Loonyology: The Autobiography of Britain's Most Notorious Prisoner

By Charles Bronson

Lifer Charlie Bronson’s reputation precedes him - ‘Britain’s most violent prisoner’ - or does it? Do we really know the true Charlie, or are our impressions the result of media hype? Well, what is in no doubt is that Loonyology is 200% Bronson and will transport the reader on the dizziest no-holds-barred roller-coaster ride of their lives, from suspense and shock to laughter and tears, and from Bronson the ‘Solitary King’ to Bronson the Philosopher, the Poet, the Artist, the Author, the Joker, the Walking Scar and the Freedom Fighter. Now 55 years old, and having spent most of his last 34 years as a maximum security ‘Bronco Zoo’ inmate, he’s a much wiser man as he looks back on his crazy journey of unpredictable behaviour, his ever-alert mind darting from reminiscences of his teenage years to memories of fellow-cons, the screws, the cranks, letters and news reports, prison life and procedures, and the overall madness (‘loonyology’) of the legal and penal systems, peppering his stories with diary entries, true gems of information, sound advice and hilarious one-liners. Together with his many supporters and with the aid of a top lawyer, Charlie is campaigning for the parole board to finally allow him his freedom, but begging is not his style: he calls a spade a spade and is determined to win with dignity, fighting with his pen and his brain to achieve his aim of a life outside ‘the cage’. In his words: “I chose to be a villain. I’m not proud of it, nor am I ashamed of it. I have paid my debt to society and it’s time to go home.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apex Publishing Limited
• Release date: Nov 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781908382696

Book preview

The Baddie Daddies … ‘Respect’

On Saturday 17 February 2007 Ray Kray, a solid, staunch mate of mine, visited me with his wife Emma. Ray’s loyalty is second to none. He’s even climbed roofs in protest to get my campaign

highlighted. He did one with my son Mike at Westminster, where they scaled that church roof next to Parliament. Armed Old Bill were soon on the scene. That’s loyalty at its finest. They could’ve been shot, but they took the risk for a buddy. Ray went AWOL from the air force just to be at one of my trials. Yep, that’s my buddy Ray Kray!

Anyway, on Saturday 17 February he was up to see his old china. It was a good meet up and lovely to see Emma. I’m actually godfather to their son Aiden.

After the visit, I got back to my special cage - I call it the Bronco Zoo - and was told that Joe Pyle had passed away. My whole world fell in. It was like losing my dad all over again. How many more family and friends have I got to lose on this fucking sentence? And, to top it all, I still can’t go to a funeral. I’m still Cat A. I’m still public enemy no.1. After all this time I’m still wearing that ‘mad’ label and it sticks like shit to a blanket. It’s there till the day I die. To say I’ll miss Joe Pyle is an understatement. He was a true friend. Hey, get on this, ‘my dad was Joe Peterson’. Note JP - Joe Pyle. JP Joe was a second dad to me and he looked after bits of biz for me. When I needed something sorting it was done. Nothing was too much for Joe - nothing! Any problem, no matter how big or small, he would sort it out for me. Why? Well, he was Joe Pyle, the true governor. Hey, and don’t let anybody tell you different. Cos I’m now telling you - he was the Daddy of ALL Daddies. I’m not interested in the Mafia or who or what it represents. But Joe Pyle to me was the ORIGINAL Godfather - the best the UK has ever seen and will ever see. And I feel fucking lost without him. My brain has shrunk. I think my soul’s been grabbed by Lucifer and chewed up. It’s now all gone bollocks. Things have gone downhill. Some men have taken serious liberties – one or two against me. Names will not be mentioned, but as sure as bears shit in the woods I’ll be banging on doors later. Nobody on this planet rips me off or disrespects Joe Pyle’s name. It’s always the same when great men die: the parasites crawl out of their holes. Well I’m the guy to push ‘em back in their holes. It’s just a matter of time with me, and I’ve got plenty of time. All I do is train for freedom. I’m the strongest, fittest 55-year-old man you’ll ever see, that’s who I am - THE SURVIVOR.

