Letters Across Time

Martha and Henry lived in a house that had grown small with age. The paint on the siding had peeled in places, the garden that Henry had once tended with meticulous care had grown wild, and the quiet hum of the neighborhood was punctuated only by the occasional bark of a dog or the rumble of a passing truck. Inside, the house smelled faintly of tea and old wood, of books stacked precariously on the shelves, and of the lingering memory of their son, Daniel, whose absence had been a shadow in every room for more than thirty years.

It was early morning, and Martha was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded over a cup of lukewarm tea. Henry shuffled in from the living room, moving slower than he used to, his back bent, his shoulders hunched as though carrying invisible weights.

“They called again,” Henry said quietly, placing a folded envelope on the table. His voice was low, careful, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile world they had built in Daniel’s absence.

Martha reached for it with trembling hands. It was from the prison, a notice of visitation times, an updated schedule for his next parole hearing—or, as it had been for decades, nothing more than a reminder that he was still there.

“I can’t,” she said, the words falling like stones. “I just can’t do the drive anymore. My knees… and your back…”

Henry sat opposite her, letting his eyes linger on the envelope. “I know,” he said softly. “I feel the same. Thirty years, Martha. Thirty years of driving six hours each way, of waiting outside in that sterile, gray parking lot. My back screams at me the next day, and you—God, your knees…” He paused. “But I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop worrying.”

Martha’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “And he… he’s still there, waiting, wondering if we’ll show up. I hate that we can’t.”

The house seemed to grow quieter, heavier. The old clock on the wall ticked in deliberate, measured beats, marking the relentless passage of time. Outside, the wind rustled through the overgrown garden, and a single crow cawed from the fence post.

Henry reached across the table, taking her hand in his. “Maybe… maybe it’s time to change the way we do this. We can’t go to him anymore, but we can bring him home in the only way left to us.”

Martha looked at him, searching his eyes for doubt, but found none. “Do you think he’d… understand?” she whispered.

“He’ll understand,” Henry said firmly. “He always has. He knows us. And we know him. Thirty years hasn’t changed that.”

So they began a new routine. Every morning, Martha would sit at the old desk by the window and write letters, carefully choosing her words, her handwriting deliberate and neat. Henry would sit beside her, clipping newspaper clippings, photographs, and little trinkets that Daniel had once loved. A knitted scarf from Martha, a baseball card Henry had kept from when Daniel was a boy, a jar of preserves from last summer’s harvest—they packed these items with love, imagining their son’s reaction as he opened them.

When the letters returned, they read them together, aloud, in the dim light of the living room. Henry’s voice would tremble sometimes, and Martha’s eyes would well up with tears. “He wrote back,” she would whisper, as if sharing a secret with the walls themselves. “He wrote back to us.”

And in those moments, the house transformed. The furniture seemed less heavy, the air less stale. They could feel Daniel’s presence in the flicker of the lamp, in the rustle of the curtains, in the very rhythm of their own hearts. It was not the same as holding him, but it was something—something that tethered them to the son they had lost so many years ago, and yet never truly lost.

The seasons passed. Snow fell and blanketed the garden in white, and Martha would sometimes stand at the window, watching the flakes drift lazily to the ground, thinking of Daniel walking through a similar winter inside the prison walls. Summer came, filling the air with the scent of grass and honeysuckle, and they sent packages of homemade jams and dried herbs. Every small item was a bridge across time and distance, a way of saying, We are here. We have not forgotten you.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills and painted the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple, Henry and Martha sat together in their living room, reading one of Daniel’s letters. It spoke of memories, of the small things that connected them, of hope and regret intertwined.

“I never stopped believing you’d be here for me,” Daniel had written. “Even when the years felt endless, I could feel you here. Every letter, every package… it was like you were sitting beside me.”

Martha laid the letter down, her hand finding Henry’s. “We can’t go to him,” she said, her voice a soft tremor. “But maybe this… this is enough.”

Henry nodded. “It’s more than enough,” he said. “Thirty years couldn’t break it. Nothing can.”

And in that quiet room, filled with memories, letters, and small treasures sent across miles of concrete and wire, they felt a fragile, precious kind of homecoming. It was not the reunion they had once dreamed of, but it was real, and it was theirs. In the twilight of their lives, they realized that love—steady, patient, unyielding—could cross any distance, bridge any barrier, and endure even thirty years apart.

And so, they kept writing, kept sending, kept hoping. Because sometimes, the greatest journeys are not measured in miles, but in the hearts that persist, and the love that refuses to fade. 

"Rehabilitation or Ruin? What 35 Years Behind Bars Taught Me”

 

1. The Illusion of Control

From the outside, people think prison is about order. Steel doors, guards, routines — all designed to maintain control. But if you’ve ever lived it, you’ll know the truth: it’s one of the most chaotic environments imaginable. Nothing feels stable. One minute, everything is calm. The next, the whole wing can erupt because someone’s been disrespected, or a rumour has started, or a deal’s gone bad.

The documentary showed some of that — the fights, the smuggling, the fear. But even that can’t capture what it feels like when you’re inside those walls. You learn quickly that control is an illusion. The officers think they control the prisoners. The prisoners think they control the officers. In reality, no one is really in control. Everyone’s just trying to survive the day.

Prison isn’t just a punishment; it’s a pressure cooker. Every emotion — anger, fear, frustration, boredom — gets magnified ten times over because there’s nowhere to release it. You can’t just walk away. You can’t take a breather. You sit in your cell with your thoughts, your regrets, your pride, and your paranoia. And that combination can drive anyone to the edge.

---

2. The Officer Who Was Shot

In the program, there was a story about a prison officer who was shot dead. It hit hard, even for someone like me who’s seen more violence than I care to remember. He was portrayed as a man just doing his job — and maybe he was. I never want to see anyone hurt or killed. I do not condone violence. I’ve seen what it does — to victims, to families, to entire communities. It doesn’t solve anything.

But, and this is important, not every officer is like the man they showed on TV. There are good officers, yes — ones who treat you like a human being, who talk to you with respect, who understand that you’re already paying for your mistakes. But there are others who abuse their power every chance they get. They treat prisoners like dirt. They come into your cell and move things around just to get a rise out of you. They insult you, humiliate you, act like they own you.

