He was thinking that the guy in the Shogun Jeep was going to take two hours to get to the boat, and he could do it in an hour, so he could divert and see this girl and get to Holyhead in time to catch the ferry to Dublin.
So he’s spotted speeding in this 850 BMW. The registration was B1 WOW because the car was a wow. He takes the chase; they put the stingers down. He goes into the ditch.
Instead of coming out and saying that it was his stolen car, he tells the whole operation. Now not only do they have photographs of me getting in and out of cars that were hooky, but they’ve also got a grass.
But of course I didn’t know about this.
They’ve hit my business partner at his house and arrested him. They’ve got me, and they’ve arrested my brother Connolly, who had nothing to do with anything.
Then they offered us a deal.
You know, when you’re a kid and you’re in a fight and you get somebody in a headlock and the guy goes, “I’ll give you the draw,” you know they’ll give you the draw because you’ve got the win.
So, when the police offered us a deal, I said to Tommy, “No, don’t take any deal. It’s like the draw when we were kids. I’m not going to take the draw when I’ve got the win.” It was a stupid childish mentality.
He said, “Take the deal.”
“I’m not taking any deal.”
So Tommy, my best friend, said, “I’ll go with you Joe, but I think we should take the deal.” If I’d fought it and I hadn’t won, and he’d taken the deal he’d have felt bad. So he went with me.
And lo and behold, they produced the grass in court. They’ve produced photographic evidence of me getting in and out of various cars. And it was too late to take the deal.
I’d had to sell my own car – a BMW 525 turbo diesel – to pay legal fees. I sold my Jeep to pay legal fees for the battles with Lisa and with the brewery. At the time when the police hit us, I had to use a borrowed Rover Metro to go up and down to the bank because I’d sold everything that I had to pay legal fees. That’s how low I was. I’d sold everything. I’d sold my eighteenth birthday watch and I’d sold my twenty-first birthday ring.
I remember the only time I’d ever seen my dad cry, we were too young to understand. We came home one day and my mum was agitated and panicking. We were only kids, and I didn’t realize what was wrong. It turned out that my granddad had died, my dad’s dad. We’d only met him a couple of times. I didn’t really know him that well. But he was still my granddad, he was still my daddy’s dad. And me and my brother were a bit panicky ourselves because my mum was agitated, she was running around like a headless chicken. When my dad had come in from work she’d said he’d better phone home. So me and my brother were sitting on the stairs and we heard my dad making the phone call. In every boy’s eyes, his dad is the toughest man in the world. I remember watching my dad cry at the bottom of the stairs on the phone. I’d never felt fear like it. I was terrified because now my dad was crying, I didn’t know what was going on. And I found out that his daddy had died, God rest him.
When I was found guilty in court, I looked up into the balcony and I saw my dad crying. It was eerie, as the only time I’d seen him cry before was when his dad had died. So me getting sent to prison had the same effect on my dad as his dad dying. I felt sick, sick as a man could feel.
This was before any sentencing. I was remanded straightaway and sent downstairs. The security guys were around me in the dock, I suppose to stop the prisoners jumping the dock and stuff like that. But before I went down the stairs, down to the basement, I’d seen my dad and Ruth crying.
Warwick Crown Court. We were brought back and, a couple of days or a week later, we were sentenced. Judge Coates was quite lenient with the sentencing because of my previous good record. He gave me and Tom two-and-a-half years. I was gutted for my business partner, and because my brother was innocent. My brother had only come over to help me during my illness and now they’d got him. He got two years and he did a year in prison. He hadn’t been involved in anything. All he’d done was come over and help me run my pub while I was sick.
Category B
When we went for the final day of the court battle, I said to my business partner, Thomas McGeough, “Tom, you know we’re going in for the last day now. It’s not looking great, but we’ve got to go in as if we’re still going to win.”
So Tom said, “No, I’m going to wear my tracksuit in, because, if I’m found guilty, I want to be able to go to prison in a tracksuit. At least I can be comfortable in my tracksuit.”
