Detention Centre
Following a court appearance at Yeovil magistrates court, my friend and I found ourselves in a police car heading East to Portsmouth. We had been sentenced to 3 months in a detention centre.
In the back seat of the vehicle, I played with the stainless steel handcuffs I’d been put in, listening to the technical precision as I explored their mechanism, not appreciating that each exploratory click of the ratchet I was, seemingly, fascinated with was none negotiable. Within 10 minutes, I had inadvertently tightened them so successfully that they had begun to inhibit my circulation.
Fortunately, on enlightening the understanding policeman of my plight, he unlocked them, relieving me of the discomfort I had caused myself.
We arrived at Haslar Detention Centre late on the evening of the 12th August 1976, driving in through 2 huge steel gates that flanked the facility.
Reception
Within an hour, I had been stripped, showered, provided with regulation clothing and kit and been given a short, cropped haircut and every item of my personal belongings, apart from my cigarettes, were itemised, documented and wrapped in a polythene bag and then I was marched down a long series of corridors to a small cell. My cigarettes found a new home in a prison officer’s pocket.
Incubation
In a location barely larger than a toilet cubicle, I was now alone with my thoughts although, beyond the locked door I was behind, I could hear the muffled sounds of other inmates hollering, shouting, laughing or screaming.
In a state of shock, I lay on a hard bed while a hundred memories haunted my thoughts. With the sound of men shouting outside the door, the full reality of my predicament slammed home.
Here, I would be without friendly faces, without a caring girlfriend, without family or home comforts. Those things were outside and outside was now another place – a place I could no longer go.
I was disenfranchised, incarcerated, trapped.
In an instant, without notice, a prison guard was back in my cell. He deposited a stainless steel tray onto a wooden bedside cabinet then left.
I stared at the tray. Incredulous. I had gone all day without anything to eat yet what was in front of me? A stainless steel cup containing water and a stainless steel bowl containing 4 crackers, a thin layer of margarine and a dusting of grated cheese.
That image sent me into a blind panic. I reached a conclusion that this place was going to be pure hell. I looked at the fare on the cabinet. Christ; not even porridge!
Thus, at around 8pm, after consuming my first meal that day, less than 200 calories, tucking itchy blankets around me, foetal position, I fell asleep in that place … exhausted.
And what would I wake up to?
Defence System Engaged
Me being me, gathering my still intact self esteem, I made sure I was up and dressed before the door was knocked by a passing officer at 6:30 am. Already gathering a protective defiance around me, I knew I was now a gladiator facing an unknown and unfamiliar arena.
The facility would be full of other young men, each with their own established defence systems. Everyone outside my door was already familiar with the territory while all I knew of the place was a couple of corridors and the cell I had slept in.
Suddenly, I was summoned and walking amongst other inmates, with “Digger”, an amicable prison warden leading me towards a long queue of men.
I worked hard on my outward physical appearance, balancing gritted teeth with a serious, “don’t mess with me” stare but with the outer edges of such a demeanour blunted, hopefully enough to avoid causing actual confrontation.
I found myself in the queue of an expansive canteen, slowly moving towards a huge dining area. “Dancing Queen” by Abba blared out from a big radio high on a shelf at the the front right hand side of the room.
Sitting with others, I made a conscious point of scanning the room, occasionally catching the eyes of potential trouble. One or two inmates played the staring game with me but most simply diverted their own gaze from my own searching laser stare.
I grew into my tiny patch of territory, content with my body language and the mask I had created for myself. After all, was I a murderer, a rapist, a psycho or merely a routine “active criminal?”. No one knew and that suited me just fine.
When my table was ordered to go up for breakfast, I received a pleasant surprise. Presented as an all you can eat buffet, there was a wide choice of breakfast fare and the food looked fantastic!
Picking up a stainless steel platter, I settled for and chose a classic English breakfast style offering, returning to my table to enjoy every mouthful of a fabulously prepared and well cooked meal. I learned later that my water and crackers of the previous evening was just the only things the officers could find me so late the previous night. We had arrived late and the kitchens had been closed. The crackers might even have come out of a prison wardens own lunchbox.
