My cell is a very cold, 5 feet by 5 feet cubicle. It’s on the second floor, B-wing of Wandsworth Jail in the maximum security ward. There is a desk, a monitor, a small TV showing four channels and a broken keyboard.
There’s also a small toilet, partitioned off by a plastic curtain. Needless to say it smells of sh*t.
Daz, my cellmate, keeps a collection of small wire animals to decorate the place with. They are puerile inventions of an insignificant mind.
I’m being held in a high security ward especially designed for wreckers of Cenotaphs and miscellaneous monuments. Clemence, my neighbour, got three months for pissing on the Churchill statue in Westminster. Jimmy, a tall black guy, from south London, was arrested for singing too loudly while the Queen Mother’s cortege drove past.
Further down the hall are the real criminals.
Robbo’s been inside for the best part of six years. He was caught vandalising a Banksy painting with a spray can. The judge just wouldn’t accept his plea of insanity and locked him up with the other really nasty criminals. He’s been raped several times, or so he claims, but remains defiant and unbroken.
