There is, it seems, no escaping the internet, even in prison. Over the Christmas vacation an English teacher here with pre-Raphaelite red hair logged on to Prospect's recently established web site, where she saw my name among the list of otherwise distinguished contributors. When she returned to the English department at the beginning of term she had hatched the "brilliant" idea of getting me to resurrect the prison magazine.
For the last six years Rewired, the organ, has lain defunct. A journal in search of an editor. "You will agree to take the job won't you," Jennifer implored in that insistent South Yorkshire way of hers. She plays the viola in a local chamber orchestra and writes poetry about drinking pink gin "down t'privy/At t'bottom of t'yard."
It did not take her long to persuade me. The thought of motivating my 670 brother inmates into producing something hard-hitting and aesthetically stimulating was irresistible. The only hint of trouble I foresaw on the editorial horizon concerned the governor's despotic power of censorship. Every article, poem or polemic received, Jennifer was quick to remind me, had to be submitted to and approved by Him. The Man. An Elvis Presley fan (if the screw at the end of the landing is to be believed) unlikely to be impressed by my vision of the literary avant-garde.
I arranged to interview Batt, the governor, at the earliest opportunity. He agreed to see me after I suggested publishing a profile of him ("with an accompanying photograph if it is at all possible") in the first issue of the magazine.
"So," Batt began, carefully placing his Harris tweed trilby on the highly polished surface of the boardroom table. "I must say this is the first time I have ever been interviewed by someone so highly placed in the journalistic world." I could not decide whether or not there was irony in his deadpan delivery, nevertheless I smiled graciously and the interview began.
The idea behind the interview was to get Batt on my side so I could edit the magazine without undue interference. But having canvassed the inmate population to provide me with suitable questions to put to the governor, I now found myself before him with some rather fissile material.
Could he justify the mandatory drug testing programme which is both expensive and counter-productive, because it pushes people towards the less easily detectable hard drugs? Did he realise that prisoners' wages (for sewing mail bags, and so on) here in Lindholme were lower than at any other C category prison in the country? Was he aware that food riots were about to blow up over the deplorable state of the catering? Then there was the heating, or lack of it. Why was it always turned up full during the day when most of the prisoners were out in the work-sheds, but cut off completely at night (after the staff had gone home) when the men were back in their cells?
I sensed a growing hostility across the table. The governor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then began. "I'm not unduly worried about the way things are going drugs-wise inside the prison. It merely reflects trends in the outside world. There are certainly no plans to discontinue the drug testing procedures, if that's what you're getting at, and I should be very grateful if you could put a stop to these rumours by emphasising that in your article."
As for the food problem. That, he was sure, was all down to "the insatiable young men who make up the majority of the prison population." He knew all about this because he had two ravenous teenage sons of his own. And he had Mrs Batt who was always in the habit of turning off the central heating "in my own home" at 9.30 every evening. So we were not alone in shivering the winter nights away, if that was any consolation. I left our exploratory meeting feeling quite sorry for governor Batt.
Back in the cold comfort of my cell-I had just begun to write up my notes of the evening assignment when Bartholomew Macklin (not his real name), a disgraced banker from Harrogate who rooms down the corridor, popped his head around my door to invite me down to his place for "a cup of real coffee and some sensible conversation."
On our way out Bartholomew closed my door not realising that the key to it was still inside. (Within the locked corridors of the prison each room has its own 5-Detainer Chubb lock to which each inmate has a key.) There are about a dozen house-breakers on my spur so I called in some professional advice. But to cut a long story short, first one and then another-despite being armed to the teeth with a selection of phone cards, mop ends, and other instruments of felonious intent-failed to budge the door. "Kick the fucking thing in," was the final suggestion, but I decided to wait (for nearly two hours) before a reluctant night clockie arrived with a pass key to let me back in.
Finally, I must apologise to the "many fans" of mine (whoever they may be) for the non-appearance of last month's column. Should any of these good hearts wish to write to me I would welcome feedback. Please write via Prospect. In the meantime it is on with my editing career. Deadline for copy is the end of February. Watch this space.