Joe was born in 1935 and he survived till 2007, and boy what a journey he had for 72 years - the best. He lived every day how he knew - like the man he was, with pride and dignity, and he helped plenty on the way. He had a few falls and he done a bit of porridge, but even in jail he walked tall. Men like Joe Pyle don’t ever weaken. He was a born fighter - at times ruthless; at times kind. But you never cross men like Joe, or you only do it once. Now that he’s in his coffin some clever fuckers take the piss. Some did it with the Kray twins. People wait till people die and then get brave. So who’s gonna piss on my grave?! What slimy snake’s gonna sell a story to the News of the World about me when I’m rotting with maggots? Do it now, you traitors. Do it now, you cowards. Let’s all dance with the devil. Let’s all bleed together. Lovely jubbly.

The Joe Pyles of this world are a dying breed of men. Please believe it. Fortunately, we still have some left! But not too many. I’ve been sent a pair of Joe’s gold cufflinks, which I’ll wear with pride once I’m free, along with Reg Kray’s tie and the twins’ pocket watch and my dad’s ring. (I’ll be a fucking walking part of history!)

Let me leave you with a Joe Pyle bit of philosophy, which was on his funeral brochure for all to see:

‘LIFE’ BY JOE PYLE

What we get in life is the way we live

but we make a life from what we give.

Life’s so short that we shouldn’t care

for we only live once and we don’t have a spare.

Try to ignore what life owes to you

And remember the debts that you owe too.

For it’s best to live life poor and be healthy

Than to live through sickness and then die wealthy.

Now when you judge others be sure to be wise.

Look first with your heart and then with your eyes.

And stand by your morals and reach for the heights

As you win when you lose when you stand by your rights.

Joe’s son, Joe Pyle jnr, should take note of that (he will know what I mean by that). Be a man and do what’s right.

Let’s take a trip down memory lane and jog the old memory with some more legends. I bumped into Little Jimmy Essex in the early 1970s in Wandsworth. He was only 5 feet 1 inch. And don’t forget the 1 inch - it was important to him. Well, let’s face it, you wouldn’t mind an extra inch on your dick would you?! Jimmy was a prison legend. He’d killed two cons on two separate occasions and had only manslaughter for each! That alone is amazing. Seeing as he was so small, he was a target for the prison bullies. But how wrong was them two? Anyway, he was already serving six years and copped six years for each killing, so he ended up with an 18 stretch, which for two killings ain’t bad! No fucker ever tried it on with Jimmy again. I know for a fact that the Kray twins loved Jimmy. They always spoke very highly of the man. To me, he was a lion in a man’s body. They do say the best things come in little packages. A top geezer and a true diamond he was. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive now, but I salute the man.

So what does an ex-con do when he’s caught in a trap and he’s looking at another long stretch in max secure? What would you do? You’re just out after serving a 12 stretch for armed robberies, and you’re surrounded by armed cops for more armed robberies. I’ll tell you what Tony Baldessaro did. He blew his brains out. Tony was one of those men who meant what he said and said what he meant. On his 12 stretch he vowed never to return. He got out and went back on the pavement. Robbery was his trade and he was the best! Then it come on top for him. The Old Bill surrounded his house and a gun blaze began. This was in the early 1970s in east London. The siege went on for some time. Then a single bang went off inside the house. That was his way out. And you’ll never guess what he did before he shot himself … He burnt all the dosh. He wasn’t gonna let anybody take his dosh, so he set fire to it. The other strange thing was that before he died he actually phoned up Joe Pyle to say goodbye. Joe tried to talk sense to him but Tony had made up his mind the day he left prison that he would never return. To me, Tony Baldessaro was a true man of his word, and one a dying breed of man. He was a good, solid, loyal man that we all respected. Never to be forgotten.

