. With a quick turn and up the hill, I found myself stepping into a world that would later fuel my wild imagination. Every day, my sister and I would take a secret shortcut through Blenheim Crescent—a passage leading to the warm, familiar embrace of my Nan and Granddad’s home, where mischievousness first whispered its tantalizing promises.
Even now, that memory shimmers like a scene from an extravagant film—a time when comfort and the thrill of the unknown intermingled in a dance that would shape the rest of my life.
1969
Roots of Rebellion Part 1 MANCHESTER DRIVE
Leigh-on-Sea in the early ‘70s was the kind of place where childhood could drift by in a haze of scraped knees, fish and chips, and the distant sound of the sea rolling in. It should have been idyllic, but my world was anything but. I was a wild card—an unpredictable force of nature—bouncing between adventure and trouble with reckless energy.
I started at Pall Mall Primary School around 1973. The details of those years are hazy—a blur of playground scuffles and classroom drudgery—but certain moments remain etched in my mind like deep grooves on a vinyl record.
Simon White was one of the few kids I truly connected with. He lived just up the street, barely a few hundred yards away, and we spent weekends wrapped in childhood escapades, most often camping out at the bottom of my family’s 135-foot garden. It felt like an adventure—as if we’d pitched our tent in some distant wilderness rather than in a suburban backyard. We’d whisper under the canvas, playing at being explorers, with only the rustling trees and the distant hum of cars for company.
Dad had gotten hold of an old military Morse code system, and Simon—far cleverer than I was—decoded the messages with the ease of a seasoned radio operator. My father, a man with an engineer’s mind, would sit tapping out messages while I listened, enthralled by the thrill of the dots and dashes, even though I barely understood them.
Then, suddenly, Simon was gone. He developed alopecia, and just like that, he withdrew from everything—from school, from our campouts, from life itself. He found new friends, people he was more comfortable with, and vanished from my world. It was my first real experience of losing someone—not to death, but to something just as irreversible.
School, for me, was a battleground. I wasn’t bullied—at least, not yet—but I refused to conform. Authority never sat well with me, and Mr. Eastwood, the squat, red-faced headmaster, seemed to take my very existence as a personal affront. Always beetroot red and on edge, he was like a kettle ready to boil over—and I was the match that sparked his fury.
But the real menace was Mr Rombow, the head teacher. A tall man always dressed in a crisp grey three-piece suit, with slicked-back black hair and a toothbrush moustache that made him look like a caricature of Hitler, he was cold, calculated, and had me on his personal list of targets.
Punishment was ritual. Mr Eastwood wielded the slipper liberally, and the cane was reserved for “special” occasions—of which I earned two, each time swearing I wouldn’t cry, each time failing. The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was the humiliation: the smirks from classmates, the whispered comments in the hallways. I was always at the bottom of the class, both academically and socially.
At home, I was a force of chaos. One moment, I’d be tearing through the house like a hurricane; the next, I’d be sulking in my bedroom for days, drowning in moods I didn’t understand. My mother—a woman of discipline and fire—had no choice but to match my wild energy with her own. (She beat me regularly—not out of cruelty, but out of desperation, trying to control something that simply refused to be controlled.) But punishment never worked. If anything, it just made me more defiant. Break something, get a beating, and then be taken shopping as an apology—that was the cycle. My mother, strict as she was, always tried to mend things afterward, her own way of saying sorry, and I learned that chaos had its rewards—even if it wasn’t helpful.
Then came my first true crime. Kimberley, my sister, existed in my world but was never truly with me. Sometimes we played together, but more often we were just two people sharing the same house. She became my unwilling accomplice in one of my first acts of real defiance: stealing from Mum’s purse. It was usually just pennies—small amounts enough to buy sweets at the shop by The Elms traffic lights on the way to school. Sometimes I’d share with Kimberley—not out of generosity, but because I figured if she was involved, she wouldn’t tell. She never seemed comfortable with it, yet she never refused. But I was the ringleader in that crime, and I knew it.
But those petty thefts were nothing compared to what came next. One afternoon, on my way home from school, I passed a church with a long row of schoolroom windows—three stacked one atop the other, running the full length of the building. Something about them dared me. The pristine glass, the way the sunlight hit it—it was too perfect. I picked up a stone and threw it. The sound of shattering glass sent a thrill through me. So I threw another. And then another. I didn’t stop until every single window was smashed.
That was the moment everything changed. At first, I felt no guilt—only exhilaration. But then I saw the faces of the onlookers, their expressions shifting from shock to anger. I’d gone too far. At home, Mum sat me down and, for the first time, looked truly lost. She didn’t shout. She didn’t beat me. She called Social Services. It was official: I wasn’t just a handful—I was a problem. And I didn’t know then that that act of destruction—the sheer thrill of breaking something—would echo in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
For the most part, my dad worked at Ford Dunton Research Centre in Essex, but on weekends he always had a friend’s or customer’s car parked out front, and I remember him building—or helping me build—one or two fantastic go-karts. By then, I was also involved with a new friend from the other end of Manchester Drive, Mark McMarne. Manchester Drive was a street of two ends—the private end where I lived and the council end where Mark lived—but that never came between us. Besides, he nearly always had new togs. I suppose I did too—usually following a beating from Mum.
Alongside their motorcycle work, my parents also ran a cycle factory called Magnum Cycles. One day, Dad came home with a brand-new silver racing cycle for me. I was around ten, still living at Manchester Drive, and the bike was slightly too big for me, but it was meant for me to grow into. I rode that cycle for years, though like most of my possessions, it eventually got battered from being dropped and left out in all weather. Looking after things wasn’t exactly my strong suit back then—I had no real values at that stage of my life.
Dad always had a company car, which changed almost annually—from a blue Ford Prefect to a bronze Ford Zephyr and finally a Ford Cortina Ghia Mk4. But later, he left Ford and embarked on an engineering venture with a crook called Malcolm Mascerinas, who, in the end, robbed my dad of approximately £40,000—big dough in ’78. They had converted warehouses into development workshops out by Surrey Wharf on the Thames. But that was not before the entire family moved to Hayes, on the outskirts of the London borough of Bromley, to fit in better with this new venture.
1974
1976
Roots of Rebellion – Part 2 KETCHILL GDNS
We now had a large four-bedroom house, where the huge hallway was wood-panelled, and there was a nice garage attached to the side with a short driveway and a smallish front garden. But it was a much smaller rear garden, although that didn’t stop me and a new friend, Brian Rowland, from camping out in it.
But this new environment came with many difficulties, from not getting on at school to setting light to a gas canister in the new garage. Thankfully, my dad saved the day. Mum screamed, and he charged in, ripping off his Ford sports jacket and smothering the flames with it before manoeuvring the bottle into the garden and pushing it away with his foot so it rolled safely into the open. A hero. I didn’t realize the gravity of what I had done until years later.
Just before we moved to Hayes, I was set to change schools soon and would have been going to Belfairs Secondary School in Leigh-on-Sea. Instead, I went straight into my new school, Hayes Secondary School, which was a considerable upgrade—full-blown science labs, better facilities. But despite my parents’ efforts, I struggled terribly.
