https://suno.com/s/BYCoR9gvMUN8qY2v
Tuesday, 18 November 2025
Prisons minister vows to end ‘toxic’ cover-up culture in England and Wales
Sexual harassment, racism and bullying have become “normalised” in jails and probation offices across England and Wales, the prisons minister has warned, as he announced a plan to overhaul a “toxic culture of cover-up” among senior staff.
James Timpson said one in eight of HM Prison and Probation Service’s (HMPPS) 65,000 staff say they have been bullied. Sexual assaults on female staff have led to arrests while black and Asian staff have faced repeated racist comments amid a “vacuum of pastoral care”.
After a review by the department’s non-executive director, Jennifer Rademaker, recommended wholesale changes to how HMPPS deals with complaints, Lord Timpson announced a “seismic shift” to improve professional standards.
“Unacceptable behaviour, language, attitude and action have become normalised, tolerated and accepted over time, and as Jennifer’s report shows, bullying, intimidation and harassment in HMPPS has gone unchecked for far too long,” he said.
A new, independent unit will investigate and respond to allegations of bullying, harassment and discrimination, he said, because until now, complaints had been submitted to line managers.
“Imagine making complaints knowing, full well, it will be investigated by a senior manager who is friends [with the alleged perpetrator], and they socialise together outside of work too.
Timpson, speaking at the launch of the review at HMP High Down, Surrey, pointed to a survey that found “one in eight HMPPS staff said that they’ve been bullied or harassed”.
“Many said they didn’t feel as though they could come forward or that they would be punished,” he said, adding there were “too many” examples of racism within HMPPS.
“Colleagues have been repeatedly subjected to racist remarks but keep quiet because they think nothing will change,” he said.
Misogyny and sexual harassment incidents inflicted upon prison officers must be exposed, he said, telling the story of one woman officer who was sexually assaulted while on duty.
A more senior male officer “forced his tongue into her mouth” after harassing her, including asking her bra size.
The woman initially did not report the officer even though he had “a reputation” for such behaviour but finally plucked up the courage, leading to his sacking and prosecution for sexual assault.
“His actions were clearly despicable,” said Timpson. “But her story begs the question, why did it take an assault for this man to finally be called out? Why, when he already had a reputation, was he not exposed sooner?”
He contrasted the behaviour of the perpetrator with the bravery of staff responding to help prison officers attacked last month by the Manchester bomb attack plotter at HMP Frankland.
The review made a series of recommendations, which senior HMPPS leaders have confirmed they are going to implement in full.
Reacting to the report, the general secretary of the national association of probation officers, Ian Lawrence, said: “Unfortunately this long awaited report makes for grim reading. It will bring no comfort to our members working in probation within what is often described as a soulless and seriously mismanaged prison-centric organisation.
“We want more to be done to expose the reality of racism, sexism and corruption within HMPPS that our members tell us about.”
Prison's drug culture remains 'entrenched'
Success tackling a prison's "entrenched drug culture" has been limited despite the best efforts of staff, a watchdog has found.
HMP Inspectorate of Prisons said there had been a "slight decline" in the number of positive tests at HMP Deerbolt, in Barnard Castle, County Durham, since its previous visit in 2024, but it described progress as "far from sufficient".
Inspectors praised measures such as upgraded CCTV in the visits room as a step forward, although they warned work had been hampered by issues such as staff shortages.
The Ministry of Justice (MoJ) said it realised "more must be done" to resolve issues at the site.
The latest report follows a reinspection of the Category C training prison, which has space for up to 490 men, last month.
While describing the work done to reduce the supply and use of illegal substances as commendable, it concluded "tackling the entrenched drug culture will require sustained focus, consistent leadership and the allocation of meaningful resources".
The random mandatory drug testing positive rate remained high, inspectors said, at 36% compared with 38% previously.
However, it added recent data showed a downward trend "suggesting that efforts to reduce drug use were beginning to have an impact".
In the last three months, the average positive rate had fallen to 30%.
Violence levels 'high'
At the time of the visit, investigations into two drug-related deaths were ongoing.
A comprehensive strategy, drawn up following consultation with substance misuse support agencies in the community and prisoners, is now in place.
Alongside the extra CCTV, other physical measures now implemented include all staff and visitors being searched at the security gate.
But "the day-to-day response to intelligence on drug ingress and use remained inadequate", inspectors warned, with staff shortages meaning there were not enough resources to search or test prisoners in response to tip-offs.
Meanwhile, levels of violence "remained high" compared to other prisons, with 69 assaults on prisoners and 58 on staff over six months.
That represented a 24% drop since the previous visit with inspectors judging reasonable progress had been made in that area.
Levels of self harm also "remained high" with 259 incidents, although again inspectors found that was a reduction of 30%.
Their reports also noted health services were now generally reliable and employment support for prisoners was good.
The MoJ said it had "inherited a prison system in crisis" from previous Conservative governments, which were "plagued by drugs and violence".