And when you push back — even verbally — they get defensive, write you up, or make your life harder in a hundred quiet ways. That’s the part the public doesn’t see. It’s not always about violence or corruption. Sometimes it’s about provocation — that slow, grinding pressure that makes it almost impossible to keep your head down and do your time in peace.

If you want peace in prison, it comes down to one rule: treat people with respect. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a uniform or an inmate number. Respect earns peace. Disrespect breeds conflict. It’s that simple. And yet, it’s the one lesson the system seems unable — or unwilling — to learn.

---

3. Corruption Behind Bars

Let’s talk about contraband. Every time the news reports that a prisoner was caught with a phone, or drugs, or tobacco, they make it sound like inmates have some magical way of getting things past security. But let’s be real: if you’re caught with a mobile phone in prison, it didn’t fall from the sky. Someone brought it in. And more often than not, that someone works for the prison.

I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Officers who smuggle in phones for money. Officers who turn a blind eye when drugs come through. Officers who trade favours for sex. It’s not every officer, but it’s enough to poison the whole system. The corruption runs deep — and when it all blows up, guess who gets the blame? The prisoners.

The officers go on record as heroes who “uncovered a smuggling operation,” when in reality they were the ones who started it. It’s hypocrisy of the highest order. And it’s one of the biggest reasons rehabilitation fails — because you can’t rebuild trust in a place where deceit and manipulation are part of daily life.

When the people meant to enforce the rules are the same ones breaking them, the line between right and wrong disappears. And when that happens, survival becomes the only goal.

---

4. Violence and Survival

I’ve been asked many times how I managed to survive more than three decades inside without losing my mind completely. The truth? You adapt. You harden. You become someone who can read a situation before it explodes. You learn who to trust — and more importantly, who not to.

Violence is never far away in prison. Sometimes it’s obvious — a fight in the exercise yard, a stabbing over debt, a gang dispute. Other times, it’s quiet and psychological. A few words whispered in the wrong ear. A dirty look that turns into a vendetta. Everyone’s on edge because everyone’s vulnerable. You don’t have weapons in there, but you have pride — and pride is the sharpest weapon of all.

I won’t lie: there were times I felt rage so deep I could barely breathe. Times when I wanted to lash out. But I learned — often the hard way — that violence never gets you what you think it will. It only brings more punishment, more isolation, more time. Still, I understand why it happens. When you’re treated like an animal, you start to believe you are one. When you’re constantly disrespected, eventually, you explode.

That’s why I don’t judge people in there too quickly. You never know what someone’s been through, or how many times they’ve been pushed before they finally snap.

---

5. The Human Side of Prison

Here’s something most people will never understand: prison isn’t just a place full of criminals. It’s full of people. Broken people, yes — angry, scared, addicted, damaged — but people all the same.

You see fathers who’ve lost touch with their kids and cry quietly at night. You see young lads who came in tough and fearless but crumble after their first fight. You see men who’ve been inside so long that freedom actually terrifies them. You see small acts of kindness — sharing a cup of tea, lending a book, helping someone write a letter home — that never make the headlines.

Those are the moments that keep humanity alive behind bars. Because in a place designed to strip away your dignity, even the smallest bit of compassion feels huge.

I’ve seen officers who understood that too. The good ones stand out. They treat you like a person, not a problem. They talk to you, not at you. They remember that the uniform doesn’t make them better — just different. I respect those officers deeply, because they make an impossible environment just a little more bearable.

Unfortunately, they’re outnumbered by the ones who think authority means cruelty. And those few ruin it for everyone else.

---

6. The Provocation Game

You’d be shocked how often officers deliberately provoke prisoners. They know exactly which buttons to press. They’ll call you names, mock your family, search your cell in the middle of the night, throw away letters or photos “by mistake.” They’ll write you up for things you didn’t do. They’ll do it to remind you that they’re in charge.

And when you react — even if it’s just shouting back — suddenly you’re the violent one, the troublemaker. It’s a system built to push you, then punish you for reacting. I’ve been on the receiving end of that too many times. I’ve seen men lose years off their sentences because they couldn’t take it anymore and lashed out.

But here’s what I’ve learned: keeping your dignity in that situation is the biggest act of defiance there is. Staying calm, refusing to give them what they want — that’s power. Real power. It took me decades to understand that.

---

7. Reflection: Respect, Responsibility, and Change

After thirty-five years behind bars, I came to one conclusion: respect is the foundation of everything. Without it, there’s no order, no trust, no rehabilitation.

Respect doesn’t mean weakness. It means seeing the humanity in someone, even when they’ve done wrong. It means understanding that punishment isn’t supposed to be humiliation. And it goes both ways — prisoners must respect officers, and officers must respect prisoners. That’s the only way prison can work.

The system right now doesn’t build respect. It builds resentment. It teaches people to hide their emotions, to play the game, to manipulate or retaliate. It doesn’t teach accountability or empathy — and those are the things that actually change lives.

You can’t rehabilitate someone by constantly breaking them down. You can’t expect a person to come out better if every day inside they’re treated worse.

Rehabilitation has to mean more than time served. It has to mean giving people the tools to think differently, to control their emotions, to rebuild a sense of purpose. But that can’t happen in a system infected with corruption, hypocrisy, and hate.

The documentary showed glimpses of this — the officers who care, the inmates who try to change — but what it didn’t show is how exhausting that fight is. Every day inside is a battle between who you are and who the system tries to make you.

---

8. Why I’m Speaking Out

I didn’t write this to glorify prison life. There’s nothing glamorous about it. It’s pain, monotony, fear, and wasted potential. I’m writing this because people need to see the truth — not just the violence, but the cause of it. Not just the corruption, but the system that breeds it.

When you spend decades behind bars, you start to see patterns. You see that most of the men who come in are broken long before they ever commit a crime. You see that poverty, addiction, and trauma are the real chains holding people down. You see how easily society writes people off, and how hard it is to change once that label — “criminal” — is stamped on your forehead.

I’m not asking for sympathy. I did my time. I earned my punishment. But I’m also asking for understanding. Because until we stop seeing prisoners as monsters and start seeing them as humans capable of change, nothing will improve.

There are thousands of people in prison right now who want to do better, who want to make amends, who want to rebuild their lives. But they’re trapped in a system that often makes that impossible.

And there are officers — good, hardworking men and women — who want to make a difference but are dragged down by a culture of corruption, politics, and fear. They deserve better too.

---

9. What I’ve Learned

If prison taught me anything, it’s patience. It taught me how to listen, how to control anger, how to read people. But it also taught me how fragile human decency can be when power gets involved.