I made a couple of friends near home, and we soon found a shared passion—skateboarding. I had some fantastic boards. My dad even built me a board almost five feet in length, called a speed board. It had new wide trucks, red wheels, complete with new bearings and steering bushes. We had a steep tarmacked road right opposite our house on Ketchill Gardens. Wow, did I do some fast skateboarding—until the day I crashed badly at the bottom and broke my left lower arm. But even this didn’t stop me.
Dad was always a keen weekend freshwater fisherman and, from time to time, he took me along. Those were the moments I looked forward to most—not for the fishing itself, but for the ritual that came before it. The best part was the night before—digging for worms together in the garden, a father-and-son tradition. We’d pour warm soapy water around the damp soil, watching as the earth wriggled to life, thick-bodied worms rising up in search of air. Then, with the precision of hunters, we’d dig—just turning over the topsoil, careful not to damage our prize, collecting the fattest, juiciest ones for bait the next day.
I was always excited doing things with Dad, even if the enthusiasm never quite carried over into the actual fishing.
Once we reached the riverbank, something changed. My father’s world and mine split into separate spheres. He would wander off, setting up his spot, finding his rhythm, while I sat further down, staring at the water, rod in hand, unsure of what to do next. I don’t recall him ever teaching me how to fish—how to properly cast a line, how to wait, how to read the water. It was as if we’d shared the build-up, but when the moment arrived, I was left to figure it out alone.
And so, I rarely caught anything.
I’d watch Dad from a distance, completely absorbed in his own world, while I grew restless. After an hour or two, the thrill had evaporated, and I’d start thinking about home, the excitement of the night before replaced by boredom. Eventually, I’d wander back over to him, hoping to signal that I was done. He didn’t say much, just nodded, packed up his gear, and we’d leave.
Looking back, I think he preferred going on his own. Perhaps Mum pressed him to take me, imagining it would be quality time, but fishing was his escape, his solitude—and I was just tagging along.
Still, even though I never truly learned the craft back then, something about those trips stayed with me. The peace of the water, the quiet patience it required, the way time slowed down—fishing would be in my blood from here on, right up to the present day.
During our eighteen months or so at Ketchill Gardens, my parents bought a large four-berth caravan—a move that would mark some of the best times in my childhood.
I loved caravanning. I loved camping.
There was something about being away from home, being out on the road, waking up in different places that thrilled me. The freedom of it, the adventure of it, even if it was just parked in a quiet field somewhere—it felt like an escape.
We took one or two great holidays in that caravan, traveling to different parts of the country. Those were the times when our family felt most at peace, as if the tension of everyday life back home had been packed away and left behind.
But those moments were fleeting.
Because life at home was about to change forever.
After the breakup of my father’s partnership at Malam Industrial Research, things took a sharp turn.
Dad had been burned badly. Malcolm Mascerinas had walked away with forty grand, and my father was left with nothing but the bitter taste of betrayal.
But my parents weren’t the type to lick their wounds and give up.
Instead, they did something bold—something that would define the next era of our lives.
They decided to break out on their own.
No more dodgy business partners, no more failed ventures. This time, they were taking full control.
Within weeks, the tension in our home was palpable. Dad’s determination was fierce, and every late-night phone call and hushed discussion at the kitchen table only added to the charged atmosphere. Even as the adults around me were caught up in their high-stakes gamble, I kept my focus on my own kind of chaos. I wasn’t about to slow down or change course—my reckless streak was as alive as ever.
There were moments when I caught a glimpse of the seriousness of their struggle. An afternoon spent watching Dad restore an old engine in the garage, the clatter of his tools echoing against Mum’s anxious reassurances, reminded me that life had suddenly become a high-stakes game for the grown-ups. But while they calculated risks and measured every loss, I was still chasing the next thrill, untouched by any newfound caution.
The air was thick with anticipation and risk. I felt the rush of adrenaline with every rebellious act, my daring exploits a stark contrast to the cautious manoeuvres of my parents. The world around us was shifting, yet my own orbit remained unaltered—full of wild, untamed energy, with no room for responsibility or restraint.
And so, as our family embarked on this bold new gamble, I continued on my own path—undaunted, reckless, and eager for the next burst of chaos. While the adults plotted a future that might rescue us from the fallout, I stayed firmly in the moment, my rebellion burning brighter than ever, oblivious to the weight of what lay ahead.
Roots of Rebellion – Part 3
After months of scouring the country for the right business opportunity, my parents finally struck gold. They bought a petrol station complete with workshops, a shop, a paint area, a showroom, ample parking—and even a Bedford Truck converted into a full-blown recovery vehicle. This site, on the edge of the village of Sibsey along the A16 (the main road from Boston to Spilsby), became our new home. Adjacent to the business was an average three-bedroom country cottage with a nice garden and stone driveway, a large pond, and low ceilings laced with timber beams. At least my sister and I had our own bedrooms there. We moved in June ’79.
In July, on my 13th birthday, Mum gifted me a record player—a Dansette-style set with a lift-up lid and two controls for volume and tone—and my first album, Elvis Presley’s Separate Ways. Not long after, Dad brought along one of his former employees, Phil Stevens—a quiet, pockmarked fellow with a slightly pointy nose—who introduced me to another album by ELO called Discovery. That was my musical awakening. Soon after, an album by The Who followed, and through a friend’s suggestion, I bought an external amplifier and some speakers. I even remember Dad coming into my room with a soldering iron and a few tools to wire my record player, amp, and speakers together. Just like that, I became a “sound man” with the beginnings of a great record collection. Meanwhile, my sister would record Top of the Pops on a tape recorder in her room—dressing up and playing with our Boxers, Bruce and Major, even though the dogs never really appreciated the get-ups.
Not everything in my new life was as wonderful as music. I soon started at William Lovell Secondary School—a far cry from the comforts of our cottage—located miles from home in another village. The headmaster, Jack Dyde, was a massive man in his early 60s with little patience. He made it his business to target me: slippering me frequently and even dragging me by one leg through the school, swinging me into walls and coat pegs. One bitter winter day, after I’d thrown a snowball (against explicit orders), the ball hit the glass by a door just as he was coming through it. Snow covered him as he thundered toward me. In a blur, his fist connected with my nose—breaking it—and then he dragged me across the yard, through the door, along the hallway, and into his office. Mum was called, and though she wasn’t entirely happy about the broken nose which she only discovered on my return home and the humiliation, that was the end of it. I left school just months later.
Most teachers despised me outright—except for two. Mr Sykes, my technical drawing teacher, and Mr Alan Brader, one of my sports teachers, saw something in me. I recall one scorching summer sports day: I was loitering around the bike sheds, smoking and disinterested in sport as usual, when a classmate hollered that Brader was looking for me. Before I knew it, I was togged up on the starting line for the 1500m run. The race was gruelling—I lagged behind from the start until, with 300 meters to go, something inside me snapped. I kicked off my shoes and surged forward with a burst of raw energy. As I came around the 200m mark, I caught up with the back runners; and as I rounded the final 100m—with Smith, Henderson, and the finish line ahead—I powered on, passing Smith and Henderson, and took the finish. Smith and Henderson were the school’s fastest runners. That evening, Brader went straight to my parents, pleading with them to get me more involved. It was too late—I was already lost. (If only Miss Vipond, my first crush and another sports teacher, had been there; I might have listened to her.)
