8/21/2022 0 Comments A Night In The Cells Pt. 2Welcome back to The Lonesome Wanderer's adventures through the English criminal justice system. If you haven't yet read the first part that details my heinous crimes and high-octane arrest, make sure you go back and read this first else you'll be lost and confused. If you're all caught up, hello there, welcome back, gripped and eager reader. You left me as the heavy iron cell door clanged shut, echoing profusely and wailing down the corridor like a violent shudder of sadness. It was akin, in fact, to the shudder of sadness that ravaged it's way through me. Its a funny thing being in the clink. There is an unshakeable sense of impending doom that tells you you are going to prison for the rest of your life and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it. Having your freedom taken away from you is truly awful. You have to ask to eat, ask to drink, ask for toilet paper, ask them to turn the light down. It really sucks. you feel inhuman, and it's no wonder why those that have done long stints in jail turn into such animals. Stop Right There!Song recommendations for while you read! Add these to a queue before you start and let your streaming platform do the rest:
Internally, it's psychological warfare. You play out the two options you have over and over again in your head like a broken videotape that keeps rewinding back to the same spot, no matter where you press play. You can either go in there, find the biggest, scariest looking motherfucker you can and donk him on the noggin with a lunch tray, or you can start to spend your prison bucks on lip balm and painkillers, if you know what I mean. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that neither of these options are particularly enjoyable ways to spend 6 trillion years. That's another thing that clangs around the inside of your skull like a pinball machine. One minute you're convinced they'll let you off, "it was only for a fucking picnic". The next minute you're pacing up and down panicking because "it has to be 10 years for sure, they'll make an example out of me". It's exhausting. Defeated and worn out, I tried to get comfortable on the total travesty that was my bed for the evening. It wouldn't have been so bad, if it wasn't for the fact that the mats were totally waterproof, I imagine so that they could be sprayed down and handed to the next criminal with ease. This meant they were airtight, and so it was a constant battle against a particularly annoying air bubble that wouldn't make itself comfortable. I kid you not, at one point I considered tearing the damn thing to shreds with my teeth. I later reasoned that particular bit of footage wouldn't look very good in court, unless of course I plead insanity and started barking at the ceiling. This lead to another awful realisation. Everything in my cell was waterproof. Looking around, I noticed that absolutely everything in there was designed to be hosed down in an instant. The floor was made of some kind of shiny paste that was smeared to about a foot up the wall, forming some kind of odd bath type situation. I could only imagine the awful things that had gone on in this cage, and the poor sod who had to clean it up afterwards. On my boredom-killing exploration of my surprisingly large cell, I also came across all manner of inscriptions in the grouting between the tiles. In total I think I counted about 15 Fuck Da Police's, amongst the various initials and postcodes that were scratched into the wall-work. Now naturally of course, being a part of London's rot-ridden underbelly, I thought it just to scratch a little something in myself. I found a certain romanticism involved with joining the masses and leaving my mark on that jail cell wall in central London, as I'm sure the others before me had. It seems that humanity has an undying need to leave its mark in some way or another. Whether an angry finger up to the police, or a simple "I was here", we are fascinated with leaving something behind for someone else to find. Reading these scratchings gave me a sense of the others that had been there before me. I imagined their crimes, no matter how petty or heinous. I imagined their feelings of entrapment, helplessness and even sadness. I felt a real connection to my former cell mates, and so I thought it only fair to include myself on those walls. I wasn't particularly imaginative though, and so I scratched my initials, BR, and the biggest dick I could manage with my fingernail. I had forgotten to mention that during my check-in (the most exciting of the following 22 hours), I'd spotted a lonesome looking paperback book sitting on the desk. I gestured to it and asked the man in charge if I could take something in to read with me. This was an exciting looking book about dragons and Vikings and magic, and to my astonishment they agreed. As I reached for it, a copper from the back room yelled "Oi that's mine! Hands off!" and I cursed him under my breath. The first winked at me and apologised, assuring me he'd get me something from the back. I tried to imagine the typical police station library; shelves piled high to the ceilings with copies of Crime & Punishment, counselling leaflets and anti-drug propaganda. A dreary looking librarian/police officer combination with half-moon spectacles and a hump in her back, looking hundreds of years older than the books she was born to protect. I wanted to see this room, but I was forbidden to do so. He came back shortly after which I can only describe, following my reading of it, as the single worst piece of literature I have ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. It was called 'Four Flames' or something as equally ridiculous and was a story about four female friends and their journey through life, the trials and tribulations of remaining friends through the hardest of times and always being there for each other no matter the cost. Frankly, it made me want to be sick. I don't have anything against females or their friends, but it