“Tom, if you go in a tracksuit, it looks like you’re throwing the towel in. Let’s go in a nice suit, a shirt and tie, and show that we still feel that we’re innocent men and that we can walk out in our nice suits. But don’t take it for granted that we’re going to prison.”
Even though Tom had been experienced in court battles and had done prison time before, I talked him out of going into court in his tracksuit. So, on the final day, we’re found guilty. We were remanded straightaway, and we were brought down.
I’ve gone down the stairs and Tom was saying, “What am I doing in a suit?” And he’s turned around to me and he pointed at me. “You told me to come in a suit. What am I doing in a suit?”And he trips and he pulls the sole of his shoe off.
So I’m laughing to myself going down the stairs and he’s walking along now and his shoe’s flapping. So, when they brought us from the courtroom to the prison, he’s walking along with this flapping shoe. Even though I was churning inside, it gave me a little giggle inside about his flapping shoe.
We were originally sent to Blakenhurst Prison, which was a twenty-three-hours-a-day lock-up. You had an hour a day out of your cell. It was classed as a Category B prison.
When you get there, they bring you to reception. They take off your suits and stuff and they put them into a box. You sign for what you’re putting in. If you’ve a watch or anything on, sometimes they let you keep it, depending on the value. For insurance, they only allow you to keep things of a certain value. Anyway, I had a nice watch. They took it, saying it was an expensive watch. The senior officer informs you of the rules, exactly what’s going on. They take all your clothes, and they give you a prison uniform, jeans and a prison shirt. They gave us prison sneakers. They call them prison sneakers, with just two stripes, because Adidas had the three stripes. They were just like plimsolls, like a flat plimsoll, and they hadn’t any laces in them. That’s what we had to wear. And they hadn’t got a shirt to fit me, so I’m like a deformed man in this shirt. They wouldn’t let us wear our own shirt, our own clothes, so I’ve got this shirt that’s about three sizes too small, a pair of jeans that were skin tight and a pair of slip-on plimsolls with no laces, so all the other prisoners know you’re new lads and they’re looking at us.
Tom got a single cell. My brother and I got a cell together, which, to my surprise, was pretty clean. The prison was clean because it was reasonably new. I was surprised because you hear about all these stories about prison conditions. So it was much cleaner than I expected. But it still wasn’t very nice. And, years before, I used to watch “Porridge”, and you’d hear the gates of Slade Prison on the television slamming behind you. But, until you actually hear that cell door slamming and the key locking, you don’t realize it’s a nightmare. The first job we got was on the prison servery, so we could get out of our cell a little bit more than the average prisoner because we had to go down to do the servery for breakfast, lunch and evening meal. So we went down, we cleaned the servery and we’d meet other prisoners that were working on the servery as well. So it would give you a little bit more freedom – just to get out of your cell for that little bit extra, whereas, apart from the hour that they would have to walk the square outside, the other prisoners would be in their cell all day. They’d come down to get their meal on their tray and bring it back up to their cell.
I heard that the prisoners used to eat together in the same canteen but then there was a bit of friction, a bit of
trouble, and the prison officers couldn’t control all the prisoners in one canteen. So now the different house blocks would come down in turn, get their food on to their tray and straight back up to their cell.
I was on house block 6. So from house block 6 you had to go through all the five house blocks. So we’d leave the servery. The prison officer would open the gate out of the servery, then lock the gate. We’d go down to the next house block. They would open the gate, put us through, lock the gate. We did this nearly every day, so not only was I getting my cell door locked behind me, but I’d also hear all these other cell doors and all these gates locking. And it’s not a nice sound, to know that you’re behind a steel door. It’s not a nice feeling to hear it locking and it’s not a nice feeling to know that you’re stuck in there. I wouldn’t recommend it to anybody. It’s very degrading what you’ve got to go through in prison. I’m not saying they deliberately made you feel like an animal, but you do.