Soon, we were filing into changing rooms to prepare for gym with a Mr Berry, the Gym officer in charge. He was in his fifties but an extremely fit man. He had warm, smiling eyes and curly grey temples.
Mr Berry shone me a beaming, mischievous smile and I knew, immediately, that we’d get on.
Welcome To the Machine.
That first day consisted of a gruelling gym routine followed by a mile run then a visit to the communal showers, a further dinner time visit to the canteen and then an afternoon in heavy overalls watering beetroots in a section of the expansive agricultural facility of Haslar’s gardens in the oppressive temperature of a 1976 heatwave.
And throughout, I kept my black and yellow warning stripes persona on parade, maintaining my intimidating posture, ignoring small talk, defending my personal space and all the while avoiding the occasional skirmishes and fights of other inmates around me.
In late afternoon, there was marching practice. All inmates had to learn to march in unison across the huge parade ground and the experience was exactly like the kind of thing we might see on TV. A Sergeant Major style Mr Digger hollering at “All you nasty little men!”
I enjoyed the routine though and began to find the discomfort and subsequent distress of other, less disciplined inmates a little amusing.
The truth was I was already beginning to get the measure of the place and realised that , (and this was 30 years before computer simulation games like Duke Nukem or Doom), I was in some kind of a sandbox, a surreal experimental location where my own actions held consequences and my own particular decisions would or could either harm or reward me depending upon how I read and understood the rules of this, potentially, dangerous but fascinating environment.
Sure, as a teenage skinhead lieutenant back in Yeovil , I had already perfected an art of leadership in guiding and inspiring, typically, 50 – 150 others skins physically (and vocally) on the football terraces or during away game street fights but this was subtly different. This was a hostile environment I didn’t just visit briefly once each weekend for a bit of sport with my fellow skinheads. Rather, this was a live, 24/7 aggressive and dynamic environment where I would rise or fall based on my own unique comprehension of the threats and opportunities I faced and how I chose to deal with them.
That evening, after tea, there was an English lesson where that very journey began proper and in earnest.
I’d only been in the facility 24 hours but was already starting the process of perfecting the tasks expected of me while closely evaluating the worth, weight and measure of any threats my peers might pose.
Mapping the landscape. Marking the territory. Observing the hierarchy.
Tomorrow, I would learn what tasks I would be given for the duration of my incarceration.
Would I join the great unwashed working while sweating out in the gardens in the severe 1976 heat? Or would I, in just those brief 48 hours, have done enough in forcing my own will to have earned a right to perform some greater or more satisfying role within the complex?
I would also learn which dormitory I would be living in for the following 3 months – with up to 70 other inmates.
It would be dormitory Anson, dormitory Bentley or dormitory Churchill.
And when I eventually understood the rules of this place?
I didn’t appreciate it at the time but it would take only a week or two before I actually controlled the inmate side of things.
And no, that statement isn’t and wasn’t remotely based upon some cheesy Hollywood style trope about ruling a group or running a wing (purely) by intimidation, fear or some immediate threat of mortal violence but, well, something quite profound was happening to me and I was beginning to enjoy and appreciate the experience.
I was a confident 6ft tall physically fit 19 year old, a laboratory mouse in a maze, aware that I owned a compelling character set of idiosyncratic levers I could push, pull or release creatively to manifest whatever opportunities or outcomes I’d need to influence my own future.
In the process, I would learn more about discipline, structure, hierarchy and the nuts and bolts of applying my own will to control my surroundings, my place in the world and discover that some of the lessons I’d learn in Haslar would give me tools to move mountains later on in my life!
The next few paragraphs begins to explain exactly what I mean.
Puppet
Churchill dorm was the residence of “Puppet”, a gobby self proclaimed boss inmate of Haslar.
Returning to my incubation cell that evening I knew that, tomorrow, I’d be assigned my dormitory and, obviously, face whatever challenges every fresh dormitory inmate is traditionally subjected to.