I’ve seen the worst sides of people — including myself. But I’ve also seen redemption, forgiveness, and strength. I’ve seen men who came in broken walk out changed. I’ve seen officers who risked their careers to do the right thing. Those moments matter. They remind me that change is possible, even in a place built on punishment.

The system won’t fix itself overnight. But it can start with honesty. With people admitting that the problem isn’t just “bad prisoners” — it’s a broken structure that turns everyone, on both sides of the bars, into something less than human.

---

10. Final Thoughts

If you take anything from this, let it be this: respect saves lives. Corruption destroys them.

Watch Behind Bars: Sex, Bribes and Murder. Look beyond the headlines. Ask yourself how a system meant to protect and rehabilitate became one that breeds hate and violence instead.

And next time you hear about a prisoner caught with a phone, or a fight breaking out inside, remember — there’s always more to the story. Someone’s pride, someone’s pain, someone’s provocation. It’s never as simple as it looks.

I’ve spent thirty-five years living that truth. I’ve seen good men become monsters and monsters become good men. I’ve seen officers break down in tears because they couldn’t take the stress anymore. I’ve seen corruption rot the core of a place that was supposed to teach justice.

But I’ve also seen hope — fragile, stubborn, and real. Because no matter how dark it gets inside, there are still people trying to do right. And maybe, just maybe, if we start talking honestly about what really happens behind those walls, something might finally change.

If you take anything from this, let it be this: respect saves lives. Corruption destroys them.

Watch Behind Bars: Sex, Bribes and Murder. Look beyond the headlines. Ask yourself how a system meant to protect and rehabilitate became one that breeds hate and violence instead.

And next time you hear about a prisoner caught with a phone, or a fight breaking out inside, remember — there’s always more to the story. Someone’s pride, someone’s pain, someone’s provocation. It’s never as simple as it looks.

I’ve spent thirty-five years living that truth. I’ve seen good men become monsters and monsters become good men. I’ve seen officers break down in tears because they couldn’t take the stress anymore. I’ve seen corruption rot the core of a place that was supposed to teach justice.

But I’ve also seen hope — fragile, stubborn, and real. Because no matter how dark it gets inside, there are still people trying to do right. And maybe, just maybe, if we start talking honestly about what really happens behind those walls, something might finally change.

---

The Point I’m Trying to Make

The point I’m trying to make is simple: the prison system is full, overcrowded, and broken. It’s not working — not for prisoners, not for officers, not for society. We talk a lot about “rehabilitation,” about putting offenders through groups and programs, about teaching them how to change. But how can you truly rehabilitate someone in a place that’s collapsing under its own weight?

Prisons today aren’t focused on helping people grow; they’re focused on just keeping order — keeping bodies locked away, managing chaos, surviving the day. It’s not about rehabilitation anymore. It’s about damage control. And you can’t rebuild lives in a system that’s already broken.

Rehabilitation shouldn’t mean sitting in a classroom ticking boxes or being forced into a program you don’t believe in. It should mean real understanding — getting to the root of why people offend, what trauma or pain drives them, and how to help them face it. But that kind of change requires a system built on trust, respect, and consistency — not fear, corruption, and overcrowding.

The truth is, until the system itself is repaired, no amount of “rehabilitation courses” will work. You can’t heal in a place that keeps reopening your wounds. You can’t find peace when you’re constantly provoked, disrespected, and dehumanised.

For thirty-five years, I’ve watched governments come and go, each promising to fix the prisons, each introducing new policies, new targets, new buzzwords. But nothing changes. The overcrowding gets worse. The violence gets worse. The hopelessness grows.

It’s time to stop pretending the system just needs a “tweak” or a “review.” It needs rebuilding — or replacing entirely — with something that actually works. Something that recognises that rehabilitation doesn’t happen through punishment alone. It happens through understanding, opportunity, and genuine care.

I’ve spent over three decades waiting for that kind of rehabilitation — and I never got it. Not once in thirty-five years did I receive the kind of support that could’ve helped me understand myself, my actions, or how to change. I had to do that alone, the hard way, in a place designed to break you, not build you.

So when I speak out, it’s not from bitterness. It’s from experience. The prison system isn’t just overcrowded — it’s outdated, toxic, and crumbling. And until we fix that, we’ll keep creating the same problems over and over again.

Because real rehabilitation doesn’t come from paperwork or punishment. It comes from respect, honesty, and the courage to rebuild a system that’s long past repair.

Seven years since you've been gone

 Seven years since you’ve been gone,

but your memory still lives on.

I see your face in every dream,

hear your laugh in the low sunbeam.

You were the strength I tried to be,

the calm inside the storm in me.

I took a path you wouldn’t choose,

and all I found was time to lose.

Behind these bars, the nights are long,

but thinking of you keeps me strong.

You’d tell me, “Son, don’t let this break,

the better man’s still yours to make.”

Sometimes I talk to you at night,

under the flicker of pale light.

I tell you things I never said,

the guilt, the love, the tears I’ve bled.

I picture you in skies so wide,

your spirit walking by my side.

No chains can keep that love confined—

your lessons echo in my mind.

I’ve counted years, I’ve counted pain,

I’ve prayed for peace, I’ve fought with shame.

But when that gate swings wide someday,

I’ll walk out strong in your old way.

For though this world can cage my years,

it can’t take you—through all these tears.

You live in me, through right and wrong…

Seven years gone, but your love stays strong

Put the Weapons Down

 

I never meant for any of this to happen.
That’s the first thing I’d tell you if we ever met.
You might see me on the street — hood up, eyes low, looking like trouble — and think you already know me. But you don’t. Not really. You don’t know what it’s like growing up where a postcode means more than a name, where respect is borrowed on credit you can’t repay.

I’m from south Manchester, born and raised. Grey blocks, corner shops, and sirens that sing you to sleep. Mum tried, you know. Proper tried. Worked two jobs, kept the house clean, made sure there was always food — even if it was just beans on toast. But there’s only so much one woman can do when the world outside’s louder than her voice.

Dad? Gone. Some story about moving up north for work. Haven’t seen him since I was eight. Left a box of football stickers and a promise he never kept. So when the boys on the estate started talking tough, flashing trainers and phones I couldn’t dream of affording, I listened.

That’s how it starts — quiet.
One favour. One night. One small thing that doesn’t seem like much.