Another legendary sad ending was that of ‘the Duke’ Colin Osbourne. If you were around in the ‘60s you couldn’t not know Duke Osbourne. He also served a lot of porridge. The Duke had survived it all: stabbings, shootings, fights. He lived life on the edge and he loved a gun. That was his game: guns. Some men love a blade, others love Coronation Street, others love a pint. Duke loved a gun. He was found dead on Hackney Downs. It was an ‘Open Verdict’, but at the time the Old Bill were closing in on him for some serious crimes. Maybe the Duke had decided that enough was enough. A man can only take so much porridge. But what a legendary character! He almost died years before in Gartree Prison with a knife in his back. Men like the Duke are just born to live, and boy did he live it.

Then there was Eric Mason, although I don’t think much of him anymore as I feel he disrespected me and Tel Currie. We helped him out when he got out of jail and made sure he had a few quid in his pocket. Then he had it with one of our enemy. To me that’s treachery. You can’t trust a man who has it with the enemy. But Eric Mason has to be an old legend in my book! He survived an axe in the skull. Bash! Crack! His skull opened up like a melon. That to me is a born survivor. He was also the last man in England to be birched in Dartmoor Prison. He survived it all - bread and water, serious beatings - and he’s still alive and kicking today. Maybe his age has played on his mind! I respect him for what he once was. But now I wouldn’t ever go out of my way to help him out; nor would Tel Currie or a lot of the other chaps. He let himself down big time. But this is a man who survived what a lot of men ‘pretend’ to survive. He was a fucking hard, solid man! Could you survive an axe in your skull? Or laugh as you’re being birched? Eric Mason got the T-shirt: ‘Survivor’.

When I landed in Walton Jail in the 1970s, the lads were still talking about the death of Timmy Noonan. Now there was a tough con: a proper fighter who never gave up. He spent some hard years in solitary, and I mean years. Years with nothing but a bare cell, not even a bed. Tim had done it all: riots, violence, hunger strikes, the birch, bread and water. He even did Broadmoor. He was a legend among legends and a well-respected man. But the stress and brutality weighed heavy on his heart. He died a young man in his thirties.

His battles in prison are legendary. You can’t but mention Timmy Noonan if you’re writing a book on prison. To me he was an icon. When I smashed up Walton Prison roof I actually shouted down and made it clear: this one’s for Timmy Noonan! All the Scousers cheered out of their cell windows as I ripped off the slates as, like me, they loved Tim. He’s never forgot! Never.

I see they’ve just made a movie on Carlton Leach. That should be worth a butcher’s. He’s a fucking legend. He started out a football thug, went into

‘door work’, and then became a bit of a celebrity. And now they’re making a movie on his life, based on his book. That’s not bad going, is it? Good luck to him. Considering he’s stayed out of jail, that to me says he’s got a good biz brain. Respect to the man!

I’ll tell you who’s a prison legend: Big Stevie Lannigan from Manchester. Steve was only 18 years old when he got his life sentence in the early 1970s for kicking a man to death. I don’t know why; that’s for him to know. But he was a tough nut to break. He took a screw hostage in a workshop in Wakefield Jail. It was the first time armed cops had come into the prison. He had a sniper’s sights right on him. They nutted him off to Broadmoor where they pumped him full of jungle juice. Now Steve was a big guy anyway - 6 feet 4 and 18 stone, but after six months in Broadmoor he was up to 24 stone! They were fucking killing him. That’s what the psychiatric drugs do to you: destroy! You get sluggish and lazy and basically just eat, sleep and shit. That’s it. You’re vegetabled. Steve had a loyal family and a good bunch of pals who fought to get him moved back to prison. But by then he’d been labelled an activist! So wherever he went they were ready for him. His journey through hell began. He took the roof off at Parkhurst. He chinned his way through 30 years of madness! And then - bang! - he had a massive heart attack, followed by several strokes. The years of war had finally caught up with him. But he survived even that. Last I heard of Big Steve he was in a low cat. jail doing his time peacefully in a hospital wing. Let’s hope soon he’ll be freed. My funniest memory of him was in Parkhurst in the 1970s He used to play his music very loud and sit on a chair outside his cell door smoking a joint! He loved Pink Floyd. Anyway, this day we were all out on association and there was Big Steve sitting outside his door with ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ blaring out. He was actually off his head; stoned. He was laughing his socks off. A screw told him to turn the music down, so Steve just stood up, knocked the screw out cold and then sat back down and carried on laughing. That’s loonyology at its very best! That’s a true legend. Love him or hate him, he’s a legend in every sense of the word. Even with a dodgy ticker he’s still the same guy who entered prison over three decades ago. I salute the man.