was so poorly written (read: I'm a snob) that it made one want to cry out in physical pain and resort to eating it so that no one else would have to go through with reading it. However, it was all that I had, and I persevered. To be quite honest if it wasn't for that book I might have just lost my mind. I did have a book in my bag with me when I was nicked, but I forgot to ask them for it as they bagged up my stuff. I suggest that everyone carry a good book with them at all times should they find themselves in jail, as the works they have in there would make Shakespeare turn in his grave. Boredom really strikes you in jail, and I understood immediately why everyone decides to work out like hell and get as ripped as possible. I had to take breaks from the book as it really was that bad (albeit, kept my mind busy) and on these breaks I would go through odd little phases. My first phase was the crazy workout phase. I said to myself "Fuck This, I'm going to get hench. They'll have to widen the door to get me out of this place." I then proceeded to do approximately 2 pushups before saying Fuck That and returning to the book on four university students and their undying love for the handsome professor (who turned out to be a nonce actually, what a plot twist that was). The second phase was one of reflection. It's a curious thing being stuck in a prison cell with nothing but your own thoughts, as everything that you have ever done wrong seems to resurface and compound upon the issue at hand. Everything comes back to you. All those things you did as a kid, that girls hair you pulled at school. All of your exes and why it went wrong. Friends and family and enemies and lovers - it enters your mind and hurls everything around like a menacing tornado of guilt and regret. Come to think of it now, some time on, it was quite a cathartic experience. Something about significant punishment allows you to draw all dark aspects of your character together and fling it under the same roof, as if you're being punished for it all in one fell swoop. I don't mean this in a feel sorry for yourself, I'm such a bad person kind of way. It's more of a repenting for all of your sins type deal. Maybe this is how people feel when they go to church. Maybe I should give Jesus a chance. The third phase was one of absolute panic. All of a sudden the formerly spacious cell becomes claustrophobic and suffocating, the lights become too bright and the realisation that this could be your life for some time now moves in like a parasite setting up shop in your brain. Now if you think about it, I hadn't actually done anything wrong so to speak, however that offers no comfort when you're in a cell waiting for the axe to fall. I had spent a night in a cell before for a bag of weed as a teenager, but a knife really could have gone either way. These phases play on repeat like a broken record and really start to burn out ones brain. Its exhausting, yet you can't sleep. It's encapsulating, yet you're unable to escape. It's terrifying, yet there's no relief. This leads you to find even the most tiny, insignificant occurrences interesting, I assume in an effort to prevent yourself from having a complete and total nervous breakdown. During one particular panic phase, a daddy long legs wandered its way across my arm and onto the floor, circling my book. I warned him to steer clear of that bastard novel, "it doesn't make it any easier friend", before I caught myself and realised I was talking to a spider. I watched intently as he circled round and round on the exact same route he had taken before. Every time, without fail, he would bump into the book, feel his way around it and continue on his merry way. It was fascinating watching him in in action. I felt sorry for the poor devil, clearly being locked up had driven him stir crazy. There was another thing I found to be very interesting during my stint inside. There's a doorbell on the wall of every cell which, when pressed, produced a sleep-deprived policeman who slams open the little viewport in the door and yells "Whaddaya want?" I learned quite quickly that this bored little man could be of use. He could be summoned to bring food, water and tea if you had the know-how and the stones to request it. Now sometimes they would simply ignore you and go back to their doughnuts, so the trick was to not do it too often - only when spirits were at an all-time low. The food was absolutely nothing to write home about, but all in all it wasn't so bad. I started with a chicken curry that definitely took the edge off, and later gorged on a jellified pasta Bolognese to keep up my morale. Don't get me wrong I wouldn't give them 5 stars on Yelp, but it did the trick. The tea was simultaneously awful and to die for. It came in a far-too-thin cup and was scalding hot, however there is nothing, I repeat nothing, better than a cup of tea in times of crisis. They even gave me sugar. By the time I had hit the 12 hour mark I was getting scratchy. Essentially, I was waiting for an interview in which they could ask me questions on my life of crime and assess whether or not I should be allowed back into the general population. I had been assured this wouldn't take long, however 12 hours in I knew they'd cheated me. I rang the doorbell to ask, for the umpteenth time, when I was going to be interviewed and was told that they were having trouble trying to find me an attorney at that time (about 3AM). I cursed the copper who had suggested I get a lawyer, however reasoned it was probably for my own good. I resigned myself to my situation and tried to get some sleep. After what felt like an eternity later, I woke with sharp pains shooting down my neck and a particularly awful and groggy attitude coursing through my veins. I was fed up with this whole mess and wanted out. I jammed my finger into the doorbell angrily and politely asked the copper what the time was and where the fuck my lawyer was hiding. He informed me that it was 7AM and they were sending someone over shortly. I