It added: "While inspectors recognise progress at HMP Deerbolt in cutting drug use, we know more must be done.
"That is why we're creating a second drug-free wing at the jail to support prisoners off drugs, and strengthening security as part of a £40m national investment to keep prisons safe."
Violence too high at city prison, report says
High levels of violence and drug use at an overcrowded Victorian prison continue to put staff and prisoners at risk, an inspection has found.
HM Inspectorate of Prisons reviewed HMP Leicester during unannounced visits between 18 and 25 August 2025.
A report into the findings said safety and purposeful activity had "deteriorated", with the jail recording the highest assault rate of any comparable reception prison.
The Ministry of Justice (MoJ) said staff were "receiving extra training and working to reduce violence".
HM Inspectorate of Prisons found the positive mandatory drug test rate stood at 29%, with delays in providing substance misuse support and weak oversight of drug reduction work.
Violence, the watchdog's report said, remained "too high", with the assault rate standing at 821 per 1,000 prisoners, against a "comparator average" of 479.
In the previous 12 months, there had been 114 assaults on staff and 143 on prisoners, both of which had risen since the last inspection, and use of force was considerably higher than in similar reception establishments.
A reception prison takes in inmates directly from the courts, holding them for short periods before they move on to longer-term establishments.
Inspectors said the pressure of holding more than 300 men in an ageing Victorian building, designed for far fewer, meant prisoners were often locked up for long periods.
Many experienced cramped, poorly ventilated cells with damaged flooring and windows, and many men spent less than two hours out of their cells at weekends, the report said.
Despite the concerns, inspectors did highlight positives, including inmates having "good access" to social visits, including evening and weekend sessions, and they said the refurbished gym - now open seven days a week - was popular.
Staff-prisoner relationships were "generally respectful", and improvements in staff retention had helped steady the workforce following several challenging years - although some prisoners expressed frustration with the attitudes of less experienced officers.
The rate of self-harm had also reduced significantly since the last inspection and continued to fall year on year, despite still being high.
At the time of the review, 23% of prisoners said they felt unsafe, and 40% reported bullying or victimisation - both of which were broadly in line with other reception prisons "but still a cause for concern".
'Too many' released homeless
The inspection, which was carried out alongside the Care Quality Commission (CQC), also raised concerns about healthcare.
Strategic and local partnerships had "failed to address several longstanding issues", including missed appointments, poor supervision of medication hatches and patients waiting too long to transfer to specialist mental health beds.
Some prisoners with long-term conditions did not have appropriate care plans in place, and support for those with additional learning needs was described as "insufficient".
The report also said "too many" prisoners were ultimately released homeless after leaving the jail.
In addition, daily routines were unreliable, inspectors said, with delayed roll checks and inconsistent unlock times leaving staff unable to account for prisoners' whereabouts.
Education, skills and work were also judged "inadequate" with poor attendance, late arrivals and too few opportunities for prisoners to gain meaningful skills.
A spokesperson for the MoJ, which oversees HM Prison Service, said: "This government inherited a prison system in crisis - overcrowded, with violence and access to drugs at unacceptable levels.
"We are building 14,000 prison places and reforming sentencing, so our jails create better citizens, not better criminals.
"Staff at HMP Leicester are receiving extra training and working to reduce violence in the prison."
Weight-loss drugs and hair-loss treatments being flown into UK prisons by drones
Weight-loss drugs, anabolic steroids, and hair-loss treatments as well as ‘bales of cannabis’ routinely flown into British jails, warns chief inspector of prisons
The drones infiltrating Britain’s prisons to deliver contraband are not only carrying quantities of illegal drugs, but also delivering a broad range of lifestyle products, including weight-loss medication and hair-loss treatments, the UK’s chief prison inspector has said.
Charlie Taylor said the fleets of drones now routinely surpassing security systems represent a “new paradigm” for the prison system, not least because the fact that prisoners are able to take delivery of items in this way could pose a major security threat.
Location technologies such as What3Words have improved delivery accuracy, while the drones themselves have become increasingly advanced and capable of delivering ever-larger packages – sometimes weighing as much as 10kg.
Mr Taylor said he is concerned that as well as transporting cocaine, ketamine, methamphetamine and “bales of cannabis”, the drones could be used to smuggle guns, explosives or other weapons to prisoners, which could then be used in a prison break.
Speaking on The Spectator’s Coffee House podcast, Mr Taylor said: “The other day, a head of security sent me a list of the contents of a package that arrived in their jail, and it was astonishing.”
As well as the new wave of effective weight-loss drugs, such as Ozempic and Mounjaro, being delivered to prisoners, hair-loss medication such as minoxidil, and anabolic steroids, which artificially boost muscle growth, are also being flown in.
“With real accuracy, organised crime gangs are able to drop off large amounts of contraband into prisons, and are often making enormous amounts of money as a result of it,” said Mr Taylor.