By the time I was 15, things at school had taken a darker turn. My pronounced Roman nose and raw southern accent made me an easy target, and bullying became a constant companion. Every journey on the dedicated school bus filled me with dread as I anticipated fresh torment. On one sweltering summer day—the day I even started thinking about joining the army to defend the Falklands, though I was still a perpetual victim—the bus pulled into a layby known as the Tree House. This spot, marked by a tall tree and a wooden triangle shelter built around the tree with a pitched roof, was where all the kids gathered. I tried, as usual, to slip away unnoticed. But my nose, like a beacon, betrayed me. “Hilly! Oi, Hilly!” the jeers rang out. I raised my hands, pleading for mercy as shoves and taunts escalated.
Thinking the fight was over, I turned away. But within two steps, Bourne, the schools champion boxer called, “Hey, Hilly!” I turned—and was struck hard on the left side of my face with a broken brick. I fell hard, yet like a spring-loaded mechanism, I bounced back. In a burst of uncontrolled fury, I lashed out with my right fist, dropping my attacker like a sack of shit. I didn’t stop there—I leapt onto him, pinned him down astride his chest, grabbed his hair, and pounded his face repeatedly. I was never gonna stop until it was over, over, over. It was only when I felt two strong arms yank me away that I realized Grenville Page had intervened. Without a doubt, Grenville saved Alan Bourne’s life that day by stopping me before I could do any more irreversible damage. Grenville would later become a close friend—and the one who introduced me to the scooter scene, as he was busy building a Lambretta “cut-down” right in our workshops.
As my 16th birthday approached, the dream of breaking free on two wheels loomed large—in a different form now. But my parents were adamantly against the idea; they insisted that two wheels were a death trap on modern roads. With some pocket money saved, I found a metallic blue Honda SS50—a wreck, but mine nonetheless. I badgered Dad to fix it up, despite Mum’s constant “no.” After much pestering, Dad finally agreed. He took the bike to another workshop he ran with a couple of chaps, while my anticipation grew. I already had my provisional driving licence—I just needed a ride. On the eve of my birthday, Dad promised, “Don’t worry, we’ll go over together in the morning and get you on the road.” I tossed and turned with excitement all that night.
The next morning, Mum was unusually involved. We drove to the shop and workshops where the SS50 was to be fixed up. But when Dad opened the door, I found not my Honda, but a brand-new Yamaha RD50LC in jet black. I couldn’t believe it. Mum had decided that if I was to ride, I’d have a better chance of surviving on a new machine rather than an old banger. Her condition was strict—I was to ride around the countryside following them until I was visibly comfortable on it. And once I was, that summer I discovered a newfound freedom: riding round the local lanes, feeling the wind, and exploring every back road and hidden corner of the countryside.
In the March of ’84, that rebellious freedom took another twist. I attended my first scooter rally in Skegness and met up with Grennie—someone I’d come to know well through our shared passion for all things motorized. Funny enough, I should mention Skegness, because at a different time, just before this I had gone there with a friend and ended up getting my first tattoo on my left forearm. I was so pleased to have outsmarted Mum that day. “There’s nothing you can do about that now,” she said—I smirked, though I later realized how foolish it was. That stunt was just the beginning; over the years, I’d amass about 15 tattoos covering both arms, almost like sleeves, each one a marker of the rebellious path I’d chosen.
That summer, while riding near a static caravan site, I parked on a bridge for a smoke. There, I met Donna O’Grady—a 25-year-old from Sheffield who was visiting with her family for a couple of weeks. We hit it off immediately: we kissed on the bridge within a few days, exchanged numbers, and before long, I was utterly infatuated. I was only 16, but I thought I was in love.
At the same time, I was working on a Youth Training Scheme—day-release college studying engineering while servicing, cleaning, and selling cars at Dad’s business. I was on a measly £25 per week, and frankly, they were just using me. Soon enough, Donna and I hatched a plan for me to leave home. I was to take my Yamaha on the train and meet her at the station—she even promised to sort out a place to sleep with her grandmother. It didn’t work out as planned. My first night ended with me lying along the seat and tank of my Yamaha in a local park as it snowed. Before I knew it, I was caught in what you’d now call a toxic relationship—homeless, jobless, with no plan or money. Despite it all, I oddly enjoyed the freedom, though those months were some of the worst of my life. I spent Christmas wandering the streets in search of food. Then, in the New Year, I’d had enough and decided to go home. By then, my Yamaha was a wreck, and I abandoned it.
Back at home, I couldn’t bear leaving Donna behind. In desperation, I started scheming ways to win her back. After seeing an ad in the paper, I somehow secured a rental flat in Skegness—an outcome I still can’t quite explain. That said, I had become more street wise through my time away from home. Donna joined me, and my parents even drove us over to set up our new home together. But a few weeks later, Donna left me for another tenant in the same block. Heartbroken, I called Mum. That night, they drove over and collected me, taking me back to the family home. I didn’t know then that within three days of returning, I would have a complete breakdown—and soon after, Donna and her new man had vanished to Sheffield.
In a final act of desperate rage, I concocted a plan to hunt them down. I remembered that Dad always brought home the day’s takings in a bank bag, along with cheques and paying-in books. One night, after everyone was asleep, I crept downstairs, grabbed the bank bag along with Dad’s car and business keys, and set my plan in motion. I drove Dad’s car to the garage where he, along with brothers Jed and Jim, ran another business. I unlocked the office, stocked up on stolen cigarettes and some munchies, and then spied a pale blue Mk1 Ford Escort Mexico in the lot. It was beautiful—and that was what I was taking. I found its keys in the cabinet, filled it up at the petrol pumps, and parked Dad’s car in its space. I even put a “For Sale” sign in the window, hoping to buy myself some breathing room.
I had a rough idea of my route as I made my way north through village after village. The Mexico proved powerful and fast, and though I spotted police lights several times, I thought I had eluded them—until I found myself on a dual carriageway heading straight into central Mansfield. Suddenly, the police lights appeared in my rear-view mirror, and a roadblock materialized ahead. With no escape, my 83-mile run ended in Mansfield cells. Dad eventually came to collect the Mexico, but he didn’t visit me—he simply went home. That, more than anything, shook me. Sometime in the middle of the night, I was escorted in handcuffs to Boston Main Police Station.
To be continued
My Cars and the Road to Chaos
The Morris Marina 1.8TC wasn’t just a car; it was a symbol. My first official vehicle, it marked a rite of passage—a statement of freedom and independence. I’d grown up surrounded by cars, working on them with my dad in the family garage, turning rusted relics into quick sales. But this one was mine, a step into adulthood. I passed my driving test on August 4, 1984, seven days after my 17th birthday, and by the next day, I was ready to leave the family home and rejoin my mother in Leigh-on-Sea some 200 miles away.