Most of the time, except for the hour that you were out, you were locked up. In the morning, your cell would be opened and you’d have twenty minutes to maybe go and get yourself showered before you go down and get your breakfast. Then back into your cell, locked till mid morning, till you get your lunch.
My brother Connolly had nothing to do with the crime, genuinely had nothing to do with it. The boy had come over to help me in my pub as he’d trained as a barman in Ireland. He’s a little bit fragile at the best of times because, when my family were evicted in 1986, Connolly was there at the time and he was young. My mum had a breakdown in the house – the madness that was going on from these bailiffs outside, savages – and he watched her cut her wrists. Years later, he’s still never really recovered from that; it plays on his mind. He’s a very good-looking boy and a lovely person. But there’s a distance when you look into his eyes sometimes. He’s very vulnerable, very fragile; emotionally he’s never been right since that eviction.
It was very hard at the time, as he was starting to get his life really together. He’d met a beautiful girl from Canada, Roisin, and she was now pregnant. So he was selling his house in Northern Ireland and he was relocating to Canada, and he’d come over to help me, say his goodbyes and to let me know that his life was going really well.
Anyway he got dragged into this for no reason. I’d rented a car for him from a friend of mine who worked for a car rental firm, and he gave me a really good discount. What I didn’t realize was this guy had been doing mischief and pocketing the money from this particular rental company. Then they arrested him and charged him for ripping the company off. So, when they went through the files of cars that he’d been hiring to people without putting the money through the books, they found my name hiring one of the cars. Then they realized that this particular car had gone over to Northern Ireland.
Connolly was driving the car in Belfast with my older brother Emmet, my sister and my brother-in-law – a police officer from New York. The West Midlands Police had gone over to Northern Ireland and, with the RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary), had stopped this car in an armed coup, like they were dealing with some sort of terrorists. All of them, including my brother-in-law the cop, were dragged out of the car and abused, guns put to them and everything else.
First of all, they held Connolly in Belfast and they put him on to the landing of Mad Dog Johnny Adair, who was the top Loyalist terrorist in Northern Ireland. Here’s a young Dublin boy put on to the landing two doors away from one of the most dangerous terrorist prisoners. The boy had nothing to do with the crime. We’d proved in court that the rental car had nothing to do with this particular case, but the seeds of doubt had been planted in the jury’s heads. The fact that he’d been stopped in the car in Northern Ireland, and the fact that he’d been stopped for speeding on his way to the docks in the car before then, were painted a real nasty picture.
Then they terrorized him by putting him on to the landing with Johnny Adair. Eventually, the British police brought him over to England. But he’d gone through an ordeal; he didn’t want to leave his cell.
While we were in prison, the Crown Prosecution appealed against the sentencing, saying the sentencing was too light, which was rubbish. I’ve never been in trouble in my life before; I had an honourable discharge from the FCA in Ireland, which is the part-time army; I’d been with Delta Airlines, FAA registered; I’d been a licensee for a pub; and I had no criminal record. It wasn’t a violent crime. But they tried to get us seven years. The Crown Prosecution won and ended up getting myself and Tom an extra eighteen months. They didn’t go after my brother for extra time because they probably knew in their heart and souls that he was an innocent man.
I had respect amongst the prisoners due to the boxing. I was well known in the Midlands. Blakenhurst Prison is in the region, so a lot of people knew us from the pub, where I had gained respect amongst the black community as we’d stood up against the racist National Front Combat 18 scum. We also had respect amongst the honourable criminals, if there is such a thing as an honourable criminal.
The time passed quietly. It’s a monitored regime, so it was very difficult – even going to the gym, you had to put your name down. Anything that you did was closely monitored. It was very, very strict – it was a prison – you’re limited in what you can do. I didn’t see much bullying going on. I’m sure there were bits of bullying going on, but because you’re confined to your cell you don’t see it.