Inspectors at HMP Manchester discovered that prisoners had been dismantling electric kettles and using the heating elements to melt holes in recently fitted perspex windows in their cells in order to take deliveries from drones.
Mr Taylor said workers at the window-fitting company that the prison had used had subsequently been threatened in their homes by criminal gangs.
Shadow justice secretary Robert Jenrick told The Times: “Our prisons are under siege from drones. Unless the government acts, it’s only a matter of time before a weapon or explosives are delivered to a prisoner. The anti-drone tech is out there and ready to be used – they just need to get on with it.”
The government is under pressure to act to improve the prison system, which has also seen 91 accidental releases of prisoners since April. Announcing the figure last week, justice secretary David Lammy warned that four wrongly released prisoners may still be at large.
Labour laid the blame at the feet of its Tory predecessors, with a No 10 spokesperson saying the number of accidental releases was “symptomatic of a system that the government inherited, of a prison system under severe strain [and] a failing criminal justice system”.
Last month it was reported that as well as weight-loss drugs, teeth-whitening kits had been delivered to prisoners in Scotland. Elsewhere, “zombie” knives and other dangerous blades had been dropped in.
Footage released in June caught a drone delivering a package into the yard at HMP Wandsworth.
Tom Wheatley, president of the Prison Governors’ Association, said at the time that drones were a “significant and growing problem, with drops happening every day”.
Part 3-still dreaming
Part 3 — The Quiet Roads Back to Myself
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the idea of “going back.”
People on the outside love saying things like, “When you get out, you can just pick up where you left off.” They say it like life is a movie you paused a decade ago and can just press play on again. But the truth is, there’s no going back. Not for me. Not for anyone who’s spent years staring at the same walls, breathing recycled air, navigating a world built on routine and survival.
You don’t go back — you go forward.
Even if that forward is slow.
Even if it’s messy.
Even if half the time you’re feeling your way through the dark.
That’s what this phase of my life feels like.
Not a return.
A rebuilding.
And rebuilding takes patience in a world that hasn’t shown me patience in a long, long time.
The First Time I Saw Myself Again
There are mirrors in here, but they’re not the kind of mirrors you find at home. They’re metal sheets polished just enough to give you a vague outline. A shadow of your own face. A reminder you still have a body, even when the world treats you like a number.
For years, I avoided them.
Not because I was afraid of looking older — though that stings sometimes — but because I didn’t want to see the version of myself I had become. Guilt changes your reflection. Shame stands behind your shoulder like a ghost. Regret carves lines into you that have nothing to do with age.
But one morning, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I leaned in. I really looked.
And there he was — me, but not the me I remembered.
His eyes were tired but clearer. His jaw set differently. His posture straighter. There was weight on his shoulders, yes, but also something else I hadn’t seen in years:
Conviction.
Not pride. Not arrogance. Not denial. Just a quiet, steady decision to keep going.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. No music. No spotlight. Just me and a metal sheet on the wall. But in that small moment, something shifted.
I realized I didn’t hate myself anymore.
Not completely, anyway.
Healing doesn’t start with forgiveness.
It starts with honesty.
And for the first time in my life, I looked myself in the eye and didn’t look away.
Learning to Walk Without Fear
There’s a kind of survival mode you learn in here. It’s not the kind of fear people imagine — panic, trembling, constant danger. It’s quieter, more exhausting. It’s feeling like you have to be ten different versions of yourself depending on who’s around.
The tough one.
The quiet one.
The helpful one.
The invisible one.
The unbreakable one.
Always shifting, always watching, always calculating.
After years of that, something strange happens: you forget who you actually are. All the masks start blending together, and you lose the original face underneath.
But lately…
I’ve been practicing walking without masks.
Not bravely. Not boldly. Just honestly.
I started small. I stopped pretending I wasn’t sad on the days grief pulled me under. I stopped laughing at jokes that didn’t feel right. I stopped nodding along when someone expected me to agree with something I no longer believed.
And slowly — painfully — I started reclaiming pieces of myself I thought were dead.
Empathy.
Boundaries.
Hope.
Softness.
Dreams that don’t embarrass me to say out loud anymore.
I won’t lie — honesty is dangerous here. Vulnerability can be seen as weakness. But I learned something unexpected:
People respond to authenticity like thirsty plants respond to water.
Some of the hardest men in here — men who’ve been through things I can’t even imagine — started opening up too. Just a little. Just enough to remind me that beneath every hardened exterior is a story no one bothered to understand.
Maybe healing isn’t something you do alone.
Maybe it’s something we give each other — tiny piece by tiny piece — until we all become more human again.
Letters That Save Me
I’ve said before that the quiet moments change you. But there’s another kind of moment that hits just as hard — the ones where your name gets called at mail time.
There’s something sacred about a letter in prison. Not the paper itself — not the ink, the stamp, the cramped handwriting. It’s the fact that someone took part of their day to sit down and think of you. To choose words with care. To reach through walls you can’t escape and remind you that you’re not forgotten.
