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.
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