My father had other ideas. “Take the 1.3L,” he said, handing me the keys to the Marina’s lesser sibling. It was a clear downgrade—no power, no radio, and barely enough engine to pull out of the driveway. But I didn’t argue. My dad, ever practical, was hedging his bets. If I smashed it up, better to lose the banger than the 1800 TC. I scrounged an old stereo from the garage, wired it up, and loaded the car with tapes and belongings. With a mix of nerves and excitement, I hit the road.
The drive south was unforgettable—my first taste of real independence. I still remember the glow of the streetlights on Progress Road as I navigated Leigh-on-Sea late that night. Purple Rain by Prince and Drive by The Cars echoed from my makeshift stereo, the soundtrack to my first journey into the unknown. I felt alive. But reality has a way of humbling you fast. Two weeks later, racing a Ford Escort Mexico on the A127, I misjudged an amber light. He stopped; I didn’t. Both cars crumpled in the collision, and I was left standing in the wreckage of my first attempt at freedom.
For months after, I bounced between jobs, unable to settle. My original plan—joining the army—had fallen apart. I’d even been accepted into the Parachute Regiment, but something inside me balked. It wasn’t fear of danger—it was the fear of regimental discipline, the rigid structure that would chain my rebellious spirit. The army might have offered stability, but the fear of losing my individuality loomed too large. I needed something else—a path that felt uniquely mine.
A “sky’s the limit” ad in the paper caught my attention. Loft insulation sales didn’t sound glamorous, but the promise of big earnings hooked me. My mother, seeing my determination, took me shopping for new clothes. She wanted me to look like someone destined for success, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could be.
The interview was brief but revealing. Peter Restorick, the manager, sat behind a desk with a clipboard in hand. His blond-highlighted hair and Mexican-style mustache gave him an almost theatrical presence. “Go knock on doors and ask about loft insulation,” he said, handing me a pad and pen. I didn’t hesitate. I turned and walked out, ready to start knocking. That boldness earned me the job and left an impression—Restorick would become a figure I’d remember for years to come.
For the first few days, I shadowed Len Whally, a seasoned veteran of door-to-door sales. Len was tall, no-nonsense, and relentless in his pursuit of results. By Thursday, I was on my own, knocking on doors and delivering my pitch. My first sale was a rush—proof that I could do this. By Friday, I’d closed three more deals and pocketed £100 in 2 days. I was hooked.
In the months that followed, I flourished. Len Todd and Kevin O’Shea, seasoned professionals in the trade, became my mentors. Len was a commanding presence—tall and of solid build, with firm, jutting features that seemed carved from granite. His handshake matched his appearance: strong, deliberate, and full of confidence. He was the archetypal businessman—focused, efficient, and methodical. Kevin, on the other hand, was nearer my stamp—closer in build and attitude. He was brash and charismatic, a natural salesman who could charm anyone with his wide grin and easygoing nature. Between the two of them, I learned the art of persuasion and the science of closing deals. Around this time, Wham—the pop duo of George Michael and Andrew Ridgeley—became the soundtrack of my life, their upbeat energy perfectly matching my rapid ascent.
Len also had his own way of rewarding hard work. On Fridays, after a particularly good week of sales, he’d hand me a small bag of weed—a token of appreciation and camaraderie. I didn’t use it myself, but I passed it on to friends who appreciated it more than I at this time. It was just another way Len showed his unconventional but effective leadership style.
Soon, I was the one others wanted to shadow. With every door I knocked on, my confidence grew, and so did my results. My sales skyrocketed, turning each interaction into a stepping stone. At the peak of my performance, I achieved an astonishing sales ratio of 1:1—every door knocked became a sale, a feat that cemented my reputation within the team. The commissions flowed in, piling up faster than I’d ever imagined. My earnings transformed my bedroom into a personal vault, with cash stuffed under the mattress, piled in jars, and scattered across the floor. At just 18, I was living a life many would envy.
Success brought rewards. As team leader, I earned override commissions on my team’s sales and was given a maroon Ford Escort Mk 3 company car. Within months, I upgraded to a white XR3i Cabriolet, a sleek machine that matched my growing confidence. Life at 18 felt untouchable.
But success has a way of amplifying flaws. My aggressive tactics, once an asset, began to backfire. Cancellations piled up, and my sales figures faltered. Then came the final blow: the company folded. Colin Bland, the enigmatic figure at the helm, was a large, rotund man with a completely bald head, whose sheer size made him a memorable presence. He disappeared overnight, leaving chaos in his wake. About ten days later, Len Todd tracked him down. I’ll never forget the look on Len’s face when he turned up at my place, a fistful of cash in hand. “This is all we’re getting,” he said, his voice tinged with both anger and resignation. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small glimmer of closure in an otherwise devastating loss. That moment solidified what I already knew about Len: he wasn’t just a colleague or a mentor; he was someone who could be trusted even when the odds were stacked against us.
Returning home was a bitter pill. The family bungalow in Leigh-on-Sea was overcrowded and suffocating. I was relegated to a makeshift loft room, accessible only by a ladder. My mother demanded £50 a week for rent and food—a steep price for someone with no income. I frittered away my savings, and I now owed her £1,000, a debt that loomed over every interaction.
The pressure was relentless. My mother’s criticism was sharp, her disappointment palpable. It pushed me to desperation. Martin, a childhood friend, became my accomplice and getaway driver in a reckless scheme to escape. With his dad’s handgun, we planned to rob a security van during its cash drop. It wasn’t well thought out, but it felt like my only option.
The heist was a disaster from the start. Arriving late, we missed the perfect window, but desperation drove me forward. As we fled the scene in Martin’s battered Mk2 Ford Cortina, the weight of what we’d done began to sink in. The adrenaline coursing through my veins turned to dread as our escape route took us along Fairfax Drive.
LOVE BY LETTER 1984–1987
Part I
The Albany roundabout did not explode into chaos the way memory sometimes edits it years later. It did not detonate with cinematic clarity. It tightened. That is the truer word. It tightened gradually and then all at once, like a fist closing around us. One moment Martin and I were still moving, still suspended in those final seconds of foolish curiosity, circling back toward the commotion we ourselves had caused. We should have been gone. Any criminal with sense would have disappeared into side streets, hidden the car, burned the clothes, vanished. But we were young, flushed with adrenaline, stupid with the illusion that we were untouchable. We wanted to see it - the flashing lights, the aftermath, the drama we had manufactured - as if we were spectators rather than the authors of it.
Then the blue lights appeared - first one, then two, then an entire sweep folding inward from every direction with calm, rehearsed precision. Police cars angled nose to nose, doors opened in synchronised movement, boots hit tarmac in unison, and before I fully understood what was happening we were boxed in like it had been planned on a drawing board. It was choreography. I remember the weight of the handgun beneath the seat more vividly than I remember the shouting. I remember the cold metal of the bonnet pressed hard against my cheek, the grit digging into my skin, the heavy hand forcing my head down as if the road itself had decided to claim me. The metallic taste in my mouth was not blood; it was adrenaline collapsing into something colder. Not panic - not yet - just a sudden awareness that the road had ended. The handcuffs clicked shut and the sound stayed with me, because it sounded like a door locking on the rest of my life.