My fiancée writes me like that.
Sometimes her letters are long, filled with stories and dreams and mundane little details of life on the outside. Sometimes they’re short, just a few sentences telling me she loves me or misses me or is proud of me.
But every one of them is a lifeline.
Every one of them keeps my heart beating.
She doesn’t realize it, but on the days I want to give up, her handwriting pulls me back.
And then there are the letters from strangers — people who read my blog, people who saw themselves in my story, people who said my words made them feel less alone. I never expected that. I never imagined my pain could be useful to anyone else.
But maybe that’s what healing is too — turning your wounds into something that lights someone else’s path.
I still keep every letter.
Every word.
Every reminder that love doesn’t die in the dark.
The Weight of Time
People think the hardest part of prison is losing freedom. But the real hardest part — the part no one prepares you for — is losing time.
Time is the most brutal thief. Slow. Silent. Precise.
It takes everything from you in tiny pieces, so tiny you don’t notice at first. Then one day you look back and realize everything has changed without you.
Friends who once promised to visit slowly stop writing.
Family members grow older while you stay frozen.
The world moves forward, faster and faster, and you stay caught in yesterday.
I’ve missed birthdays, funerals, graduations, countless family moments. My nieces and nephews have grown into adults I barely know. The world outside has transformed so much that sometimes I don’t even know what to picture anymore.
But here’s the strange thing:
Time also gives you something — perspective.
When you’ve had years to sit with yourself, to peel away every excuse, every lie, every version of the truth you used to protect yourself, you start to understand things differently.
You see who you were.
Who you hurt.
Who you could have been.
And who you still might become.
Perspective is painful. But it’s also freeing.
It taught me that while I lost years, I didn’t lose the ability to change the ones ahead of me.
Time took a lot from me.
But it also gave me clarity — the kind that only comes from breaking, healing, breaking again, and choosing to keep healing anyway.
Looking at My Dad’s Legacy Through New Eyes
I think about my dad a lot.
More now than ever before.
When I was young, I didn’t appreciate him. Didn’t understand the way he was trying to raise me, or how hard he worked to keep everything together. I didn’t see the fear behind his lessons — fear that I’d fall into the same mistakes his own father made. Fear that the world would chew me up if he didn’t toughen me first.
But I get it now.
I see myself in some of the things he said, some of the ways he tried to guide me. I hear his voice in moments where I want to quit. And I feel his presence in the choices I’m making now — not to be perfect, but to be accountable. To be better than I was.
I wish I could talk to him.
Tell him I understand.
Tell him I’m sorry.
Tell him I’m trying.
His death didn’t just hurt me — it changed me. It made me realize that forgiveness doesn’t always come from someone else. Sometimes it has to come from within.
I carry him with me in the quiet moments.
The way he said my name.
The way he looked at me when I disappointed him.
The way he hugged me when I succeeded.
He lives in the man I’m becoming.
A Future I Can Almost Touch
There’s a strange feeling that comes when your release date gets close enough to see it on the calendar. Not soon, maybe — but real. Tangible. A date instead of a dream.
For years, freedom was a fantasy I didn’t dare picture. It hurt too much. It was like trying to imagine the taste of food you’ve never had. Just an idea, nothing more.
But lately… freedom feels different.
It feels like sunlight I can finally feel on my skin instead of just imagining.
It feels like a door I’m walking toward instead of one that keeps sliding further away.
I started planning small things — things most people take for granted.
My first meal.
My first real walk without walls on either side.
The first time I hold my fiancée without a guard watching.
The first morning I wake up without an alarm telling me it’s time to move.
I know freedom won’t be easy.
I know the world won’t suddenly embrace me with open arms.
But I also know something I didn’t know before:
I’m ready.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
Not fully healed.
But ready to keep healing in a world that has more than one kind of sky.
What I Want to Give Back
I used to think giving back meant doing something huge. Something flashy. Something that proved to the world I wasn’t the person they thought I was.
But now?
I think giving back is simpler.
It’s showing someone younger than me that mistakes don’t have to end your story.
It’s talking someone away from the edge on their darkest night because I know what that edge feels like.
It’s sitting with someone who’s grieving and letting them cry without judging them.
It’s writing these words — not because I’m wise, but because I’m honest.
If I can help one person choose life on a night they want to give up…
If I can help one person forgive themselves enough to try again…
If I can help one person feel less ashamed of their past…
Then maybe the worst parts of my life won’t be meaningless.
Maybe the years I lost can be transformed into years someone else doesn’t have to lose.
Maybe that’s my purpose.
Not redemption.
Not erasing what happened.
But transforming it.
Using it.
Offering it.
The Nights That Still Break Me
I won’t pretend I’m past everything. I’m not. And I doubt I ever will be completely.
There are still nights where the silence is too loud.
Nights where I miss my dad so much my chest aches.