Another legend I remember from the 1970s was Barry Robinson. Who? Yeh, you may well ask. Barry jumped in a police car at Rhyl, Wales, and stuck a shooter in the cop’s face: DRIVE!! So he drove all the way to Blackpool. No one got hurt, but Barry copped a life sentence. It turned out he was ex-Broadmoor. Fuck knows why he hijacked the copper. I doubt if Barry himself knows. He probably just fancied a fast ride. I met him in Hull Jail in 1975 and he’s one of the nicest blokes you’ll ever meet. He did me an oil painting but sadly it got smashed in a fight. Some cunt got lemon with me and I hit him and - bang! - he landed on the painting. Such is life! I often wonder what happened to Barry. I do hope he made it out.

That was a nice escape in the 1980s when Micky Fenton had it off the van! We all knew he was making one. He was being transferred from Parkhurst to the Scrubs for accumulated visits. Out come the tool and off come the cuffs. Next minute he’s driving the fucking van. They shit themselves. Tally hooooo!. Nearly Xmas! Another legend is born.

There’s plenty of sadness with a lot of legends. It’s a hell of a price to pay. Take Emma Humphreys. She had a hell of a sad life. At 16 she was forced onto the game (those fucking pimps have a lot to answer for). Emma basically got mixed up in the world of shit and she ended up stabbing the pimp to death. To me, this was a serious case of duress, but she got life for murder. The next ten years for Emma were so sad: drugs, suicide attempts, depression - she had it all. She finally made it out, only to die of a broken heart. Please, please, all of you young girls, try to stay clear of drugs and pimps, coz it will destroy you. Think of Emma! Do it for Emma and stay clean.

Hey, get this. ‘Big Webber’ is a 25-stone lifer who’s now served a good 30 years. Guess what his ambition is in life? Come on, guess! I bet you won’t! I’ll tell you: he wants to be the UK’s longest serving prisoner of all time. Can you believe that? That’s fucking insanity at its very best. Loonyology!

Chris Haigh was a top geezer and a good London villain. I met him in Wandsworth Chokey in the 1980s. There were a couple of bully screws down there at the time who were always trying to dig people out and nick them. They took an instant dislike to Chris - probably jealous of him coz he was a seriously good biz man even though he’d just copped 15 years. Anyway, these two dog screws were actually betting on who could nick more cons in a week than the other. Silly little games like not shaving, a dirty cell, bed not made, abusive language! A pathetic little game that cost us cons punishment: loss of canteen; more solitary; closed visits, etc. For a week Chris deliberately never took his razor in! So each day one of the screws was ready to nick him. But Chris had no stubble, so how could they nick him? This went on for a whole week. Chris usually had strong facial hair growth, so how was he doing it? They were baffled and confused (and so was I). What had happened is that the con above him had been passing him down a line from his window to Chris’s window with a razor attached. He would shave and then pass it back up. It was fucking brilliant! A bit technical for me though. I prefer to chin the cunts!