For me, it was a lookout job.
“Just shout if you see feds,” they said.
I did. Got a tenner for it. Thought I was winning.

You feel part of something for once. The older lot nod at you, call you “fam.” You walk different after that. Shoulders up, chin high, like you matter. But what they don’t tell you is that the same people who hype you up will vanish the minute things get loud.

---

I remember the first time I held a shank.
It weren’t even mine.
Jay brought it round, wrapped in a Tesco bag like it was a loaf of bread.
He said, “Bruv, just in case. Man can’t be slipping out here.”

I laughed at first. Thought it was a joke. But he looked serious, eyes cold.
That’s how it is here — everyone’s scared, but no one admits it. Fear turns to armour, and armour turns to ego. You start carrying because everyone else is. “Protection,” you tell yourself, like that word makes it righteous.

It didn’t take long before I had my own.
Kitchen knife, short blade, handle wrapped in tape.
I kept it under my pillow at first, just knowing it was there. Felt safer.
Then one day I took it out with me.
That was the day everything changed.

---

There’s this road that cuts through the middle of the estate — Bramble Avenue.
We used to post up there, just talking, laughing, chatting nonsense. Jay, little Riz, and me. Sometimes music from someone’s phone, cheap energy drinks, the whole world feeling like it was ours.

But that week there’d been tension. Some boys from Moss Side were moving reckless, stepping on our patch, mouthing off. I didn’t care about turf or territory — I cared about respect. That word eats you alive.

“Man can’t let them walk over us,” Jay said. “They think we’re soft?”
He spat on the pavement.
Riz nodded, half scared, half excited.
Me? I said nothing. Just listened, feeling the knife in my pocket press against my leg like a heartbeat.

---

The day it happened, the air felt wrong. You ever feel that? Like the world’s holding its breath.
We got word the Moss Side boys were coming down.
Five of them, maybe six.
Jay was already pacing, phone in hand, hoodie up.
“Yo, we ride out tonight. No backing down.”

I should’ve walked away.
I should’ve said, “Nah, this ain’t me.”
But pride’s a poison that tastes sweet at first.

We met them near the car park behind the Co-op. Concrete, graffiti, bins overflowing.
Words were shouted.
Someone pushed someone.
And before I could even think, blades came out.

I don’t remember drawing mine — it just appeared in my hand, like it moved by itself.
There was shouting, running, chaos.
A flash of silver. A grunt.
And then — silence.

I looked down.
Riz was on the ground.
Blood spreading through his hoodie like ink on paper.

---

For a second, everything stopped.
Jay froze. The other boys ran.
It was just me and Riz.
He looked at me, eyes wide, mouth opening but no sound coming out.
I dropped the knife.
Knees hit concrete.
Hands shaking, pressing on the wound like that would help.

“Stay with me, bro,” I said. “Come on, stay with me.”
But the light in his eyes was already fading.

I didn’t even realise the knife he was stabbed with wasn’t mine until later.
Didn’t matter.
Didn’t matter who did it, whose hand it came from — we were all guilty.

---

The sirens came quick.
Neighbours watching from windows.
Someone screamed.
Jay bolted.
I didn’t move. Just sat there, blood on my hands, Riz’s head in my lap.

The feds pulled up. Blue lights bouncing off the walls.
“Drop the weapon!” they shouted, but I already had.

Next thing I knew, I was on the ground, face pressed to the cold, cuffs biting my wrists.
I kept saying his name, over and over, like maybe that would bring him back.

Riz died before the ambulance arrived.
Fifteen years old.
He still had braces on his teeth.

---

They held me for questioning.
Said they’d seen me with a knife.
Didn’t matter that it wasn’t me who stabbed him — I was part of it.
Joint enterprise, they call it.

Mum came to the station.
Eyes red, hands shaking.
She didn’t even speak at first. Just looked at me like she didn’t recognise who I was.
And maybe she didn’t.

“I worked so hard,” she whispered. “So hard to keep you safe.”

I had nothing to say.
What do you say when you’ve broken your mother’s heart?

---

I got out on bail eventually.
Jay disappeared — no one’s seen him since.
The streets were quieter after that.
People looked at me different. Not respect — fear.
It felt like the walls of the estate were closing in.

I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Riz’s face.
He used to talk about leaving, getting a job at a garage, saving up for a car.
He had plans. Real ones.
Now he’s a photo on a wall, candles burned down to stubs underneath.

---

Weeks passed.
Funeral came and went.
His mum didn’t even look at me.
Can’t blame her.

The priest said words about forgiveness and peace, but none of it landed.
The air in that church felt heavy, like guilt had a smell.

After that, I stopped going out.
Stopped answering calls.
Just sat in my room, staring at the knife I still had hidden — the one I didn’t use.
I could’ve thrown it away. Should’ve.
But part of me couldn’t.
Because that knife was everything I’d become.

---

I started walking late at night, when no one was around.
Past the shops, past the bus stop where we used to laugh, past the spot where Riz fell.
Sometimes I’d sit there and talk to him, quietly.
Tell him I was sorry.
Tell him it should’ve been me.

I thought about ending it more than once.
But then I’d hear my mum in the next room, praying under her breath.
She still hasn’t given up on me, and that’s the only reason I’m still here.

---

You know what’s mad?
After everything, the boys still carry.
Still talk about respect and protection like it’s armour.
They don’t get it.
I didn’t either, not till it was too late.

You think a blade makes you safe.
You think a gun makes you strong.
But all it does is steal your future before you even get a chance to live it.

I’ve seen what it does.
I’ve felt it in my hands.
And I’d give anything — anything — to go back and leave that knife where it belonged.

---

Now I walk past kids like I used to be.
Hoods up, eyes cold, talking about ops and moves like it’s all a game.
And I want to grab them, shake them, tell them the truth.

It’s not big.
It’s not clever.
It’s not funny.

It’s people’s lives you’re playing with.
Could be your son, your dad, your brother, your best mate.

It could be you.

One second, one stupid decision, and everything changes.
And then you’re left like me — haunted, hollow, trying to put back what can’t be fixed.

---

Sometimes I dream about Riz.
He’s still wearing that same grey hoodie, still smiling.
In the dream, we’re back by the corner shop, laughing about something dumb.
Then I wake up, and it’s just the dark and the silence.

I don’t cry anymore.
The tears ran out.
All that’s left is the ache.