Nights where I feel guilty for the ways I hurt people, even unintentionally.
Nights where I wonder if the world will really give me a chance — or if all of this healing will mean nothing when I step outside.
And on those nights, everything feels heavy again.
But the difference now is that I don’t break alone.
I don’t sit in darkness without a rope to hold.
I don’t spiral without a way back.
I’ve built a life raft out of the people who love me, the lessons I’ve learned, the growth I’ve fought for, the mistakes I refuse to let define me.
I still break.
But I don’t stay broken.
That’s the difference time gave me.
Not healing, but resilience.
The Man I’m Becoming
If you’d asked me ten years ago who I was, I would’ve told you a list of things I thought made up a man:
Toughness.
Reputation.
Survival.
Control.
Strength without softness.
Now?
Now I see it differently.
A real man, at least the kind I want to be, is someone who:
Admits when he’s wrong.
Apologizes without excuses.
Loves without fear.
Protects without dominating.
Leads without forcing.
Feels without shame.
Learns without ego.
Grows without needing applause.
The man I’m becoming isn’t impressive. He’s real.
And for the first time in my life, real feels enough.
What I Promise Myself
I don’t make many promises anymore. Life taught me how easily promises can break, how easily circumstances can swallow even the strongest intentions.
But there are a few promises I do make — ones I intend to keep.
I will not waste the rest of my life.
I will not let fear decide my future.
I will not allow my past to chain me.
I will not give up on people who feel lost.
I will not stop loving the woman who saved me.
I will not stop becoming the best version of myself I can be.
Not perfect.
Just better.
Every day.
Every choice.
Every quiet moment where no one sees the effort but me.
Thank You — For Walking With Me This Far
If you’re still reading this…
If you’ve followed me through the dark and the messy and the painful and the hopeful…
Thank you.
You’re part of my healing.
Part of my journey.
Part of the reason I wake up and write instead of shutting down and disappearing.
Your presence reminds me that connection can happen even through walls.
That empathy doesn’t need sunlight.
That strangers can become lifelines.
I don’t know what Part 4 of my life will look like.
Maybe it’ll be brighter.
Maybe it’ll be complicated.
Maybe it’ll hurt in new ways and heal in new ways too.
But I know this:
I won’t walk into it alone.
Not while you’re here.
Not while she’s waiting for me.
Not while I’m still breathing and trying and refusing to give up.
My story isn’t over.
And maybe — just maybe — neither is yours.
Saturday, 15 November 2025
still dreaming part 2
I’ve learned something over the years — time doesn’t heal everything.
Whoever first said that must’ve been talking about scraped knees or little heartbreaks that fade when you’re young. The wounds you carry inside, the ones no doctor can stitch up — time doesn’t fix those. Time just teaches you how to walk around with them without bleeding all over the place.
And that’s what I’ve been doing in here. Walking around with memories, regrets, dreams, and ghosts. Some days they all sit quietly in the corner of my mind. Other days, they’re screaming loud enough to drown out everything else.
But I’m still here.
Still breathing.
Still trying.
My younger self would probably be shocked by that. Not because I’m alive — though that’s a miracle in itself — but because I’ve learned to live in a world I once feared. The younger me believed that one bad mistake meant the end of everything. No second chances. No redemption. Just a long fall into darkness with no one waiting at the bottom.
But life has a strange way of proving you wrong.
I’ve had years to think — too many years, if you want the truth. And somewhere along the way, I started understanding that your story doesn’t end because the world tells you it should. It doesn’t end because people walk away. It doesn’t end because you’re behind walls that claw at your sanity. Your story ends when you stop writing it — and I’ve refused to do that.
Not yet.
Not while I still owe the world something good.
The Days That Change You
People imagine prison as constant chaos — fights, riots, screaming matches, metal doors slamming like thunder. Sure, there’s some of that. But what really wears you down is the repetition. The same walls. The same faces. The same dull grey sky through the tiny window.
Every day blends into the next, like someone took a paintbrush and smeared time into one long stroke of nothing. You learn everyone’s routines. Who wakes up angry. Who hides their fear under jokes. Who never speaks a word. And who, despite the place we’re in, still believes they can claw their way back to something better.
Those quiet moments are what change you most.
There was this one night — I’ll never forget it — where I found myself sitting on the edge of my bunk, staring at the floor, feeling like the whole world had stopped breathing. I’d just gotten a letter telling me someone else I loved had passed away. And I felt that old familiar darkness tugging at me again, telling me I didn’t deserve to exist, telling me everyone would be better off if I slipped away quietly.
But then I remembered something my dad used to say when I was a kid:
“Life’s not fair, son. But it’s yours — so you better keep hold of it.”
I hadn’t thought of his voice in years. Maybe grief brought it back. Maybe he was looking out for me the only way he still could. But something in those words snapped me awake, like someone had grabbed me by the collar and hauled me back to myself.
