I’m in the sixth month of my parole window. Six months of ticking clock hands, endless forms, and pointless meetings. I’ve been dragged into plenty of appointments with so-called “professionals” who are busy putting together my dossier—the stack of papers that will supposedly decide my future. But here’s the truth… I’ve still had no contact with probation. Not a call. Not a visit. Nothing.
And that’s no surprise to me. They’re fabricators and liars, every last one of them. They sit in their offices, miles away from reality, pretending to know what life in prison is like. But they don’t. Not one bit. They have no experience of what it’s like to live day after day behind these walls, to survive in a place where violence is normal, where hope is something you have to protect like it’s your last possession.
I’m supposed to have contact with the hostel at least four months before my parole hearing—time to sort out where I’ll stay, how I’ll adjust, how I’ll try to live outside again. But probation aren’t working with me. They’re dragging their heels, pushing everything to the last minute, like they want me to fail before I even get the chance to stand in front of the board.
It doesn’t take a genius to see where this is going. If they keep this up, I won’t be getting out. Not because I’m not ready. Not because I’m a danger. But because the system is built to fail people like me.
Every day in this window feels like walking on the edge of a blade. You know the hearing is coming, you know your whole future could depend on it, but you’ve got no control over the people holding the pen. I can prepare all I want, attend every meeting they throw at me, sit through endless “offender management” nonsense—but if probation want to stall me, they will.
They make you believe it’s about progress, about showing change, but it’s not. It’s about paperwork and politics. They’ve turned my life into a file full of lies, exaggerations, and made-up risk factors. They’ll write that I’m a danger, that I can’t be trusted, that I’m “not suitable” for release. But none of it is based on fact—it’s all opinion. The opinion of someone who’s never walked a wing, never lived in here, never had to fight just to survive another day.
You’re supposed to work with probation, but when the only contact you get is through rumours and second-hand messages, what’s the point? I’ve had probation officers in the past who didn’t even bother to meet me before writing reports. They’ve got their minds made up before they even read my case. This one’s no different.
And then there’s the hostel situation. That’s the supposed first step to getting out—getting a place sorted where they can “monitor” you. But I’m six months into my parole window and there’s still been no move to set it up. That’s a four-month process, minimum. Do the maths—it’s already too late. Which means I’ll go to the board without an address, without a release plan. And without that, they’ll just say “come back in two years.” It’s the same cycle, over and over.
I’ve been through this too many times. I’ve stood in front of the board, told them the truth, shown them the progress I’ve made, and still been knocked back. Every time they say the same thing—“more work needs to be done.” I’ve been doing that “work” for 35 years. When does it end?
The truth is, it’s never been about rehabilitation. That’s just a word they throw around to make the public think they care. The real aim is to keep the machine running. Keep the beds filled, keep the funding rolling in, keep the statistics in their favour. We’re not people to them. We’re numbers. Numbers that make money.
I’ll go to the hearing when they finally set it, because I have to. I’ll sit there and listen to the same speeches, the same fake concern. And deep down, I’ll already know the answer. That’s the worst part—not the waiting, not the lies, but knowing your fate’s already been decided before you even walk through the door.
The closer it gets, the more the pressure builds—not just in my head, but in the whole wing. Other lads start asking, “When’s your board, Bulldog?” and I just shrug, because half the time I don’t even know myself. Dates change. Meetings get pushed back. One week you think you’re moving forward, the next you’re right back where you started.
Nights are the worst. Lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking about what freedom might actually feel like after all these years. I try not to get my hopes up, but you can’t stop your mind from wandering. I picture walking out the gates, breathing air that isn’t laced with disinfectant and damp. I picture sitting with my family without a Perspex screen between us. Then reality creeps in—probation’s lies, the lack of a hostel, the fact that the board will probably use those excuses to keep me in.
I’ve seen what this process does to people. Grown men, hard as nails, crushed after hearing “refused” for the fifth, sixth, seventh time. Some never recover from it. They just give up, stop trying, stop caring. I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of them, but each knock-back chips away at you until there’s barely anything left.
