Seconds out, round one." The raucous cheers of 400 cons echoed around Lindholme's vast games hall like a great cacophonous overture. We were here, at ?2 each (a third of our weekly wage) for the privilege of attending a charity boxing event; jostling excitedly for the best ringside seats; ruminating on the fighters' potentials; placing (discreet) bets with the camp bookies; determined to have a good time in spite of the venue. Ironically in these politically correct days, the average inmate has a greater chance of seeing grand opera (see Prospect, March 1997) or Shakespearean tragedy. Sensitive to the possibility of claimable injuries, boxing (in the ring, at any rate) has been proscribed in prison as too dangerous.
Tonight was different. We have a tradition in Lindholme (Yorkshire has always been big on tradition) that once a year Sheffield boxing impresario Brendan Ingle (who trains local hero Prince Naseem Hamed from a run-down gym in Wincobank) brings his star fighters to the prison to take on all comers. For several weeks beforehand there was a frisson of excitement as the hard men postured and preened themselves ready for the big night. My initial surprise was that there were so many volunteers to get in the ring with the likes of Commonwealth and European light middleweight champion Ryan Rhodes (another local lad made good). But the helpful young gym screw, all bulging muscle and testosterone, explained patiently that the guest fighters were not actually allowed to hit any of their opponents back. What a relief-no wonder the lads all fancied their chances.
Rhodes, with protective box and crew-cut, introduced himself with a perfectly executed tucked back somersault from standing. Impressive. A dozen villains from northern towns and cities stood in a line ready to give him their best shots. Within seconds, the champ was ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving, making mincemeat out of the burglars, robbers, "kiters," pickpockets and social security fraudsters who pranced and danced, hopelessly outclassed, throwing fresh air punches, falling over themselves, shuffling and shambling from one corner of the ring to another. One unfortunate Geordie contender fell right through the ropes and straight out of the other side.
Lunger followed lunger. They came and went like the hyped-up contestants on Gladiators, eager beavers on the glitz and glory trail: Prinny and Lammy from Manchester, Streety from Sheffield, Binger from Newcastle... Readers will be relieved to hear that "the prisoner" stayed in his seat throughout the proceedings.
Halfway through the bill, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Dennis, self-appointed spokesman for the thriving and vociferous black community in Lindholme. It had suddenly dawned on him and the "bredren" that all the likely fighting lads so far had been white.
"Bloodclart racism. That's what it is Pete. Hope you're goin' to write about it." I did better than that. I had a word with my neighbour, who had a word with his neighbour, who left the arena to have a confidential word with the organisers. A few minutes later, after hurried consultations in a back room, "Bullet", a dreadlocked "badbwoy" from Chapeltown in Leeds appeared out of the shadows dressed in capacious satin shorts and a pair of giant red and yellow boxing gloves. He looked decidedly ready to roll. There was a loud Jamaican cheer from Dennis and the brotherhood.
"Bullet" belied his name, alas, faring little better than his white counterparts when it came to landing the punches on the pros. "P'raps 'e'd 'ave 'im if 'e'd 'ad ten pints in 'im" my friend Kitch duly noted in his dry Barnsley way. Perhaps he would; perhaps not. At any rate, his late inclusion in the line-up helped avoid a major diplomatic incident.
The new governor was in attendance, seated in isolation in the back row. This one is a taciturn piece of work compared to his predecessor Batt. "We like him," the wing senior officer told me the other day. "He's told us his door is always open and we're not to hesitate to walk right in there whenever there's a problem." On the morning I pulled him (with a query about Lindholme's in-house newspaper) the sun's reflection on his shiny bald head dazzled me. "No, no, no," he waved me away summarily. "Automatic access to the governor is now no longer an inmate's right. I'm far too busy to talk to you now."
Word has it from those who have been on recent disciplinary adju-dications that he is never too busy to fill up the punishment block with petty offenders who would more usually have been dealt with by small monetary fines or a stern admonition.
Such is this head wallah's style of management that nobody, as far as I'm aware, yet knows his name. At the end of the charity boxing event, Brendan Ingle gave a short (partially intelligible) speech which included the memorable lines: "I can't be doing such a good job in the gym in Sheffield because I keep seeing so many of my pupils in here." That may be, but at least the lads appreciated his efforts, and I dare say those who are still in custody next year will be equally grateful if he comes back again. Yet our new governor did not even stand up to give a vote of thanks at the end. Come back, Batt. All is forgiven.