And I sat there for a long time, breathing slow, thinking about all the people who never gave up on me — even when I gave up on myself.
My fiancée, who has stood by me longer than I ever deserved.
My family, who kept picking up the phone even when all I had to offer were apologies.
And strangers — like the ones reading this blog — who somehow found hope in the broken pieces I shared.
That night didn’t fix me.
But it stopped me from ending the story too soon.
Finding Purpose in the Smallest Things
You don’t always get big moments of meaning in here.
Sometimes your entire purpose comes from something tiny.
Like helping a new guy understand how to get through his first night.
Or sitting with someone when they get the call that their mother passed.
Or teaching someone how to read because no one else ever took the time.
Most people outside never hear about those things. They think we’re monsters, or lost causes, or shadows of real human beings. But inside these walls are men carrying mountains on their shoulders. Men who’ve made terrible decisions, yes — but also men who, if given the chance, could build something better with their lives.
I’ve met people in here who could’ve been anything if someone had believed in them sooner.
And maybe that’s part of the reason I started writing this blog.
Maybe I wanted to remind the world — and myself — that we’re more than the worst things we’ve ever done. That we still have something to offer.
For me, helping people became my way of surviving.
Not physically — though that matters too — but mentally. Emotionally. Spiritually, if you want to call it that.
Every time someone told me my words helped them, or made them think differently, or gave them strength on a bad day, I felt like I was becoming the man my younger self wanted to be.
Not famous.
Not a hero.
Just someone who made life a little easier for someone else.
And that meant more than any spotlight ever could.
The Deaths That Shape You
Losing my dad, my nan, and my great-niece shattered something inside me that I’m still trying to put back together. Grief is hard everywhere, but it hits differently in prison. You don’t get to go to the funeral. You don’t get to hold anyone. You don’t get to see their face one last time.
You sit in a space where the walls are too close and too cold, and you try to grieve quietly because the moment you break down, the world sees it as weakness. And weakness is dangerous in here.
There’s no privacy for heartbreak.
So you bite your tongue, you hold the tears until your throat burns, and you pretend you’re fine so no one asks questions. It’s a strange kind of torture — crying silently into a pillow so no one can hear.
But every death changed me.
Every loss carved something new into the person I’m becoming.
My dad taught me resilience.
My nan taught me compassion.
My great-niece taught me innocence — how beautiful and fragile life really is.
And their absence still pushes me forward.
Because I want to live in a way that honours them.
I want them to be proud of the man I’ve become, even if they’re not here to see it.
How I Got Stronger
People sometimes tell me, “You’re so strong,” and I never know how to answer. Strength isn’t something I woke up with one day. It’s something that grew out of necessity, like a weed pushing its way through concrete.
For a long time, I wasn’t strong at all.
I was angry.
I was lost.
I was drowning in guilt, regret, and self-loathing.
But then I started listening to the people who believed in me — really listening, not just nodding along. My fiancée reminded me who I used to be. My family reminded me who I could still become. And total strangers reminded me that I wasn’t alone in my pain.
I started exercising. Not to get big, not to show off, but because it gave me something to control. One hour a day where my mind didn’t eat itself alive. One hour where I could push all the dark thoughts out through sweat and breath.
And I started reading. Books about psychology, about faith, about people who had fallen and gotten back up again. I read stories of men who lost everything and still found a reason to stand.
Slowly, piece by piece, I rebuilt myself.
Not as the man I was — but as the man I want to become.
And I’m still building.
Dreams Don’t Die in the Dark
When I was young, I thought dreams lived in the spotlight.
I imagined success as people knowing your name, clapping for you, praising you. Fame had nothing to do with ego — at least not in my mind. I just wanted to be someone who mattered.
Now I realize something important:
Dreams don’t die in the dark. They grow there.
They grow in silence.
In pain.
In regret.
In long nights where you lie awake imagining how things could’ve been different.
My dream evolved.
It isn’t about being known.
It’s about being understood.
It’s about being the kind of man who leaves something good behind.
A story.
A lesson.
A bit of hope.
Maybe that’s why I keep writing, even on the days when the words don’t come easily. Maybe this blog, this shared journey with all of you, is the legacy I never knew I’d have.
The Outside World Feels Far Away — But Never Gone
The world changes fast — faster than I can keep up with from inside here. Every time I get updates from my family, I’m reminded of how much time has passed without me. How much I’ve missed. How much I can never get back.
But I’ve also learned something important: even though time moves on without you, love doesn’t.
My fiancée is proof of that.
Twenty years of waiting, visiting, writing, believing.
Twenty years of choosing me, even when it would’ve been easier to walk away.
I don’t know how many people on the outside understand what that kind of love looks like. It’s not simple. It’s not easy. It’s sacrifice — pure and raw. And she’s given me more support than I’ll ever be able to repay.
When I think about getting out — truly getting out — she’s the first thing that comes to mind. Not freedom. Not the sunlight. Not the taste of real food.