I was sorry to see Stevie Miller’s died. Some called him ‘The Caveman’. Last time I saw him was in Whitemoor seg block. He was a Welsh chap doing life. Outside he was one of those guys who loved the open air. He did a lot of poaching up in the Welsh valleys, free as a bird. He actually lived in a cave for a spell when the Old Bill were on his trail. ‘The original Rambo’ and a true prison legend.

Hey, and let’s have three cheers for Little Jock Costello. Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Jock cut the Ripper up in Parkhurst in the 1980s. Bosh! Cop hold of that, you nonce! It cost Jock an extra five years on top of his original sentence. I reckon he should’ve got a medal!

The biggest and strongest man on the Kray firm was Big Pat Connelly. When he was on the club doors nobody fucked around. He was the original bouncer.

In the 1980s a legend was murdered. He was 71 years old, and a young lad of 18 killed him. Shane Keeler was later sentenced to life for it. But this old legend wasn’t just an old man, he was Charlie Bateman. Who? you may well ask! Aka Charlie Clark, the no. 1 cat burglar in the 1950s and ‘60s. Without a doubt Charlie was the best! You don’t hear of cat burglars today like in them days. They were the cream! They went for the rich pickings and Charlie made a fortune. But he also lost a fortune as he loved to gamble! His life was a gamble. I met him when he visited Ronnie Kray in Broadmoor in the early ‘80s. and he looked what he was - an old rogue! He had that look about him: been there, done that, got the T-shirt. This man deserved a medal. Some will say, Fuck a medal. He was a burglar. But what you don’t realise is that he was a professional, a tradesman, just like in any other workforce. He just chose a burglar’s job and he was the master thief. To be the no. 1 you have to be the best, and he was the best. I don’t know why Keeler killed Charlie, but he’s got to live with what he’s done. Killing an old man is nothing to be proud of is it? And he was disabled. So it was a sad end to a real legend. We all loved Charlie Clark. He gave the term burglar a new meaning. ‘The Cat Man’. You wouldn’t find a ‘real burglar’ nicking your pension book or your TV set. He went for the prize: jewels, antiques, paintings. Fuck me, he wouldn’t go through a window if it wasn’t for more than 50k. He had a lifestyle to live up to! After all, he was a gentleman. R.I.P.

Another great was Chopper Watts. Charlie was from Walthamstow, east London. He done a bit of porridge in his time as we all do. Yeh, you guessed it, for a blag. ‘Legendary’. These legends never die. They live on, even when they die. It’s a fact of life.

Another old London villain who always pops up in conversation is the one and only Billy Bligh from north London. He copped a 4 stretch for cutting the notorious Jack Spot. Billy actually died in prison from an untreated stomach ulcer. In them days you just suffered and died in prison. No fucker cared a shit. The doctors were vets; the nurses were heavies; prison was hell. And it’s all you expected. That’s how it was! But Billy is always remembered. He was one of the chaps and, like Jimmy Essex, he was only a small man. Come to think of it, so is Frank Frazer. So what does that tell you? You don’t ever fuck with these small guys or you’re gonna be very sorry. I’ve known 20-stone, 6-foot steroid freaks who haven’t got no bottle at all. Never judge nobody by their size, coz you could be in for a shock.

Then there was Jenny Johnson. In the mid-1970s Jenny robbed a bank. She got clean away, but was later grassed up by her fella! What would you do with a partner like Jenny? She’s every robber’s dream. And she went to work with a little toerag and got eight years! She probably served half of it and made it out. I’ve never heard of her since. But what a star! What a woman! A dream on legs. If I’d met Jenny Johnson all them years ago, we could’ve ruled the planet. Believe it. That was then, but now I’d still love to have a pot of tea with her and some home-made cakes and have a chat about the good old days. There ain’t too many like her about, that’s for sure!

And we can’t forget ‘The King of Brooklyn’, the undisputed Mafia boss himself: Albert Anastasia. He was known as the mad hatter! He was the boss of all bosses. He lived and died his dream. He made it to the top from the gutter. He did it his way and no other way! A true legend.