It was monotonous and dragged out. We had a TV in our cell, which helped to pass the time. There were two newspapers per landing, so you’d get a certain amount of time to look at one. When the newspaper was given to your cell, you read every piece of it just to pass the time. You’d even read the advertisements. You had two visits a month for an hour and you weren’t allowed to touch.
After about four or five months, we got shipped out to a Category D prison because our crime wasn’t violent. So we ended up in Leyhill Prison, which was down in Gloucester. It was an open prison and it was nice to be able to walk around and not have a cell locked behind you. It was strange because we weren’t in a cell, it was more like a room. We were even given a room key. There were rugby pitches, football pitches, tennis courts, and – as far as a prison goes – it had nice facilities, nice conditions.
But you’d earned your right to get to there: you’d conducted yourself properly in the other prisons and got your Category D, which meant that you were a low risk. It was nice to be able to be in that environment rather than being locked up twenty-three hours a day, and I appreciated that Connolly’s room was next door to mine.
Air Force One
However, in Leyhill I saw a lot of bullying.
There was the rugby team in prison. Gloucester is close to Wales, where rugby is a big game, so there were a lot of Welsh prisoners in Leyhill. The Leyhill rugby team were in a league; of course, they couldn’t play away games, but teams from the league would come to play them at the prison. Every couple of weeks, there was a rugby game. And it was good to go up and watch because it passed a few hours, but there was a lot of attitude amongst the Leyhill rugby squad. There was a lot of testosterone. They walked around with that “kick sand in your face” attitude. I didn’t carry the same respect in Leyhill that I had in Blakenhurst because I wasn’t known in the area, which is way out of the Midlands.
I was small compared to some of the rugby players. Some of them were massive men. And there was one particular rugby guy they all called “Killer” because he’d killed a man on the rugby pitch when he punched him during a row between players. He was a very, very aggressive rugby player. Obviously passionate about the game, but aggressive and that’s what he was in prison for.
There was a lot of attitude within the prison but at least we were out from 7.45 in the morning to 8.45 at night. You were able to walk the grounds and had to go to your prison jobs. There was what’s called a tally four times a day: at 7.45 a.m., 11.45 a.m., 4.45 p.m. and 9 p.m. you had to be in your room, they’d come round and check. Some of the rooms ha
d televisions, but not all of them. Connolly and I were over on one side of the building. After 9 p.m., you couldn’t go to the other side of the building. There were two TV lounges our side of the building and two TV lounges the other side of the building. In the day, each of the TV lounges had a designated TV channel but after 9 p.m., though, there was sometimes a bit of fraction between people who wanted to watch different programmes on the only two televisions they could watch.
I didn’t go in the TV lounge much anyway because the documentaries and the soaps don’t appeal to me. I’m a film man. I spent most of my time writing letters and stuff. On this particular night my brother asked me if I wanted to come down and watch this film, Air Force One. Gary Oldman is in the film and so is the one from Raiders of the Lost Ark [Harrison Ford]. So I said, “I’ve seen the film, Connolly, loads of times.”
Anyway Connolly for some reason insisted on me coming down to watch the film. I thought to myself, “Well, he’s insisting that I go down, so I’ll go down.” As I was on my way down to watch the film, there were a lot of lads who wanted to watch the film standing outside this TV room. They were small, insignificant guys, including one particular guy we’d nicknamed Joe 90 because that’s who he looked like, but we didn’t call that to his face because we didn’t want to bully him.
So I walked past them and there were eight or nine of the rugby team in this particular TV room. Now, most of the time they were upstairs in the other TV room because Killer, one of the rugby guys, was on the landing upstairs and a lot of the rugby guys used to congregate around him. He seemed to have respect among the rugby players because of his rugby aggression and his passion for the game. When I walked into this particular TV room, Killer was sitting there with seven or eight other rugby players, which was strange.
So, as I walked in, I said “How’s it going, Killer? Are you watching the film?”
The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) Page 28