The worst part is knowing I’ve done everything they’ve ever asked. Every course, every piece of work, kept my record clean, stayed out of trouble. But it’s never enough, because the target keeps moving. One year it’s “do this program,” the next year it’s “we want more evidence of change.” They want to keep you jumping through hoops until you trip.
I’m not naïve. I know my past is my past, and I’ve owned it. But if the system can’t recognise when someone’s served their time and proved they’re ready, then it’s not justice—it’s just control. And that’s all this is.
So I wait. I keep my head down, keep going to the meetings, keep pretending like the outcome isn’t already written in someone’s file. Deep down, I already know my fate. But until they say it, there’s still that one tiny spark of hope—and that spark is what keeps you alive in here.
The morning of the hearing starts earlier than most. They bang on my door before the sun’s even up, telling me to get ready. I barely sleep the night before anyway, so I’m already dressed and sitting on the edge of my bed when the door opens.
They take me to a side room—a cold, echoing place with peeling paint and that faint smell of damp paper that all prison offices have. A table sits in the middle, too small for the weight of what’s about to be decided on it. On the table is my dossier, a thick stack of paper full of words about me that I didn’t write, stories that don’t belong to me but will decide my future.
Then the board comes in. Three of them. They don’t look like people who have ever spent a single day behind bars. Clean shoes, crisp shirts, that smug air of people who believe they understand you because they’ve read a file.
They start with the usual questions—where I’d live, what work I’d do, who I’d be around. All questions I’ve answered a hundred times before. I tell them the truth: my family are my anchor, my stability, my lifeline. And then I watch one of them scribble something in their notes without even looking at me.
They bring up the probation report—the same one that says I can’t live near my family, even though they’ve never been connected to my offence. I ask how that makes sense. No answer. Just the same look, the same fake nod, the same script they’ve been using for decades.
At one point, one of them leans forward and says, “Do you think you’ve changed?” I tell them, “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t still be here talking to you. I’d have given up years ago.” They don’t react. Just another note in the file.
An hour feels like a day. The questions keep coming, some twisted to catch me out, some so vague I’m not sure what they’re even asking. And all the while, I can feel the decision already hanging in the air. You can tell when a room’s already decided your fate—you can see it in the way they avoid your eyes.
When it’s over, they say the words I’ve heard too many times: “We’ll let you know in due course.” Which means days, maybe weeks, before I get the knock on my door with the answer I already know.
Walking back to my cell, the weight settles back on my shoulders. But I’ve learned something over the years—no matter how many times they knock you down, you can’t let them take away that last bit of hope. That’s the only thing they can’t lock away.
The days after the hearing are the slowest I’ve ever known. In prison, time usually blurs together—one day bleeding into the next—but when you’re waiting on a parole decision, every second drags.
You start hearing every set of footsteps in the corridor, wondering if they’re coming for you. Every time a screw stops outside your door, you think, This is it. Then they just move on, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I keep myself busy—reading, doing laps in my cell, writing letters I’m not even sure I’ll send—but your mind still drifts back to that room. You replay the questions, the looks, the scribbles on their notepads. You start thinking about what you could have said differently, even though deep down you know it wouldn’t have mattered.
The other lads on the wing, they’ve seen it before. They don’t bother giving false hope. A few of them try to keep me distracted, talking about football or the news, but every conversation eventually circles back to the board. It’s like this unspoken cloud hanging over me, and everyone can feel it.
Nights are the worst. Lying in the dark, all you’ve got is your thoughts. And mine are split in two—half of me daring to picture the gates opening, the other half preparing for another knock-back. It’s a mental tug-of-war, and neither side ever really wins.
I think about my family a lot. Wondering if they’re thinking about me, if they’re counting down the days like I am. Wondering if they’re scared to get their hopes up too, just in case. That’s the thing about this process—it doesn’t just punish you, it punishes everyone who loves you.
And so I wait. Every day the same routine, every night the same thoughts. Knowing that at any moment, a slip of paper could decide whether I walk out of here or sit in this cell for another two years.
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