George warned me against it from the very beginning. "Oh, don't be ridiculous," I argued because I'd already made up my mind. "There's no such thing as bad publicity. Oscar Wilde said so. I mean, it's not everyday The Times want to interview me. Think of the PR. The networking possibilities. Our novella April Fools. How many agents and publishers read The Times? Bundles. That's how many." "Don't say I didn't warn you. And don't mention my name," George replied, resigned to my hubris and (as it turned out) crass stupidity.
The following Friday, I prepared to receive Jason Cowley, contributor to Prospect, features writer for The Times and Booker prize judge, who wanted to come and talk to me about my life as an imprisoned writer. The resultant article ("Born to be Bad") caused such furore here in Blakenhurst, that I'm lucky to be alive filing my column tonight.
My troubles centred-as all my troubles tend to centre-around my sexuality, in particular my homosexuality, about which I had spoken fully and frankly with Jason. There was a tricky problem. My Journals, which I'm dying to publish, are wholly gay affairs. While hoping to use The Times to promote these works, I was aware that two copies of that newspaper were delivered each day to the education unit here. As things stood, not a con knew I was gay, and being an out-of-towner without any local back up, I judged it best they stay that way. To lessen the chances of an expos?, I pulled aside the librarian; she agreed to help me out by retaining that day's Times in her office. The other copy proved more difficult to spirit away. It went to educational coordinator J Twitt, a bigoted Northern Irishman, full of his own importance and too preoccupied with staffing hours to care much about my well-being.
I explained that there was a cabal of vociferously homophobic prisoners who worked opposite me in the computer room. For several weeks I had had to sit silently by while these three banged on about "bwottymen" and "bum bandits" without them knowing that a nancy was already in their midst. If they got wind of my shady double life... well, it didn't bear thinking about. To my horror, Twitt refused point blank to "stifle the press." It was all my own fault, he said. For coming out in public in the first place-a question of having my cake and wanting to eat it.
The die was cast. Several mornings later I was taking the last few drags of a three-strander roll up during morning break when into the recess strode a gang of six brandishing a copy (Twitt's copy) of The Times. "You fuckin' queer!" the one with a broken nose and zig-gurat scar hissed. "What's all this bollocks about you 'avin' sex in prison? Eh?" The gang was edging in my direction. It looked like my time was almost up.
I stiffened the sinews; summoned up the blood; disguised fair nature with hard-favoured rage. "So what if I am queer? Is that a problem?" I could see this wasn't the reaction they were expecting. They were young, inexperienced in long-term penal ways, wannabe hard men with reputations still to make. "Bloodclart bwottyman! Fuck Bwoy!" a Brobdingnagian Nigerian cursed. Other cons began to gather. We were in danger of a bit of mob law here. I saw myself strung from the hanging tree-dead and buried in an unmarked Mississippi grave.
"Get the fuck out of my face you pricks! I was doin' bird when you were still in nappies!" My heart was pounding and my stomach turning behind this steel facade. The onlookers parted like the waters of the Red Sea as I pushed past them and swept out in the nick of time. But word spread fast. Before the end of the break, every con in the unit had heard the scandalous tale. The Anti-Queer Mob (George's appellation) had in the meantime taken possession of the photocopying machine. Copies of Jason's profile were circulating like pornography in the third form dormitory. "What's an aesthete?" I overheard someone ask his neighbour. "A shitstabber," the friend enlightened him helpfully.
I sought sanctuary in Twitt's office, seething in a mixture of anger (at his insensitivity) and fear (at what might have happened if The Six had had their sport). In reply he blustered and blasphemed about "the perils of being in your line of business"; patronisingly assured me that he wasn't homophobic ("I once had a homosexual prisoner down here whom I promoted."); and repeated that the free flow of newsprint could never be impeded.
That was good to know at least. Maybe in the future my columns will be allowed out from prison without censorial interference. For the time being I've become something of a social pariah, but friends on the wing have already begun to rally round, and I dare say the storm will blow over as soon as another juicy bit of gossip comes the rednecks' way.
Young George is standing up to it (guilt by association) with all the fortitude one has come to expect from this resilient ex-Marine. "I don't give a toss what any of 'em say. You're my mate an' I'll stick by you whatever happens," he told me as we raked through the day's entrails. Such loyalty is good, and honourable, and for my young friend painful and embarrassing. Boy George, Elton John, Michael Barrymore, George Michael and a whole bench of bishops MOVE OVER. The Prisoner has just been "outed" in The Times.