Her.
Her smile.
Her hand in mine.
Her voice not distorted by a phone line.
That’s the future I hold onto.
What Comes Next
I won’t pretend I know exactly what comes next for me.
I don’t know how the world will receive me.
I don’t know if the opportunities I dream about will ever be within reach.
But I do know one thing:
My story isn’t over. Not even close.
I want to work with people who feel lost.
People who think their mistakes define them.
People who think they’ve run out of hope.
Because I’ve been there.
I’ve lived there.
And I’ve learned how to climb out of that pit — slowly, painfully, stubbornly.
If I can help even one person do the same, then all these years won’t be wasted.
Maybe that will be my legacy.
Not fame.
Not applause.
But connection.
Compassion.
Understanding.
Something real.
Thank You — Again and Always
If you’re reading this — whether you’ve been following me for years or you just stumbled across my story today — thank you.
Your presence matters more than you will ever know.
Your empathy saved my life.
Your encouragement kept me alive long enough to become the person I am now.
And here’s the truth:
I don’t write these posts because I’m strong.
I write them because I’m still healing.
Because sharing my story makes the burden lighter.
Because knowing you’re out there — listening, caring — gives me a reason to keep going.
My dream is still alive.
Changed, yes.
Evolved, definitely.
But still alive.
Not to be famous — but to be meaningful.
Not to be known — but to be useful.
Not to be applauded — but to be understood.
And if my words reach even one person who needs them, then maybe, just maybe...
I’ve already achieved that dream.
Tuesday, 11 November 2025
Still Dreaming
When I was young, I had a dream — to become famous. Not for anything wild or reckless, but for something good. I wanted to be known as a law-abiding citizen, someone who helped people through the hardest moments of their lives.
Now I’m 52 years old, and that dream is still alive — even though I’m behind bars.
I’ve been locked up a long time now. It’s diabolical, really, the length of time I’ve spent in here. Yet somehow, my family has never turned their backs on me. I’ve been with my fiancée for over twenty years — the longest relationship I’ve ever had. That kind of loyalty is rare, and I’ll never take it for granted.
You know, people think the hardest part about prison is coming here. It’s not. The hardest part is losing the ones you love while you’re still in here. Doing time itself isn’t the worst part — you fall into a routine. The food’s awful, the pay’s worse, and the place itself... well, it’s shit. But you get through it.
Prison does one of two things: it either makes you, or it breaks you.
For me, it nearly broke me.
I tried to end my life a few times. I won’t sugarcoat that. The walls close in, the days blur together, and sometimes the silence gets too loud. But somehow, I came out stronger — mentally and physically — than I’ve ever been before.
This story isn’t about prison. It’s about moving forward. It’s about refusing to let your past define your future.
To everyone reading my blog right now — thank you. You’ve kept me going. Your messages, your encouragement, your faith in me when I had none in myself... you saved my life, even if you didn’t know it.
When I lost my dad, my nan, and even my great-niece, I turned to people like you. You gave me strength when I couldn’t find my own. You reminded me that there’s still good out there, still people who care.
So, thank you — from the bottom of my heart.
My dream is still ongoing. It hasn’t ended just because I’m behind bars. Maybe I’m not famous in the way I imagined as a kid, but if sharing my story helps even one person — if it gives someone hope — then maybe I’ve achieved that dream after all.
IMBs told: don’t fix it
- Leaked memos reveal ‘change strategy’ for watchdogs
- Monitors told it’s not their job to solve problems
Prison watchdogs have been told to stop pursuing complaints on behalf of prisoners – because it takes up too much time.
The instruction has been issued to members of the Independent Monitoring Boards (IMBs), the volunteers who visit every prison in England and Wales to assess conditions and help prisoners with problems.
The Boards are suffering from a shortage of volunteers, with 700 current vacancies, meaning that at some prisons they struggle to monitor all areas and produce annual reports on time.
In response, the IMB Secretariat – a team of civil servants in London, responsible for co-ordinating the work of local Boards – has embarked on a ‘change strategy’ to make the workload more manageable.
A set of proposals was circulated to selected IMB members over the summer. But when they were discussed in focus groups, they provoked anger among some members who disagreed with the ideas.
Most controversial was a suggestion that IMBs should spend less time dealing with ‘apps’ – the forms submitted by individual prisoners seeking help with a problem that the prison’s own complaints system has failed to resolve.
A memo sent by the IMB Secretariat and leaked to Inside Time states: “Monitoring must always be the priority activity undertaken by a Board … The time spent on apps should be proportionate and balanced within other monitoring activities; Boards that spend too much time embroiled in the detail could miss the bigger picture and fail to identify systemic problems.
“The ‘taking of applications’ does not mean that a Board should fix or actively pursue the issue raised by the detained person, as this simply masks the failures in the prison/immigration detention system. It is the role of the IMB to put pressure on establishment staff to address the problem instead, and usually to advise the prisoner or detained person how they can pursue the issue themselves.”