---

People ask me what I’d say if I could talk to him one more time.
I think about that a lot.
Maybe I’d tell him I’m sorry.
Maybe I’d tell him he deserved better friends.
Maybe I’d tell him to go home that night.

But I can’t.
All I can do now is tell you.

You — whoever’s reading this, whoever’s listening.

Don’t make my mistake.
Don’t pick up that blade.
Don’t think you need it to be safe, to be seen, to be respected.

Because when it’s all said and done, all it gives you is silence, regret, and a name on a headstone.

---

I still live in the same flat.
Mum doesn’t talk about that night anymore.
Sometimes she leaves the telly on too loud, just so the silence doesn’t swallow us.

I’m trying to do better.
Started volunteering with this youth group down the road.
They let me tell my story to the younger ones.
Some listen. Some don’t.
But if even one of them hears me — really hears me — maybe Riz didn’t die for nothing.

---

Last week, I walked past a group of lads by the bus stop.
One of them nodded at me.
I recognised that look — the same one I used to have.
Restless. Angry. Hungry for respect.

He said, “Yo, you used to roll with Jay, innit?”
I nodded, slow.
“Yeah,” I said. “Used to.”

He smirked. “Man still got that blade?”
And for the first time in a long time, I smiled.
“Not anymore, bruv,” I said. “I put that down.”

He laughed, like he didn’t believe me.
But maybe, just maybe, he’ll remember that one day when it’s his turn to choose.

---

Sometimes the only way to make peace with the past is to warn the ones still walking toward it.
So if you take anything from what I’ve said — take this:

Violence doesn’t make you strong.
It makes you smaller.
It takes your future, your friends, your family, and leaves you standing in the dark, holding nothing.

So please — I’m begging you —
put the weapons down.

Before it’s too late.



to anyone that has experienced something like this, you have our condolences

Big Man, Small Cell

 They call me “Big Jay” on the block.

Used to, anyway. Back then I thought it meant something. Thought it made me someone. Truth is, I weren’t big — just loud. Just angry.

I was sixteen when I got nicked. Thought I was untouchable. Me and the lads, we’d hang round outside the chicken shop every night, hood up, passing a spliff, talking like we were running things. We weren’t though. We were just bored kids from a grey estate with nothing better to do than act hard.

It started with nicking trainers. Bit of weed. Selling some knock-off vapes to the Year 10s. Then one of the older boys, Kane, says we could make proper money running with him. He had links — real ones. Gangs from London, proper stuff.

One night, we went to rob some lad who’d been dealing on “our patch”. Didn’t plan on using knives — swear down, I didn’t. But Kane brought one anyway. Said, “Can’t take no chances, Jay.”

Things went wrong fast.
The lad swung first, Kane stabbed him. Once. Right in the stomach.
I just froze. Watched him drop. The sound he made — it weren’t human.

We legged it, but they caught us two days later. CCTV everywhere. Kane got more years than me, but I still got five for joint enterprise. Didn’t even hold the knife, but it didn’t matter. I was there. I didn’t stop it.

---

First night in Feltham, I cried. Quietly, though — didn’t want no one hearing. You learn quick in there: don’t show fear, don’t show weakness. Then when I turned eighteen, they shipped me to adult prison. Whole different world.

That’s where I saw a man die.

It was in the canteen, just after lunch. Some beef between two lads over a debt — probably a tenner’s worth of spice. One of them pulled a shank made from a toothbrush and a bit of metal. Went straight for the neck.

Everyone froze. Even the screws were too slow. The blood — it came out fast, hot, spraying across the floor. I remember the noise more than anything. Like someone choking on air, trying to breathe when there’s nothing left to breathe.

We got locked down straight after. I sat in my cell, staring at my hands. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Just kept thinking — that could’ve been me. Could’ve been my mum getting that call.

That was the day it clicked.
All them years I’d been trying to act hard, trying to prove I weren’t scared — and for what? To end up in a place where people die over ten quid?

---

Been out six months now. Walked past the same corner where it all started last week. The lads out there — new faces now. Young ones. They looked at me like I used to look at the older boys — like I had stories.

I told them, “You don’t wanna end up where I was, trust me.”
They laughed, same way I would’ve. But maybe one of them’ll remember.

I still hear things at night sometimes — shouts, metal doors, that choking noise. But I’m trying. Got a job at a car wash. Keep my head down.

I used to think being tough meant not caring.
Now I know real toughness is carrying what you’ve done — every single day — and not letting it turn you into someone worse.

Welcome to the crew (track)

 https://suno.com/s/pzPtmOtPup4fCTHW




can you please tell me what you think of the track in the comments many thanks

A Message from Frankie

 I want to take a moment to say a huge thank you to all my readers and supporters from around the world — including those in the United States, Singapore, Brazil, the United Kingdom, Germany, Russia, Hong Kong, Vietnam, and many more. Your visits, messages, and encouragement truly mean everything to me.

My name is Frankie. I’ve been serving a life sentence and have spent the last 35 years in prison. I’m also the founder and writer of this blog. Through it, I hope to share my story, my reflections, and my voice with the outside world.

I’d love for you — my readers — to share this blog with your friends and family. Help spread the word so more people can connect, learn, and maybe even be inspired by what we’re doing here.

If you’d like to reach out, you can contact me at voiceforcons@gmail.com.
You can:

• Ask me questions

• Suggest topics or things to post on the blog

• Even ask me to be your pen friend

I’m doing everything I can to grow this community. My oral parole hearing is coming up soon, and I want to show that my voice — and the voices of others like me — still matter.

Since I don’t have direct access to the internet, my nephew helps me post everything you see here. So please, feel free to email us about anything — your thoughts, feedback, or just to say hello.

Once again, thank you for your incredible support.
Please take some time to read my story, “The Forgotten Sentence,” and check out the tracks we’ve created about the UK government — they come straight from the heart.

Take care, stay strong, and help us spread the word.
One love to you all.

— Frankie &  George (proxy)

the forgotten sentance

 When you see and hear about prison life — having Freeview and Sky, “big” Christmas dinners, and all that — let me tell you now, it’s a load of bollocks. The Christmas dinner is nothing like the pictures they show you. The potatoes are rock hard, the veg has no taste because it’s been boiled to death, and the custard’s like water. The sponge — if you can call it that — is about half an inch thick, like a bit of damp cardboard. And as for the telly, if you’re lucky, you’ll get twenty-one different channels, most of which are rubbish anyway.