They put me in the back of a police car and drove straight to the station. Adrenaline was still draining out of me in slow waves and the world had that strange hollow clarity that comes after something violent has ended. Inside the custody suite everything became procedural. A desk sergeant asked questions in a tone that suggested he had asked them ten thousand times before. Name. Address. Date of birth. The charge hung in the air like something unreal when it was spoken out loud.
My belongings were taken and sealed into a plastic property bag. My belt and shoelaces were removed. Then came the fingerprints - each finger rolled carefully onto ink and pressed against a card, methodical and impersonal. After that, the photograph. I stood against a height board while a camera flashed twice, front and profile, reducing the whole chaotic night to two flat images that would sit in a file somewhere with my name typed beneath them.
The interviews followed later, under harsh strip lighting in a small room that smelled faintly of stale cigarettes and disinfectant. Detectives asked the same questions from different angles, circling the story like they were tightening a net. By the time they were finished the adrenaline had completely drained away, leaving only the quiet understanding that whatever came next was no longer in my control.
Only after all of that did the cell door close behind me.
Because the prison system was overcrowded at the time, I did not go straight to prison. I disappeared into police custody instead - not overnight, not for a weekend, but for three full weeks in police cells while they waited for space to open at Chelmsford. A police cell is a strange place to begin serving a sentence you have not yet received. It carries transience and permanence in equal measure. The door closes with thick mechanical finality and the key turns with a deliberate sound that seems to echo longer than it should. Arrest is noise and movement and voices. A police cell is gravity. Time becomes viscous. You measure days by meal trays pushed through a hatch, by the fluorescent hum that never quite switches off, by footsteps in the corridor that are never yours.
I applied for bail twice during that period and was refused twice. My solicitor, Alan Hurst, an older gentleman, slight, grey hair wearing a trilby carefully on his head, a character - calm, careful, infuriatingly measured - spoke of strategy and mitigation and likelihood. He warned me more than once that I could be looking at nine years. I was seventeen going on eighteen. Nine years was not a number; it was a horizon swallowed by fog, the difference between adolescence and adulthood erased in a single judicial stroke. We were pleading not guilty. That was the strategy, he insisted. There was still, technically, defence. Still argument. Still room for doubt. I clung to that thin rope in the dark because without it there was nothing else to hold.
During those weeks my mother came to the station. I saw her before she saw me and I stepped closer to the bars instinctively, expecting something - a word, a rebuke, a tear, anything that acknowledged I was still her son. She looked across at me. There was anger in her face, disappointment, exhaustion, and something colder than all of it - something like recognition of inevitability. She held my gaze for a moment that seemed suspended outside time, then she turned and walked away. She did not approach the bars. She did not speak. That moment cut deeper than the arrest. Police officers had handled me roughly. Detectives had interrogated me. But watching my mother turn her back reduced me to something smaller than a defendant, something closer to the chaotic boy she had tried for years to discipline into shape. I cried then, not loudly and not dramatically, just a quiet collapse against cold concrete.
Eventually a space opened and I was transported to Chelmsford on remand. Shackled in a van beside other men who avoided eye contact, I felt the shift from temporary custody to structured confinement. Chelmsford was a distribution centre - intake and sorting - a machine. The first night in a prison cell is defined by sound. When that door shuts, it reverberates through bone. It is not symbolic; it is physical, absolute containment. I lay on the narrow bed staring at a ceiling that seemed too low and felt the weight of what I had done settle on my chest like a slab of concrete: three weeks in police cells, the looming trial, the silence from home, the knowledge that Martin and I had crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.
Within days the pressure became something I could not manage. There was no dramatic build-up, no operatic despair, just exhaustion, shame, and the suffocating belief that I had destroyed everything beyond repair. I tried to hang myself. It was not theatre; it was surrender. A screw found me before I succeeded. I was cut down and transferred to the mental health unit. I remember white walls and sedation heavy enough to blur the edges of everything. The next few days dissolve in memory into muffled voices and floating consciousness.
Then word came that my mother was coming to visit. The staff reacted quickly, almost urgently, injecting me with something to counteract the sedation and ordering me to shave, brush my teeth, and change into clean prison togs. They moved me from isolation to an open ward so I would look like a prisoner, not a psychiatric casualty. My father came too. He said little, as was his way when emotions ran high, but my mother stood in front of me this time - not soft, not warm, but present - and presence was enough. A few days later she wrote. When I returned to general population and received that letter, the relief was physical: paper, ink, familiar handwriting, proof I had not been erased.
A bail hearing followed. Sixty-two thousand pounds. My parents did not have that kind of money, so my mother put the deeds of their house up - every brick, every beam, every sacrifice - balanced against my compliance. And I walked out. But bail is not freedom. It is suspended consequence.
Part II
Walking out on bail felt nothing like triumph. There was no rush of freedom, no cinematic swell of relief. The air felt the same. The sky was the same colour. Cars still passed. People still went about their lives. But I was suspended above mine, as if the ground beneath me had been quietly removed. The conditions were clear: seven in the morning to ten at night curfew; report as instructed; remain available; remain compliant. I had to hand over my passport, though I didn’t have one anyway, which somehow made the whole thing feel even more absurd - you’re bound by rules whether they fit you or not. And somewhere above all of it hung the trial, heavy and patient, waiting to drop.
We were given roughly ten days’ notice, but it wasn’t solid. We were “on call.” If another trial finished early, ours could begin at a moment’s warning. I lived in a state of heightened anticipation. Each knock at the door jolted something inside me. Each phone call tightened the muscles in my back. My solicitor still insisted we plead not guilty and I followed his advice, though even then I sensed stubbornness masquerading as strategy - a kind of legal pride that ignored the way judges hear a not-guilty plea from a young lad who has been caught with a gun. For that ten-day stretch my nerves were raw. I kicked my heels. I did odd jobs for cash. I drifted between mates. I went drinking because it made the hours pass, and because if you can’t escape the future, sometimes you try to drown it in the present.
It was during this period that Ronnie Bedell became central to my world again. I’d met Ronnie before the robbery, back when I was still in sales and still believed I could outwork any problem. Door-to-door is one of the hardest disciplines in persuasion. It strips you of ego and teaches you to reset after humiliation, to smile when someone slams wood in your face, to keep your pitch steady even when you feel the rejection in your ribs. Ronnie arrived nervous and unsure, taking every “no” like it was personal. I took him under my wing and trained him properly - how to hold eye contact just long enough, how to pivot when resistance appeared, how to use silence as leverage, how to step back half a pace when someone felt crowded. Over time his confidence began to sit on him like it belonged there.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, slightly heavy through the middle - solid rather than soft - with shirts that were always louder than necessary and hair that was always carefully styled. Ronnie admired my nerve. I valued his steadiness. When we went out drinking he gave me social confidence too, the way some blokes do just by being beside you, like their presence changes the shape of the room.