From 7:00 – 8:30 pm, most inmates enjoyed “association”. Being one of three new inmates that week, I was allowed to stay in my cell and learn how to pack my bed-box and belongings. There was a regular inspection routine each Sunday morning before parade and the inspection routines dictated (or rewarded) how inmates would fare in the overall regime.
New people were given red ties to wear for visits (once a fortnight) and Sunday parades and, the following week, were upgraded to a blue tie, that being the regular tie most inmates wore throughout their stay. However there was a fabled green tie that could be earned. Such a tie was only awarded to rare individuals who earned the highest work or worth ethic.
A green tie could only be awarded to those with less than a month to serve but enabled the wearer to use a special, luxury games room with pool, table tennis and a further colour tv. At any one time, no more than maybe 3 or 4 green ties were granted amongst 200 + young men.
I only ever saw one lad with a green tie and within a few days of that sighting, he had gone home. I never saw another one until way into my sentence.
Incidentally, there were genuine reasons for trying to become a model “prisoner” because such inmates were allowed to partake in outside work to help in old peoples homes or their gardens and that usually meant access to cigarettes or sugar in tea, two commodities that were forbidden in the Haslar facility itself.
Regarding currency in the place, inmates were rewarded for their work and pay, consisting of up to 40 credits a week could be spent in the centre’s shop. A mars bar would cost 10 credits, a packet of fruit pastilles 8 credits and a refresher toffee bar 5 credits. Stamps could be purchased with these credits too.
I was content with my first few day’s incarceration, maybe even relishing the challenge. Lying in bed, I was calculating my chances of surviving the regime and beginning to comprehend that about 75% of the inmates were simply “serving their time” and were no serious or genuine threat to me.
Nevertheless, I had witnessed and was aware that there were still scores of potentially dangerous or violent inmates in my orbit and reminded myself that I had only experienced a few days of a 3 month stretch.
But I was happier and I knew I would survive … maybe even grow.
As with every day at Haslar, each one mirrored the previous and each one would be identical to tomorrows – save for the actual task that an inmate would likely inherit and keep for the duration
I slept well.
I awoke on day two to learn my fate. Would I spend 3 months hauling pails of water across the garden grounds – serving beetroots? Would I spend months on mind numbingly boring manufacturing tasks in the “factories” or would I be lucky and earn a place in the kitchens.
All the above tasks were heavily supervised and there were better and worse options. What would mine be?
I had been walking a fine line. Presenting myself as an enthusiastic inmate to officers, revealing my “true” self to just a couple of inmates but worked hard on projecting a tough outer shell to everyone else.
Day two brought a surprise and a potentially devastating setback. The very good news was that I was to become an “orderly”. An inmate with special responsibility. The official job was Gym / Yard orderly and meant that in the morning, I would assist Mr Berry in the Gym and in the afternoon, unsupervised, I would maintain the acres of land (and tarmac) around the parade ground.
There were only a couple of orderly posts in the whole place. This was immediate promotion, almost as valuable as earning a green tie!
The bad news was less palatable. I would be joining Churchill dorm with my bed adjacent to “Puppet”, the volatile inmate who thought he ran the place!
And there was something else.
According to tradition, ALL new inmates had to perform a humiliating initiation ceremony in front of every inmate in the dormitory they were joining.
Naked, after lights out but bathed in the blue night light of the room, new inmates were expected to knot their ties on their privates and run the gauntlet past all the inmates in their dorm.
I had a real big problem with that.
All day, I carried out my duties with a sickening sense of foreboding. I was already trying to imagine what would happen to me that evening. I was trying to comprehend how I would defend myself against a room full of 70 men expecting me to “perform”.
I had no intention of humiliating myself but was imagining being picked up physically, against my will, possibly by a dozen men?
Would I find myself at the centre of some barbaric act – like the scene from some second rate B movie jungle kidnapping?
Would they simply attack me? Beat me up? How could I know?
All I knew was that I was not going to volunteer for the humiliating spectacle demanded of me.
Mid afternoon, I was relieved of my duties to move my bed-box into Churchill dorm. Digger joined me, gave me a sweet and sat on the edge of my bed.