scoffed and looked around my cell for something to do, groaning at the sight of that God awful book and the sorry excuse for a sleeping arrangement. There was in fact a task at hand that needed resolving. I hadn't yet used the one phone call that a man under arrest is entitled to. I had thought long and hard about who to call - because of course I had to use it. Was I to call my best friend and laugh about the whole situation? Was I to call the house of the lord and beg for forgiveness? How about the local Maccies for a Big Mac and Fries with a banana milkshake on the side? I even debated using my one call to phone an ex-girlfriend and tell her I was in jail like I was in some fucking John Wayne movie. I tell you, boy am I glad I didn't. No, instead I had to use my 1 phone call at 8 o'clock in the morning to call my dear mother (who I live with at the moment), ask her to log into my pc, and text my manager that I had a family emergency and couldn't make it into work. Not very Hollywood is it? Skipping out on work proved to be a breeze, as I've been recently employing a new tactic at work which means I complete all of my tasks for the week on a Monday and Tuesday, and the rest of the week I work on other things such as my blog, sitting around and doing a shit load of fuck all. This is the four hour work week and I will do an in depth review of how much this book helped me at a later date. What this means was that even though it was a pain rearranging the two meetings I had, it really wasn't a pain at all. Work were none the wiser to my new life as a super criminal, operating in the underworld of London. However, my darling Mother is an absolute menace. Now I'm not sure about this, but how I think it works is that you give the plod a phone number, they ring it and say "Hello, it's Detective Inspector Dickbucket with the Met Police, I've got a Lonesome Wanderer here who wants to speak to you. Will you take the call?" To which the recipient replies yes, and an obnoxiously yellow phone on the wall rings for yours truly to pick up. I lifted the phone off the receiver and I'm knocked down the corridor by my Mum yelling "WHAT IN THE FLYING FUCK IS GOING ON" into the phone. I calmed her down and quickly explain the facts: I'm ok, it was for a picnic knife, I'm not going to jail (I hope) and I'll be out soon. This prompted her mood to change from anxious and annoyed to downright humourous, and she fired all manner of jibes and digs down the phone before I had to ask her to behave herself and help me email work. Following this was what I can only describe as the most painful 5 minutes of my life trying to explain my password and navigate MS Teams via my Mother while surrounded by 6 coppers looking from their watches to me disapprovingly. Finally, the deed was done and I could breathe again, my meetings were moved and I wasn't going to lose my job. Now I have recently connected with some long lost cousins of mine that happen to be from Colombia. They are absolutely lovely and wouldn't hurt a fly. However, before she let me go my angel of a Mother said "Jesus, I was so worried that you had got wrapped up with those Colombians and got yourself into trouble." I replied:. "Fucking hell Mum, you know they listen to these calls, do you know how bad that sounds? What are you trying to do here?", to which she burst out laughing and hung up the phone. I couldn't help but laugh myself, and looking around at the old bill around me, none of them seemed particularly bothered. I was marched back to my cell and the door was slammed shut behind me. 8:30 AM, 15 hours in, this was proving to be somewhat tiresome. The next few hours were pretty uneventful, consisting mainly of pacing around impatiently and swearing at the crazy woman down the hall in cell 5 who wouldn't stop screaming her head off. Finally, sometime around midday, the viewport opened and two kind eyed coppers notified me that the attorney was on his way and once he'd arrived we could get this all sorted out. A sigh of relief and request for a cup of tea from me later and they were gone. At least we were getting somewhere. This was the only update I had received in 19 hours and I was grateful for it. Not long after I was taken into a room to speak with my lawyer. The vibes changed from annoying and tiresome to frankly menacing the moment I sat down across from him, separated by a sheet of plexiglass, I assumed, to stop me spitting on his bald head for taking so long. Remembering he was there to help me, for free no less, I settled down. However, it did nothing to settle my nerves when he began to speak. My name is Daniel, I'm a lawyer, did they read you your rights? Yes Daniel. Do you know what it means? Not really to be honest Danny mate. Please don't call me Danny. This is what they mean: (insert meaning of rights here, to be honest I wasn't really listening). Do you understand? Sure do Dan the man. Please focus. I'm going to ask you some questions about what happened. You're going to answer them and I will tell you whether to answer the police's questions, or simply say no comment. Do you understand? I'm with you all the way mmm Danone. I'm not going to tell you again. (Asks me what happened, I explain). Ok, I'm going to tell you to answer the questions as this all seems to make sense. HOWEVER. Gulp. You need to stop talking so much. It arouses suspicion and it can really hurt your case. Every question I asked, you gave me five answers, and it looks guilty. At this, my heart sank like a stone. I'm a big talker, I always have been and I always will be. Being asked to not talk so much or I might spend the rest of my life in jail was the end of the fucking world for me, and at this point I felt truly physically sick. Any sense of humour or impatience was replaced with downright fear. What if I slipped up and said too much? What if I said something wrong or got it mixed up? That would be me done for! Are you ready? He asked. Not in the slightest Daniel, but let's give it a shot. We waved to the police and