And through Ronnie came the credit cards. Back then the system was laughably porous. Stolen cards circulated cheaply. Transactions were mechanical - slide the card through the carbon imprinter, scribble any signature, tear off the copy. No PIN. No real verification. I wasn’t stealing them myself; I was receiving them, buying them at a fraction of their worth and spending without thought. Drinks flowed. Clothes accumulated. I upgraded my appearance as if presentation could armour me against what was coming. I bought a new suit for court. It was absurd - living as though success was still my trajectory while prison loomed - but for a short while it worked like a drug. For roughly four months I lived inside that strange duality: artificial wealth layered over impending catastrophe. I felt invincible and doomed at the same time.
It was during this suspended time that I met Jackie.
Zhivago’s in Southend was loud that night - flashing lights, synthetic beats, sweat and perfume and cheap cologne hanging thick in the air. Ronnie and I arrived together, dressed for display. I wore white trousers, pointed white and grey leather shoes, and a white leather jacket trimmed with grey suede. I felt sharp. Visible. We noticed the girls almost immediately. One was animated, flitting from group to group, laughing too loudly, tolerating wandering hands even in front of her boyfriend. The other remained seated, calm, composed, self-contained.
Jackie.
She wasn’t withdrawn and she wasn’t shy. She was just intact, and in that place, at that time, it looked like integrity. Her hair was lighter than light brown - somewhere between soft brown and something sun-touched - falling naturally around her shoulders. Her eyes didn’t dart. They held. There was something clean about her presence, honest, untouched by the restless need for attention that filled the room. Ronnie made the first move, as he always did, and I followed, less certain, though years of sales had taught me how to step into conversations and make them feel natural. Within minutes we were all talking. Her friend’s boyfriend - Dave - turned out to be Jackie’s brother, but I barely registered him. My attention had narrowed.
Jackie’s voice was steady, warm without being performative. She asked questions and listened to the answers. That alone felt rare. The music pounded around us but the space between us felt strangely insulated. We talked about music and family and nothing particularly profound, yet everything felt charged. I kept glancing at my watch because the curfew sat at the back of my mind like a ticking device. Eventually we left together. Ubi, my landlord and mate, had his car outside. Ubi was a young to middle-aged Asian man with university English and a quiet, thoughtful manner. He lived in Wimbledon, London, but owned a few properties around Southend. Tall and broad-shouldered, with thick black hair swept neatly to one side, he always dressed the same way - proper shirt, sleeves sometimes rolled up, but never a tie.
We’d become friends over the four months I was on bail. I’d earned his trust by looking after the house properly, collecting rents and keeping things running smoothly. Eventually he made me his head tenant. I didn’t make much from it - just a few pounds here and there - but it was my first taste of responsibility. When work needed doing, decorating or small building jobs, I took it on. It was my first real step into that kind of work, and I learned quickly.
Ubi always paid cash, right on the nail. In those days that was rare.
He moved me from the small single room at the front of the house to a big double at the back on the first floor. For what it was, it felt almost luxurious.
He came down from London about once a week to check on things. In Southend he always looked slightly out of place - a London landlord wandering through seaside streets - and over time I became a kind of support for him when he visited.
Ubi was waiting outside in his car, a London landlord who had accidentally wandered into Southend nightlife.
We piled in, dropped Dave and his girl first, then the others, until it was just me and Jackie.
Ubi drove us back to my place and we talked until morning. Not physical, not rushed, just conversation unfolding without effort. Childhood memories, ambition, fear - and the truth, sitting there like a loaded thing I couldn’t keep hidden. Somewhere between midnight and dawn I told her: the robbery, the bail, the fact that I could disappear into prison at any moment. I expected distance, shock, withdrawal. She didn’t flinch. She absorbed it, asked quiet questions, didn’t dramatise it and didn’t excuse it either. When morning came I walked her out and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was restrained but electric. We both knew something had formed, but there were no further arrangements because everything was imminent. The trial could start at any moment, and when she left, the weight returned almost immediately and swallowed everything else.
The call came sooner than expected. Another trial had finished early. Ours would begin the following morning. For roughly ten days before that call I had been vibrating with dread; when it finally arrived, the waiting ended and something colder settled in. The trial lasted five days. It felt like weeks. Martin turned Queen’s evidence. He blamed everything on me. His cooperation reduced his sentence to eighteen months and he served six. His father’s connections and money smoothed everything; he walked back into his job as if the episode had been a temporary inconvenience. I received three years for the robbery and three years for the firearm - six years total. In the cells beneath the court I cried quietly. Six years sounded like a lifetime. At that stage I didn’t understand remission or parole; I believed I would serve every day.
When they led me down to the holding cells I still had three stolen credit cards tucked into my underwear - an absurd, almost symbolic gesture of defiance. I removed them and pushed them through an air vent grille. I never touched another stolen card again. That phase ended there. And prison began properly. Looking back, the robbery wasn’t about money. It was a desperate bid for freedom, a way to escape the suffocating pressures of home and my mounting failures. It cost me dearly, but it also set the stage for a deeper understanding of myself.
Part III
When I returned to Chelmsford as a sentenced prisoner, something fundamental had altered. On remand there had still been movement in the air - conversations about strategy, whispers of appeal, the faint possibility that the whole thing might fracture under scrutiny. Once the sentence was spoken aloud in court - three years for robbery, three for the firearm - the speculation died. Six years is not abstract when you are eighteen. It is a slab of time laid directly across your chest. The clank of the cell door on my first night back as a convicted man felt heavier than it had before. It was no longer waiting. It was beginning.
Chelmsford was overcrowded. That reality defined everything. For long stretches we were locked behind the door twenty-three hours a day. Mornings began with slopping out, carrying the plastic pot along steel landings encased in caging, the smell of disinfectant never quite masking what it was meant to neutralise. Breakfast arrived on trays that tasted of nothing unless you had sugar or salt to trade. I did not, at first. Time became measured not in days but in unlocks. When the bolts shot back and the door opened, even briefly, it felt like oxygen entering the lungs after being held underwater.
I shared a cell initially, a narrow space that forced proximity and stripped away whatever illusions you carried in with you. There is no room for prejudice in two paces of concrete and a plastic toilet bowl. Survival depends less on bravado and more on predictability. I kept my head down. I listened more than I spoke. I watched how men moved, who carried weight on the wing and who borrowed it.
After a period of routine compliance, I was allocated a cleaning job on the ground floor. It was not glamorous, but inside prison even minor responsibility shifts the balance of your day. Cleaning meant movement. It meant being seen as reliable. It meant earning slightly more money on the books. That is where I met Joshua.
Joshua was physically imposing in a way that did not need embellishment. Broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest, with a scar running along one side of his neck that suggested history rather than vanity. The first time he addressed me it was without threat, but with expectation. He trained in the gym methodically and he took it upon himself to include me. Press-ups until the arms trembled. Sit-ups until the core burned. Improvised resistance exercises using whatever furniture could be leveraged. Under his supervision I began to understand that strength in prison is less about aggression and more about insurance. You do not need to dominate; you need to ensure you are not seen as vulnerable.