I can’t remember asking him about any initiation ceremony but he did offer some simple advice. Perhaps sensing my anxiety for the first time, he told me to just try to keep myself to myself.
At 7:00 pm, just after dinner, everyone goes to association. Everyone except me. I am lying on my bed, arms folded behind my neck, ankles crossed, staring – simmering.
I have dropped my black and yellow wasp stripes. I am not giving off signals that invite respect. Instead, I am recalling my days back in Yeovil. I am summoning my most intimidating thoughts and converting them into an aura of contained rage.
“Dare anyone catch my gaze”, I repeat in my mind. My teeth are clenched, my mouth open just a fraction, my eyes wide, fixed on some imaginary point above the opposite bed.. Neck stiff, the cheeks of my face taught – staring, staring straight ahead.
An occasional visitor returns to the dorm, maybe to collect a mars bar or packet of sweets. I stare ahead. Half an hour later, another inmate enters, walks past the foot of my bed offering a cheery “Alright mush?”
I ignore him. Stare through him.
I am alone again. I am also aware that the image I have been generating is no longer a mask. My mental self preservation has summoned up some other version of me – but this version is a volatile, unexploded bomb.
I rise from the bed, gather my kit and walk down to the toilet and shower area. There I wash, clean my teeth and pee. Walking back up to my bed, I ignore someone crossing my line of vision.
It’s early but I undress, putting on regulation pyjama bottoms but changing into a turquoise work T-Shirt – then I slip into bed, folding the sheets and blanket neatly to a point level with my navel.
Arms go back behind my head and I stare straight ahead.
I was fit, had developed a broad chest and had wide shoulders. In my “condition”, I was lying chest puffed out, anxious but feeling as dangerous and as strong as I could ever feel.
Teeth grinding, gritted, grimacing, “Anyone DARE…”
I heard Puppet enter the dorm and heard laughing and barracking. Someone in the far corner of the room pulled someone else to the ground. I just kept staring.
Over the next 5 – 10 minutes, just about everyone in the dorm had passed my bed to shave and wash at the bottom. I just kept staring – not at anyone – just staring ahead.
Puppet was in the corner of my vision now, sitting on the end of his bed. Boasting about something, swearing about something else – but not directing anything at me.
He looked though. For a second, Puppet did look across at the psycho in the work T. shirt – and the psycho moved his gaze for the first time and stared back at Puppet.
He had a 5-o clock shadow, permed black hair and the gaze of someone who could play the same deadly game I was playing. The difference was, his gaze was less intense, his look was less threatening, and his teeth were less gritted. If Puppet had been anticipating trouble, it looked like he was “off duty” or was happy to indicate to me that he was off duty!
I stared at Puppet and he saw a loaded gun. I had hours or was it years of intensely focussed menace in that stare and Puppet read it right – and looked away.
The rest of the dorm had been a buzz of voices as everyone performed the ritual of preparing for bed.
A few minutes later, Benny Hill, a Hitler look alike in prison uniform (and a temperament to match), marched into the dorm and warned us all that we had five more minutes till lights out.
Then, suddenly, the room lost its colour and the dorm was bathed in an eerie blue light – like moonlight.
Immediately all hell let loose…but it was not directed at me.
At the bottom of the dorm, a lad called Galpin had had the bottom end of his bed picked up by Puppet and half a dozen others. With the lad still inside it, they had slammed the bed and Galpin into the wall.
Then, before Benny Hill had rushed back to investigate the commotion, everyone had run back to their beds and tucked up innocently. By the time the lights came on, Galpin was the only one standing in the dorm.
Benny Hill slapped the lad and then marched him off to run a mile around the parade ground. Benny Hill did not like people getting out of bed after lights out – unless he had given them permission!
I lay flat, staring up at the ceiling.
Nobody bothered me and I had not had to perform the ritual. The “sugar plum fairy”.
Puppet never acknowledged, spoke to or hassled me in the final days before he left Haslar but my show of colours, my show of self preservation acted as a great insurance policy.
And my new role as Gym orderly would soon serve to enhance that policy over the following weeks and months.