they walked us into an interview room. My legs were like jelly and my vision was blurred. I was well and truly kakking my pants. Unfortunately, the interview room was nowhere near as cool as I was expecting, with no two-way mirror I could glare into menacingly or metal table I could launch at the wall should the situation call for it. To be honest, it looked like a secondary school classroom but shrunk down to the size of a broom cupboard. On the table sat a complicated array of audio recording equipment, with a camera in the top corner angled to aim directly for my head. I was positioned across from the eerily smiley police officers, a guy and a gal, separated by yet another plexiglass window. This window, however, was only attached to the table, and so should I be inclined, a well-aimed glob of spittle could easily be aimed up and over it right onto the nose of one of my captors. When it came to aerial salivatory warfare, the screen would surely offer little to no protection at all. Three CDs were shoved into the recorder, one for me, one for them and one for the records, a button was pressed and the questions began. Nothing exciting to report back here, aside from the way they look at you. Clearly these people are trained professionals in the way of spotting liars, but man do they look through your soul. Its mightily difficult to describe this using only words, but it's wide eyed and its accusatory and it's extremely uncomfortable. It is the single most unnatural conversation you could ever have, as you're totally aware that they're watching everything you do intently. I had experienced this once before as I landed into Bournemouth airport after a particularly exciting weekend in Budapest. Walking through the terminal at pace so I could escape my ex (was a couples holiday, split up 3 days before, both still went, it was a mess), I was pulled aside by counter-terrorism police. Just a routine stop they said, eyeballing me profusely. I will write about this more in my coming post on Budapest, but it was freaky deaky and very uncomfortable. Without a doubt, it was the exact same eerie stare I was being subjected to on that hot afternoon in Holborn nick. As the questions came one by one I eased up. Nothing to worry about, just tell the truth and I'll be out of here in no time. I had forgotten to mention where I went for the picnic and Daniel, attorney at law, dropped me a sly wink and asked me a leading question to remind me to add it in. A devil in disguise our Dan, shirking the line between law and lawless. I have to say, I was a bit gutted I didn’t get some kind of good cop bad cop treatment to spice things up a bit. After no more than 10 minutes the interview was up and I was walked back to my cell. I was confident at this point and the fear from earlier had all but dissipated. On the stroll back through the reception, I spotted a massive, mean looking motherfucker covered in scars and all sorts, the type you'd expect to see in these kinds of places, stood by the desk and surrounded by cups of juice, tea, and more importantly, biscuits. I spun around and eyed the cops who had just interrogated me. "I didn’t know there was biscuits?" If that lanky reprobate is entitled to them then I should be too! Biscuits for all! She smiled back at me and nodded. I tell you, cool and collected reader, I rinsed those bastards for every biscuit they had before my time was through. The next 2 hours or so were relatively painless. I was visited a couple of times by the interviewers, asking a question here or there, telling me how stressed they were that the clock was ticking. You see, they have to let you out after 24 hours if they haven't charged you, so the pressure is on. At this point it had been 21 and a half hours since my arrest, and the worry was showing on their faces. My final visit was from the man who had interviewed me. He was carrying my phone, and he wanted to see a photo of me at the picnic. This was make or break he said, one last chance to evidence my innocence. Now if you remember back to Part 1. found here, I did have one photo, captured purely by chance by a wandering hippie with a polaroid camera. This turned out to be my saving grace, and I handed the phone back to him with the photo on the screen. He nodded and walked away. A moment later, I cursed my own very existence. I had just given my unlocked phone to the police, the centrepiece to my wretched life of scum and villainy. I had just condemned every major drug dealer on the English South Coast to police scrutiny, but to hell with them, I wanted out and if a few big players had to go down then so be it. Half the bastards were always late anyway. Jokes aside, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. 20 minutes later I was out. No charges, free to go, not so much as a scratch on my record. I was even offered the knife back, to which I replied "Fuck that! You'll stitch me up!" No use leaving the station just to do a U turn and end up in the same spot I'd just managed to escape from. All in all it was a rather stupid and inefficient adventure into Great British bureaucracy and the criminal justice system. 22 hours total to determine whether or not I was indeed at a picnic seemed a bit excessive. My time inside had allowed me to confront quite a lot of shit, and I came out feeling tired, but somewhat cleansed. Maybe we all need a night locked up with just ourselves to deal with.
Then again, maybe not. All the best, The Lonesome Wanderer P.S. Well done for making it to the end! Thank you for taking the time to read the above post, below you can find 3 quotes that I thought matched the theme of this post nicely. I look forward to hearing your thoughts in the comments below! Quotes:
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AboutThe Lonesome Wanderer is a blog dedicated to all things solo travel, including the philosophical and introspective aspects involved with being on the road alone. More Posts
September 2022
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