Joshua didn’t lecture. He didn’t sit me down and explain how prison worked. He just trained, and in the training the lesson revealed itself. The gym wasn’t about building a beach body; it was about armour. Iron plates clanged, sweat pooled on the rubber mats, men watched one another between sets without appearing to. Every lift was noticed. Every weakness was catalogued. I learned quickly that in prison you don’t have to dominate the wing or throw your weight around, but you cannot afford to look like something that bends. If a man thinks you might fold, he will test it. And tests in prison don’t come as polite enquiries; they come as a shove in a doorway, a stare held half a second too long, even full on attack or just a shoulder that doesn’t move when you expect it to. Strength wasn’t about ego. It was about removing opportunity. The barbell became less about muscle and more about message. I wasn’t trying to look dangerous. I was trying not to look available.
Gradually, I built physical confidence. The barbell became a kind of anchor. There was honesty in iron. It did not lie about what you could or could not lift. That discipline bled into the rest of my conduct. I avoided petty disputes. I declined invitations to involve myself in other people’s politics. I worked.
From cleaner I progressed to Reception Orderly. The increase in pay - thirteen pounds a week instead of two fifty - felt enormous within that confined economy. More importantly, it carried trust. I was unlocked earlier and returned later. I handled intake procedures. I saw new men arrive with fear in their eyes that mirrored my own from months earlier. The position allowed a certain distance from the volatility of the wing.
But prison volatility never disappears; it waits.
During the 1986 World Cup, I had completed my shift and returned to the wing at tea time. Over a hundred prisoners had arranged themselves in a semi-circle of steel-framed chairs facing the television. The atmosphere was taut but communal. Even men who disliked one another found temporary truce in the match. As I crossed toward my cell, the dinner bell rang. Without warning, one of the officers walked to the television and switched it off.
There was a moment - barely perceptible - of disbelief. Then the sound shifted. It was not a shout at first but a surge, like air being sucked into a furnace. The men rose almost simultaneously. Chairs were lifted and hurled. The officer nearest the television was overwhelmed instantly. The alarm sounded, that piercing mechanical shriek that signals a loss of control. I did not hesitate. I stepped into my cell and pulled the door closed behind me. I had kept my record clean; I was not about to lose it over a football match.
Seconds later the door flew open again. Another officer who hadn’t switched off the television thrust his glasses into my hand and told me to hold them before slamming the door and re-entering the fray. The chaos lasted minutes but felt elongated by adrenaline. Reinforcements arrived in numbers, truncheons raised, boots pounding concrete. When silence eventually re-emerged, it was accompanied by blood and the heavy knowledge that something irreversible had occurred. The officer who had cut the television feed did not survive his injuries. Three prisoners were later handed life sentences for their role in the riot. It was a brutal lesson in how thin the veneer of order can be.
Not long after, I was reassigned again - this time as a Hospital Orderly. The position altered my daily existence dramatically. My cell door remained unlocked for long periods, sometimes through the night. I had access to the kitchen and greater autonomy than most inmates would ever experience. Responsibility carries scrutiny, but it also brings a measure of dignity.
It was during this time that the first AIDS patients entered the system. Fear rippled faster than fact. Many prisoners believed proximity alone could transmit infection. Cutlery, toilet seats, shared air - myths spread unchecked. One Italian prisoner, isolated in the hospital and struggling with English, was housed separately. I felt compelled to offer small human gestures where possible. Newspapers passed quietly. Brief exchanges through closed doors. In an environment where men often dehumanise one another for survival, simple acknowledgment becomes radical.
Without warning, a transfer notice arrived. I was to be shipped to HMP Portland. The move fractured the fragile rhythm I had built. Portland sat on an island, access dependent on tidal conditions, far from home. Visits would become rare. My sister never made the journey. My uncle attempted to ease the strain on my parents when he could. Distance reshapes relationships.
Portland differed in tone from Chelmsford. It was more regimented, more explicitly focused on rehabilitation. Because of my work history and clean conduct, I was placed into employment quickly and enrolled in a City & Guilds welding programme. Gas welding, MMA, MIG, TIG - acronyms that gradually transformed into competence. For the first time since my arrest, I felt I was acquiring a skill that existed beyond survival. Metal joined under heat and precision in a way that mirrored something I hoped might happen internally.
Weekends brought rugby. It was not a gentle sport. I recall one particular moment when play shifted and I found myself isolated near the halfway line, the opposition charging toward me in a wave of bodies. For a split second I froze, the sound narrowing to breath and impact. Then instinct overrode hesitation. I released the ball and braced for collision. They piled onto me regardless. Lying at the bottom of that human stack, lungs compressed, I realised prison had stripped away certain fears while sharpening others.
Months into my time at Portland, a coloured envelope appeared on my bed. The paper carried scent. The handwriting was unmistakable even though I had never seen it before.
Jackie.
My sister had encountered her in town and suggested she write. The first letter was modest in length, but its significance was immense. I read it repeatedly before responding. I wrote back immediately, careful with each line, aware that prison correspondence carries inspection and limitation. Within days another letter arrived. Soon they became regular. I was permitted only three letters per week - two second class and one first - but she understood the constraints. Our communication adjusted accordingly.
We wrote about small things. Music playing on the radio. Weather. Memories of that night at Zhivago’s. We wrote about fear without dramatics and hope without promises. Through repetition and honesty, affection deepened into something steadier. Love, if that is what it was becoming, grew not from proximity but from persistence.
My parole date - 16 March 1987 - approached with quiet anticipation. I had maintained discipline. Completed education. Avoided infractions. I believed release was logical. The date arrived and passed without notification. The absence of information weighed heavily. For several days I scanned for my name, convinced some administrative oversight had occurred. Gradually I prepared myself for the possibility of serving longer.
Then, early in May, on a Friday morning, a friend burst into my cell insisting my name had been called from the staff office. I dismissed it at first. Rumours circulate constantly. But I went anyway. The officer looked up and confirmed it plainly: parole granted. Release scheduled for Monday at six in the morning.
The weekend that followed felt longer than any previous stretch of time. I was moved to a holding cell. My belongings were processed separately through security. I sat in a stripped space, aware that anticipation can be more exhausting than imprisonment.
At six a.m. on Monday, my cell door opened. Breakfast was automatic - porridge with a broken slice of bread stirred through, sugar sprinkled lightly, tea strong enough to anchor the stomach. We were transported off the island and driven to a large mainland roundabout where collection would take place.
When the van door opened and I stepped into open air, excitement surged - followed almost instantly by dread. My belongings were not with me. Letters. Drawings. Art work. The small carpet my uncle had bought me to soften the concrete floor in my cell. All still inside the vehicle. The doors shut. The van drove away. I stood on that verge understanding that every letter Jackie had written was gone.
Then I saw my parents’ car approaching.