Sometimes, if you’ve got one of those old Crystal or Philips TVs, you can stick a bit of wire in the aerial socket, hang it out the window, and retune it to catch a few extra channels. But believe me, it’s nothing to write home about. You might get a fuzzy ITV or some shopping channel that plays the same adverts on loop, and that’s your entertainment sorted for the night.

People on the outside think we’re living it up in here — watching Sky Sports, eating roast dinners, and playing video games all day. They couldn’t be more wrong. The “privileges” they talk about change every five minutes. One week, you’re allowed a console in your cell — the next week, they’re banned again because someone’s been caught modding theirs or hiding stuff inside the casing. The rules shift more than the weather.

You might save up canteen money for months to buy yourself a PlayStation, only for the governor to decide they’re “no longer appropriate” for your wing. Then it’s packed away and sent home, just like that. Doesn’t matter how well-behaved you’ve been — one person messes it up for everyone. And even when you do get to keep one, it’s not like you can just play whatever you want. No internet, no online games, no mature titles — just a handful of approved discs that everyone’s bored of after a week.

It’s the same story with everything in here. They dangle these tiny bits of comfort like carrots — a few extra TV channels, a radio, a console — and then take them away whenever it suits them. It’s supposed to be “incentive-based,” but half the time it just winds people up more. You do everything right, follow the rules, and still end up losing what little you had.

And yet, somehow, you still find small ways to get by. A decent brew, a good chat on the landing, a laugh about something stupid — those little moments matter more than any console or telly ever could.

Because once the cell door shuts and the lights go out, all the so-called “privileges” in the world don’t make much difference. You’re still stuck there, counting down the days, trying not to lose your head.

Thing is, inside, everything becomes currency. Doesn’t matter what it is — a decent coffee sachet, a working pad charger, a game disc that still runs properly — it all holds value. You learn the system quick. Someone’s got FIFA, someone else has a controller that doesn’t drift, someone’s got extra sugar sachets from the canteen, and before you know it, little trades start happening. It’s not greed; it’s survival. It’s how you make the days go quicker.

If someone’s lucky enough to have a console, it becomes the hub of the wing. Everyone crowding round, shouting, laughing, arguing over who’s next on the pad. For a couple of hours, the noise of the place fades, and it almost feels normal — like you’re back at home with your mates. Then the officer does his rounds, the power goes off at ten, and that brief bit of normality disappears again.

Around Christmas, things get even stranger. They try to make it “special” — a few extra bits from the canteen, a slightly bigger meal, and maybe a paper card from some charity wishing you a Merry Christmas. But it’s a weird sort of cheer, because everyone’s thinking of home. You can see it in people’s faces — they’re smiling, joking, but their minds are somewhere else. You hear them talking about what they’d be doing if they were out: “Mum’s roast,” “kids opening presents,” “a proper drink.” It hits different when you’re locked behind a steel door.

There’s always a few who try to make the best of it. Someone’ll knock up a little spread from whatever they’ve saved — noodles, tuna, biscuits, chocolate — anything to make it feel like a celebration. You might hear someone playing music through a tiny speaker, another lad shouting across the landings, “Merry Christmas, bro!” It’s not much, but it’s something.

Then Boxing Day comes, and it’s back to the same routine — bang up, bang out, queue for food, stare at the same four walls. The only difference is the decorations start coming down, and everyone’s a bit quieter, like the whole place has a hangover without the drink.

That’s prison life for you. From the outside, they make it sound like a holiday camp — TVs, consoles, big dinners — but from the inside, it’s just survival in slow motion. You learn to appreciate the smallest things, because the big things — freedom, family, proper food — those are out of reach.

And no matter how many channels you get or how many games they let you have, nothing replaces that feeling of walking out the gates, breathing real air, and knowing that for once, you can choose what to do next.

But until that day comes, you live on autopilot. Wake up to the same shout from the screws, same clang of doors, same smell of disinfectant and stale toast drifting through the wing. You tell yourself it’s temporary — that this isn’t really your life — but after a while, you start moving like the place has gears inside you.

You know what time the flap opens for breakfast, what time the officers switch over, what time the cleaner comes by with the mop bucket that always smells of cheap lemon. Days blur into each other. Mondays feel like Fridays, and Fridays don’t mean anything. You mark time by canteen sheets and visits — if you’re lucky enough to get either.

Visits are a strange thing. Before you go down, you picture it like the films — hugs, tears, some big emotional moment. But most of the time, it’s just awkward. Plastic tables, cheap coffee in paper cups, the officer watching from the corner. You’re trying to act normal, but there’s this invisible wall between you and the people you love. They’re talking about work, bills, what the kids have been up to, and you’re nodding along, pretending it doesn’t hurt that you’re not part of any of it.

Then, when it’s time to go, that’s the worst bit. Watching them walk out while you’re led back through the corridor — the smell of perfume still on your sleeve — it stays with you for days.

After a while, you stop thinking too far ahead. Thinking about the outside too much just eats you alive. So you focus on small goals. Getting through the week without an argument. Keeping your head down. Maybe landing a job in the workshop if you’re lucky — even if it’s just stacking boxes or scrubbing floors, at least it gives you something to do.

And sometimes, in the middle of all that routine, you catch yourself laughing. Proper laughing. Some daft joke from a lad on the landing, or a story about something that happened years ago. And for a split second, you remember you’re still human — still capable of feeling something other than boredom or frustration.

That’s what they don’t tell you about prison. It’s not just about doing time — it’s about holding on to the bits of yourself that time tries to strip away. Your humour. Your dignity. Your hope.

Because when the day finally comes, and those gates swing open, it’s not just about walking out — it’s about whether you’ve still got enough of yourself left to start again.

And that’s the real test. Not the time you serve, but what’s left of you when you leave.

Met Police officers sacked after BBC Panorama investigation

 Three Metropolitan Police officers have been sacked for gross misconduct after appearing in an undercover report by BBC Panorama.

Sgt Joe McIlvenny, PC Philip Neilson and PC Martin Borg faced expedited misconduct hearings on Thursday over secret filming aired in the programme. They denied allegations of gross misconduct but accepted they made the comments aired in the programme.

Allegations against all three were upheld during the hearings, and all were dismissed with immediate effect.

They are the first of 10 current or former officers to face hearings as part of the Met's accelerated misconduct proceedings over footage from the investigation.