Gym Orderly
The role of Gym orderly, aside from keeping the gym and showers tidy, was to support Mr. Berry during Gym.
Put bluntly, at every gym session, with every group of inmates, Mr. Berry would tell everyone that “Goodland” was there to see that they performed their gym routines accurately without shirking or missing any exercises.
By stating such a case, Mr Berry done me a series of favors. He talked up my position so much, I inherited his authority. “
!If Goodland fails to make you perform properly”, he would claim, then “you lot will end up doing twice the number of routines and Goodland will have to pay a penance for your failings”.
“This will not please me or Goodland”, he would add with a twinkle in his eye.
In reality, the role was an amazing one for me. I became the portal, the first regular inmate that new recruits met in the gym – and of course, I made sure THEY performed flawlessly – or at least appeared to!
One time, an absolute nightmare of a man was presented to me. As a new inmate, the guy was as scared as I remember being – despite having tattoos on his forehead and looking like a killer.
A rhino of a man, he was virtually incapable of lifting his legs above his head (lying on his back on sloping benches).
I was able to force the guy to at least attempt the moves, immediately demonstrating my will upon him – effectively neutralizing any threat he might have posed me. Initially, he was terrified of me.
Later though, after letting him experience the hell of the exercises, I would give the guy a friendly wink and AID him by taking his weight or allowing him to cheat!
This was interpreted as an act that would spare him further suffering and taken as an act of kindness or friendship.
As Gym orderly, I processed scores of new inmates, nipped problems in the bud and made lots of new friends!
Within barely two weeks of being in Haslar, I was a part of the furniture, respected by most, if not all, and held no fear for my physical well being.
There was not another Puppet character during the rest of my stay at Haslar – and I am not claiming I became one! Instead, I just acted as a kind of oil in the machinery.
Nights in the dorm turned into story telling sessions after lights out and over the months, I enjoyed a kind of war time spirit with my fellow inmates.
Being A Catholic
From the first Sunday, I had been asked what religion I was. John, my friend, who had come in with me, used to like to stay by my side so when I remembered my mother had been a Catholic; I just claimed the same.
John said he was a Catholic too just so that he could join me in the quite Catholic chapel instead of being with the hundreds of Church of England rabble singing “All things bright and beautiful” each week!
The Chapel had a small window from which the Gosport ferry could be spied. It represented the only view of freedom and the outside world. Sucking on imaginary cigarettes, John and I would reenact the classic scene from “Catch the Midnight Express!” but our script became became “Catch the Gosport Ferry!”
Trouble was, being a Catholic involved chanting things – something John had never experienced. He did quite well though – until he was expected to drink the blood of Christ and repeat certain sayings.
After a couple of weeks, John could not stand the pretence anymore and was becoming quite stressed.
One Sunday, to my surprise, he got up mid chant and walked to the back of the chapel and said something quietly to Benny Hill, the officer on duty.
“What was that Pinnington? YOU DON’T WANT TO BE A CATHOLIC ANYMORE???”
I froze, expecting hell to open up beneath my feet but no one else commented and John was unceremoniously dumped back into the C of E crowd.
“All things bright and beautiful”.
Near the end of my term, I did get my green tie (and went out on day release where I could scrounge fags off the gardener) but was the only one with said mythical tie! I had use of the exclusive pool table and Ping-Pong table – but no one to play with!
John got his green tie too – but lost it within days for being caught out trying to whiten his teeth with Vim!
In the past, people have asked me where my drive and determination developed from. Where did I learn to focus, generate enthusiasm to the degree I obviously use in projects and ventures.
Next to the influence of my Nan. Haslar became a vital lesson in life. A lesson I soaked up and benefited from in later years.
I don’t know how other inmates would have viewed their stay at Haslar in the heat wave of 1976 but I learned valuable lessons. Lessons I would use in life and lessons I would put into place later – as “The Cuckoo Principle”, the basis for a foundation of Leaping Ravines.
A philosophy that would one day contribute to the mental tools I would need in the creation of “An Entirely New Engineering Principle”.
About the Author