They pulled in beside me. I climbed in. The ordinary comfort of fabric seats and familiar voices felt surreal. They asked if I wanted anything to eat. I told them I was hungry again, absurdly so. Ahead, a McDonald’s sign rose above the road. We pulled in. I ate quickly, rediscovering taste and heat and salt as if they were novelties.
The drive home was long and quiet in places. Fields passed. Roads unspooled. Conversation remained practical. When we turned into streets I recognised, something tightened in my chest.
The bungalow in Blenheim Crescent came into view, barely a hundred yards from Manchester Drive where so much of my earlier life had unfolded.
The car stopped.
I opened the door.
I stepped out.
Part IV
Walking along the pathway from our front gate and down the narrow sideway toward the front door, I felt genuinely happy to be home. It had been a long road back, and even though everything looked familiar, there were small changes. Dad had built an extension onto the back of the bungalow while I’d been away, which was now a large kitchen, warm and cosy compared to how I remembered it. Inside, everything felt both familiar and slightly different at the same time, as though life had quietly continued without me. My old room in the loft was still there waiting for me, accessed by the same pull-down loft ladders I’d used before prison. We sat down and had tea together and talked briefly about my ideas for putting the welding skills I’d learned inside to work. Prison had given me about sixty-five pounds to leave with, not exactly a fortune but enough to get me started again. While I’d been away my sister had dated one of my mates from the top of the road, and she’d obviously told him I was out because he turned up almost before I’d finished my first proper cup of tea in freedom. His name was Nick Lee, a short, slight young man with a distinctive look about him - a slightly protruding nose that gave him an almost ferret-like appearance, dark hair shaved tight around the back and sides but long on top, swept over and constantly flicked back into place with a sharp tilt of his head. Nick was buzzing with excitement for me and had already phoned a few of the other lads, and before long they started turning up one after another talking about getting out that night to celebrate my freedom. Strangely though, while everyone else seemed excited, I wasn’t feeling that same rush of energy. I was happy, yes, but in a quieter, more thoughtful way, as though I was still adjusting to the idea that I was actually free again. Still, I agreed to go out with them. I had a shower and found a few clothes that still fitted. Prison had changed my body; the gym had become my routine inside and I’d come out broad and muscular with a solid chest and a washboard stomach, though my legs still needed some work. Mum made some sandwiches and we agreed we’d meet up properly later in the evening around seven or eight. Everyone drifted off again until later, and as the house quietened down I sat there feeling content but strangely calm, not the wild excitement you might expect from someone just released after two years.
Later that evening Nick came back, followed by one or two of the others, and the rest we planned to pick up along the way. We headed off toward town and gathered on London Road in Leigh-on-Sea, the main road running into Southend. A bus pulled up and we all piled on, racing up to the top deck like kids again, the energy finally beginning to build between us as the reality of the night ahead settled in. When we reached town we headed straight for the precinct where there was a bar called the Cork and Cheese and pushed our way in through the doors and up to the bar. It was my first beer in about two years. We ordered while talking over each other, everyone wanting to know how prison had been, and when the drinks arrived I had a bottle of Grolsch poured into a glass. I took my first mouthful slowly, then another, the cold bitterness hitting my tongue and throat in a way that felt almost electric after so long without it. Cold, wet, full of flavour - it tasted like freedom. I began to loosen up a little. After a couple of beers someone suggested we head upstairs to Rains nightclub, which used to be called Zhivagos, so we went up there for a while, but it was fairly quiet and after another drink we decided to move on again, heading down the High Street and across toward Tots nightclub which backed onto the seafront. The smoke machines were pumping out clouds across the dancefloor and the music was loud, but the place still felt half empty. We went to the far bar and ordered another round along with a shot. I had vodka on ice with a splash of lime, necked it quickly, then carried my beer over to a tall table with stools around it. I stood there for a moment taking everything in, scanning the room, noticing how fashions had changed while I’d been away - different clothes, different hairstyles, little details that told me the world had moved on without me. And yet, despite everything around me, something inside me still felt slightly overcast. A low mood drifted in the way it sometimes did, like a cloud passing across the sun. I couldn’t really explain it; it was just something that happened from time to time. By about half past ten I suddenly realised I’d had enough. The night, the noise, the crowds - none of it was really what I wanted. I shook hands with the lads around the table, said my goodbyes, and walked out into the cooler night air.
It was early May and although the day had been warm the evening had cooled down, but I had a jacket with me so I started walking out of town toward Leigh-on-Sea. I knew she lived at 45 Beach Avenue, though I didn’t really know exactly where that was. As I walked out of town the thought of Jackie flickered briefly through my mind and then disappeared again. I was just walking, letting the cool air clear my head after the noise of the clubs. But when I reached the point where the road divided, I slowed for a moment. If I turned right, I’d be heading straight home. Instead, almost without thinking about it, I veered left toward the seafront. That was the moment the idea returned properly. She’d described it in her letters while I was inside, so I had a rough idea and began heading left toward the seafront where I remembered her road ran up the hill from the promenade. The walk was probably two or three miles and as I got closer I spotted a taxi waiting at some traffic lights. I jogged over and tapped on the window and asked the driver if he could point me in the right direction. He looked at me for a moment, then nodded and told me I was only about a quarter of a mile away. I carried on along Leigh Boulevard until I came to Beach Avenue and when I saw the street sign my heart skipped. Beach Avenue climbed steeply up from the seafront and I was standing at the bottom looking up the hill. As I started the climb I found myself thinking about all the letters Jackie had written to me while I was inside, and for the first time since arriving home that day I felt a real spark of excitement. When I finally reached number forty-five it was about half past eleven. The lights were on. Someone was home. By then I was a salesman and a tough young man who had faced worse things than knocking on a girl’s door, but even so my heart was suddenly pounding. The door had a glazed panel and I tapped lightly on the glass. Jackie opened it a little and for a second we both just looked at each other, slightly shocked. She had friends round and asked if I could give her ten minutes to clear the house. I didn’t ask any questions. I simply walked around the corner about twenty yards to a small side road called Upland Avenue and leaned against a wall, thinking quietly about my life and how strange everything felt at that moment. After a few minutes I walked back, deciding that if she was still busy I’d simply leave and go home. But as I reached the house the door opened and the place was empty except for Jackie. Nervously we went inside. She offered me coffee and I accepted, and we started talking. In fact we didn’t really stop talking for nearly three days. The next morning she told me she worked for her mum, Patricia, but there was no great rush to get there. I was still running on prison routine though, so I left early and said I’d come back later to see her after work. Neither of us had slept. I walked the mile or so back to Mum’s house, had a cup of tea, checked that my toolbox was still in the shed alongside Dad’s tools, then Mum fed me before I showered and shaved and headed back to Jackie’s again. She was home early and we simply picked up where we had left off, talking again all through the night. During those three days I fell completely in love with her. She was everything I had hoped she would be. By the fourth night we finally slept together, though after nearly a year of letters it felt less like a beginning and more like the natural continuation of something that had already been growing between us.
TO BE CONTINUED..