Chair of the panel, Cdr Jason Prins, described the conduct of all three officers as a "disgrace".

He said it "must have been obvious" to them that "the comments made were abhorrent."

He added that Mr McIlvenny's conduct was "exacerbated as he was a Police Sergeant and in a leadership position".

In a statement following the hearings, Met Police professionalism Cdr Simon Messinger, said the force had upheld a promise to hold misconduct hearings "at the earliest opportunity".

"We have since replaced the custody team at Charing Cross, made changes to local leadership and wider work continues to identify any other areas of concern in detention teams across the Met."

Sgt Joe McIlvenny had been serving with the Met Police for nearly 20 years when he was secretly recorded being dismissive about a pregnant woman's allegation of rape and domestic violence against her partner.

When a detention officer questioned a decision to release the man on bail alleged to have raped the woman, she said he had also been accused of kicking her in the stomach. PS McIlvenny was recorded replying: "That's what she says."

BBC Panorama also filmed the sergeant making misogynistic comments while working at Charing Cross police station.

At the hearing on Thursday, Mr McIlvenny argued that "what was missing was the context" to his comments. He requested to shift to a reduced role in the force after being found of gross misconduct.

He told the panel since the programme was aired he has been diagnosed with PTSD and was receiving therapy.

Referring to the undercover reporter he said: "He was a very clever man. He has groomed and exploited my vulnerable state and used that to coerce these conversations."

Mr Neilson was recorded by the BBC referring to an "invasion" of "scum" from the Middle East, and made offensive comments about people from Algeria and Somalia.

He was also observed saying a detainee who had overstayed his visa should have a "bullet through his head".

The other allegations against Mr Neilson related to "glorifying what he was describing as inappropriate use of force on a restrained detainee" and for suggesting unlawful violence against migrants who broke the law.

Cdr Jason Prins found all the allegations proven.

The hearing was told that he did not dispute the words he said but argued they only amounted to just misconduct.

Giving evidence, Mr Neilson said he had been a police officer for four years and denied he was a racist.

He said he believed the undercover reporter "breached his humans rights" and it was the reporter who "kept bringing up these conversations" and "egging me on".

Mr Neilson said he had eight or nine pints of Guinness while at the pub when he made some of the comments and said he was not a "drinker".

He said he did not discriminate against anyone and footage from his body worn camera would show "no matter the ethnicity I did everything with the utmost respect".

Cdr Prins ruled that Mr Neilson's comments caused "significant harm" to the reputation of Metropolitan Police and wider public confidence in the police and amounted to gross misconduct, describing the conduct of the officer as an "utter disgrace".

The Met had previously said he had "displayed extreme racial, violent and discriminatory views", as well as a lack of "respect, courtesy and professionalism".

PC Martin Borg, who worked out of Charing Cross Police station, was also dismissed on Thursday.

An undercover BBC reporter recorded Mr Borg enthusiastically describing how he saw another officer stomp on a suspect's leg in custody.

The officer was filmed laughing and saying he had offered to make a statement claiming the suspect had kicked the sergeant first. It is not clear from CCTV footage seen by the BBC whether that was the case.

James Berry KC, bringing the case for the Met, said the Panorama programme showed Mr Borg "revelled in the use of force on detainees" and made a "number of discriminatory remarks about Muslims".

Mr Borg denied he was a racist and all the allegations of gross misconduct against him, but admitted he made the comments in the programme and argued he had "been groomed over a series of months to get the undercover report".

He faced a total of eight allegations, of which five were found proven as gross misconduct by the panel.

Chair Cdr Jason Prins described Mr Borg's conduct as a "disgrace", adding: "He alone was responsible for the comments and it was or must have been obvious to him his comments were abhorrent.

"The comments caused significant harm to the reputation of the Metropolitan Police and public confidence in policing more generally."

Seven more officers are to face misconduct hearings over the next week, the Met said.

Prison Service revises X-ray policy after court defeat

 The Prison Service has revised its policy on the use of X-ray body scanners in men’s prisons, following a court judgement earlier this year in which a prisoner was awarded £7,500 in damages because he had been unlawfully scanned.

The changes were made in an updated version of the Use of X-Ray Body Scanners (Adult Male Prisons) Policy Framework, first published in 2020 to govern the use of the devices.

In that year the then-Conservative government spent £6 million installing body scanners at 74 men’s prisons in England and Wales. Hailed as a ‘game-changer’ in prison security, the devices can detect drugs or mobile phones concealed inside prisoners’ bodies (pictured). In three years they were used 435,000 times and suspected contraband was found 46,925 times.

However, the previous policy caused confusion because it said that “each scan must only be conducted where there is intelligence or reasonable grounds to suspect that an item is being concealed by a person internally”. It said the intelligence could be “either linked to specific prisoners or cohorts”, but also said: “A person must not be scanned routinely or on a random basis.”

In practice, many prisons adopted a policy of scanning all newly-arrived prisoners, leading to complaints from men who said they had been scanned despite having a history of compliance and with no intelligence or suspicion against them as individuals.

The new policy makes clear that ‘cohort scanning’, including the scanning of all newly-arrived prisoners, is permitted within the rules. However, it also makes clear that ‘random scanning’ remains forbidden. Prisoner Vincent Horsfall was awarded damages after he was made to go through a scanner on his way back from a social visit by staff at HMP Oakwood who had been selecting prisoners at random for scanning.

The updated policy framework states at paragraphs 5.74 to 5.78: “Cohort scanning is where a prison opts to scan a cohort of prisoners where there is intelligence or reasonable suspicion that prisoners in the cohort are conveying illicit items internally via a particular route into or within a prison, but it has no other means of determining which specific prisoners are doing so.

“The scenarios where a cohort scan could be used include, but are not limited to, new receptions, transfers from another prison, recalls, court returns, release on temporary licence (ROTL). It could also apply if there is intelligence or reasonable suspicion that prisoners in a particular area of a prison, such as a place or work, or a wing are conveying items within the prison.

“Under no circumstances should prisons conduct random scanning on cohorts of prisoners.”

If a prison decides that cohort scanning is necessary, officials must discuss and renew the decision monthly at their security meetings, documenting “clear supporting evidence” based on “live and relevant” data as to why the approach is justified. The revised version of the Policy Framework carries a statement saying it has been “amended to include further information on cohort scanning”.