Also circulated was a ‘template letter’ (pictured), which IMBs could send to prisoners who have submitted apps. It begins: “As you may know, in dealing with applications the IMB role is not to sort out the problem, or carry out an investigation.”
One IMB member who took part in a focus group told Inside Time: “There was a lot of anger in my group about these proposals. The National Management Board of the Secretariat is pushing through these changes against the wishes of most IMB members, and they don’t have the authority to do that.
“Prisoners submit apps to the IMB when they have a problem and the prison’s complaints system hasn’t worked. It’s being suggested we fob them off with a template letter telling them to put in another complaint – but if we do that, they’ll lose all confidence in the IMB. We need the trust of prisoners to provide us with information to support our monitoring.”
Despite the objections, the Secretariat is pressing ahead with its plans and will issue a document called ‘Expectations’ in January, setting out guidelines which local IMBs will be expected to follow.
A national IMB spokesperson said: “While we understand why prisoners may look to IMBs to resolve individual problems, it is the role of the IMB to monitor places of detention, not fix issues directly. As such the time spent on applications should be proportionate and balanced within other monitoring activities.
“For example, we know that the poor management of property by HMPPS has a significant impact on individuals. Addressing these issues on a case-by-case basis may offer short-term relief but does not lead to long-term improvement. The IMB uses monitoring findings to inform thematic publications and broader awareness, which are designed to influence policy and practice at a systemic level.”
The spokesperson acknowledged that there had been objections from some IMB members, adding: “As with any focus group, a range of views were expressed, including differing and sometimes strongly held opinions … All feedback was considered carefully by the member-led advisory groups who developed the draft frameworks.”
The spokesperson said that the changes would “improve the consistency and quality of monitoring across the organisation, provide greater clarity about expectation for both new and existing members, and make the IMB more sustainable in a declining voluntary sector”.
Juries don’t guarantee fair trials
I was interested to read political columnist Charlie Elphick refer to the Magna Carta in his objection to trials without juries (Juryless trials are not the answer, August). I have also heard both the Government and the Tories use the great charter to justify jury trials, with Justice Minister Sarah Sackman referring to the Magna Carta as a reason why jury trials will remain the ‘cornerstone’ of our justice system.
However, the Magna Carta never mentions trial by jury and certainly does not enshrine it in law. This is a myth. Jury trial as we now see it came later. The Magna Carta was a royal charter of rights granted by King John of England on June 15, 1215, under the threat of civil war.
It followed the rejection of unequal and tyrannical royal power by a group of rebellious English Barons. It was, in fact, a peace treaty that prescribed fairness across a range of areas, including customs, trading standards, tax and inheritance, and ‘liberties’, covering the freedom of the English church, the payment of fines (usually corn or chattels) and the rule of law – asserting the novel idea for its time that the law should be applied fairly.
The closest that the Magna Carta came to mentioning jury trials was in clause 3a, translated from Latin as saying ‘…nor will we go against such a man, or send against him, save by lawful judgement of his peers or by the law of the land’. The word ‘peers’ should not be interpreted as being your humble next-door neighbour who might be called for jury service. It means a non-royal.
The Magna Carta supported judicial oversight by ‘justices’ (judges) who were our peers, not noble elites as was previously the case. When the Magna Carta referred to ‘the lawful judgement of his peers’, it meant by judges as opposed to the royals. There was no mention of juries. However, it is broadly accepted that the Magna Carta was important in the later evolution of the modern jury trial we now see.
At the time, trials were often an inhumane and barbaric ritual of ‘trial by ordeal’ which could have involved the torture of the accused, any witnesses, and sometimes the accuser too. If I were a current or former government minister, I would be very hesitant about referring to the Magna Carta because in clause 40 it was clear in saying: “To no one will we deny or delay justice.”
Sixty percent of rape complainants drop out of the trial process because of delays. This is an atrocity. The Government has no right to use this ancient text when it serves it, and then completely disregard it when it doesn’t. Beyond sentimental reflection, any reference to the Magna Carta needs to be dropped when it comes to reform, with a strong and sustained focus instead placed on Article 6 of the European Convention on Human Rights – the right to a fair trial.
It doesn’t seem fair that we have a current jury model that gives its most difficult cases, between 3 and 10 per cent, to our least competent group of people to decide on a safe verdict. Despite what ‘public instincts’ might tell us, there is no compelling empirical evidence that jury trials actually work.
Jury research is banned. In effect, we rely on a crucial evidence-focused model of justice when there is no evidence that it actually works. How can that prove anything beyond ‘reasonable doubt’? Worse than that, we could develop a true and efficient model where guilt or innocence could be clearly determined through one robust and scientific and technical evaluation of the evidence in a way that would leave little doubt – but we choose not to because of some outdated sentimental nonsense about an old treaty and ‘human instinct’. Is that fair?
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