My view

The Hidden Health Risk Behind Prison Security: My Experience With X-Ray Body Scanners

I want to share my personal experience and raise awareness about an issue that isn’t getting nearly enough attention — the overuse and abuse of X-ray body scanners in prisons.

I currently have an ongoing case against the Prison Service regarding the excessive use of these scanners, and it’s something that affects countless prisoners across the UK. What’s happening behind closed doors raises serious concerns about health, safety, and human rights.

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Radiation Exposure: The Hidden Cost of Prison Body Scanners

The biggest concern — and the reason so many are speaking up — is radiation exposure. These scanners are often portrayed as harmless, but that’s far from the truth. Even low doses of X-rays, when repeated frequently, can have cumulative effects on the body.

Scientific research has long shown that there’s no such thing as a completely safe radiation dose. Yet in prisons, there seems to be little to no consideration for how often individuals are subjected to these scans.

To put it into perspective, I personally experienced being scanned eight times in a single week. That’s on top of strip searches, which are still routinely carried out — even though body scanners were introduced to reduce the need for them. Instead, both methods are now used side by side, doubling the intrusion and the risk.

---

When Security Becomes Excessive

The situation gets even worse during hospital visits or prison transfers.

When prisoners attend hospital appointments, they’re scanned before leaving, scanned again upon return, and sometimes X-rayed again at the hospital itself. That can mean three or four exposures in a single day.

Transfers between prisons are no better. You’re strip-searched, scanned before departure, and then scanned again on arrival — all in the name of “security,” even though the purpose of these scans is the same each time.

It’s excessive, unnecessary, and potentially dangerous.

---

Violating Prison Service Policies

What makes this even more concerning is that it goes against the Prison Service’s own rules. Official Prison Service Instructions (PSIs) and operational policies clearly state how often scanners can be used and under what circumstances.

But in practice, these safeguards are routinely ignored. Many prisons treat X-ray scanners as a default security measure rather than an exceptional one. There’s little oversight, no record-keeping of individual exposure, and almost no accountability when limits are breached.

This normalisation of unsafe practices highlights a deeper issue — a culture where control outweighs care, and where rules meant to protect people’s health are dismissed as inconvenient.

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A Human Rights Issue, Not Just a Prison Issue

This isn’t only about prisoner rights — it’s about basic human rights.

No person, regardless of their circumstances, should be repeatedly exposed to radiation without clear justification, consent, or medical oversight. Prisons have a duty of care to safeguard the well-being of those in custody, not place them at unnecessary risk for the sake of convenience or control.

Health and dignity don’t stop at prison gates. The system must be held to the same standards of safety and human rights as any other public institution.

---

Time for Transparency, Accountability, and Change

It’s time for transparency, accountability, and reform. The Prison Service must review how X-ray body scanners are used, enforce its own policies, and implement strict tracking of exposure levels.

Independent watchdogs and human rights organisations should investigate the extent of radiation overuse in prisons, ensuring that prisoners’ health isn’t quietly sacrificed in the name of security.

This issue may seem niche, but it reflects a much larger problem: when systems operate without oversight, abuse becomes routine. And when people behind bars are the victims, it’s all too easy for their suffering to be ignored.

---

Until there’s real change, I’ll keep speaking out — not just for myself, but for every person who’s being silently scanned, stripped, and exposed without protection, oversight, or respect for their basic human rights.

Nurse struck off for racist and sexual comments to colleagues

 A nurse who made a number of sexually inappropriate and racist remarks while working in prisons has been struck off.

Paul Bryan Vogler was a registered nurse at HMP Huntercombe, HMP Pentonville, and HMP Wormwood Scrubs until his suspension in 2020.

A Nursing and Midwifery Council (NMC) panel heard that Vogler made far-right political comments to colleagues and had asked patients about their crimes.

While working at HMP Huntercombe in 2018, Vogler was found to have challenged Patient A about his offending, before using Google to search him and show him written articles on his computer screen.

While working at HMP Pentonville in 2019, he made sexually inappropriate comments about two colleagues, had shown videos of far-right commentator Milo Yiannopoulous and made inappropriate jokes during an appointment with a patient who had self-harmed.

The committee also heard that during his time of employment, Vogler was “aggressive” towards black staff members and had made “derisive” comments about them.

This included questioning their medical practice and commenting on their food choices. He also referred to Islam as being a “death cult” and referred to his colleagues as “f****** left wing c****”.

Vogler was previously suspended after several disciplinary investigations and resigned in 2020.

He has now been struck off with the panel imposing an interim suspension order for 18 months to cover any appeal period “for the protection of the public”.

In their written judgement, the NMC said: “In the panel’s view Mr Vogler’s misconduct revealed deep-seated attitudinal problems including racial and sexual discrimination. It determined that, given the seriousness of the concerns, the deep-seated attitudinal problems and Mr Vogler’s lack of insight, there were no appropriate, proportionate and workable conditions that could be formulated.

The panel said that while there are “no concerns” regarding his clinical competence, his racist and sexist attitudes are “fundamentally incompatible” with remaining on the register.
"Mr Vogler has breached the fundamental tenets of the nursing profession of prioritising people, practising safely, and promoting professionalism and trust in the nursing profession," it said.

Wormwood Scrubs loses 17 staff over corruption allegations

 Following a full inspection of HMP Wormwood Scrubs, the prison inspectorate says it is concerned to have found that staff corruption is a “major problem”.

HM Inspectorate of Prisons (HMIP) reported there had been as many as 17 staff leaving through dismissal or resignation linked to accusations of corruption during the past year alone.

The report, published on 8 September, also said that despite calls by HMIP in the past for body worn cameras to be used whenever force was required, only 32 per cent of incidents were recorded during the past year, and some of those demonstrated that offensive language had been targeted by officers at prisoners.

HMIP was also disappointed that the west London prison is “badly affected by drugs”, with over one-third of men tested showing positive results. Inspectors were surprised to find that a body scanner in the reception area was not always used, and that gate security was inconsistent. Also, 39 per cent of prisoners are only unlocked for 90 minutes per day at the most, leading to boredom that increases the temptation to take narcotics. Access to the library is very limited.

The family visit booking system is faulty, harming family contact. The inspectors also slammed the conditions in many of the cells, having found evidence of rats and cockroaches.

However, some aspects had improved from the previous visit, with self-harm being the lowest amongst all comparator prisons, and the prison is being better run by capable staff and middle managers, making it operate more effectively than similar jails.