Did you know that ‘Pretty Boy Floyd’ was given that name by a prostitute in Kansas City? His real name was Charles Arthur. The 1930s was the decade for Floyd. He just hit every bank along his road to hell. They caught up with him in 1934 and sentenced him to 15 years’ hard labour - or so they thought! On the way to prison he escaped. They eventually caught him and the FBI gunned him down like a dog. They were terrified of him! Pretty Boy Floyd died pretty. He lived fast and died young.

One of the biggest Mafia funerals was that of Frankie Vale in 1928. It was fit for a king, costing 200k. That’s a lot of dosh for back then; it’s even a lot in 2008. His coffin was made of silver and gold and there were over 250 limos, 40 of which were full of flowers! What a send-off for Frank Vale. That sums it all up for me. Legendary.

And here’s another one: Johnny Nash, one of seven brothers from the Angel of Islington. John goes back years. He was doing bird in the Shepton Mallett Glass House at the military prison with the Krays in the 1950s. That’s how long he goes back. And even today, in his 70s, he can still throw a punch. He’s what I call ‘a man amongst men’ and nobody alive or dead could ever say different. A friend of Johnny Nash is a friend for life, and I’m lucky to have such a good friend. He’s one diamond geezer.

I’ll tell you who else is a prison legend and I’ve not bumped into him for a good five or six years: Sharkie O’Connor. It was at Woodhill CSC unit that we made one together and we called it on - over a fucking stupid tea bag! Some muggy screw refused to give him a tea bag and there’s a bloody crate full of them in the office. Anyway, fuck it. Off come our shirts. We ripped them up to bandage our hands and shouted to the pigs, Let’s get it on! That’s how insane prison is. All that violence over a silly tea bag. But was it just about a tea bag? Sharkie’s dark skinned, the offspring of a white mother and a black father, so could the screw who denied him a tea bag have been a racist cunt? That’s my view, otherwise why not give Sharkie a tea bag? It stunk to me! I’ll always support a con if he’s in the right, and this time Sharkie was 100% right. And when he spat in the screw’s face I made him spot on. Out came 12 screws in their space suits and holding shields and I was the first to be rushed. You can only do so much with so many, but I recommend body shots. Rush in, crash the shields and steam into them with good body blows. It’s a great way to liven the day up! You can never win, but it’s fun trying! After it’s all over, the van arrives and off you go to the next battlefield. Sharkie will go north and I’ll go south, or vice versa, and that’s how it all works. It’s a fucking chessboard: we’re the pieces and the system’s the game. That one tea bag probably ended up costing 20k, if not more, and all because of a vindictive screw who wanted to wind Sharkie up. He gets spat on, we have a rumble, all hell breaks out, vans arrive … Fuck me, put the kettle on and let’s have a cup of rosy lea!

Hey, this is becoming like a fucking criminal history lesson. I hope you appreciate my knowledge. Anyone doing a degree in Criminology will defo pass once they get a hold of Loonyology. And the list of legends goes on:

Seymour Young, Dave Courtney’s best buddy. Believe me, you never really know a true pal until the heat is turned up full. Most will melt and run off. Seymour stood solid to Dave even with a gun in his face. That’s a true pal. That’s a real brother.

Kenny Baker. He was a first-class blagger; fearless. The Old Bill were terrified of him and shot him dead on a bit of work in 1990. They don’t make them like Kenny Baker no more. The cream of the crop.

Michael Biggs, Ronnie’s son. He’s a legend in his own right in the way he fights for his old man’s freedom. He’s a top son that any father would be proud of.

Bernie Davies. Another hard man - a Welsh ex bare-knuckle fighter. The valleys breed them tough. Bernie’s been in my corner for years and he’s always welcome in any of the chaps’ company. This guy has earned his respect a million times over.

Jamie Foreman. One of Britain’s top actors and the son of Freddie. No wonder Fred’s so proud of him. Every time Jamie comes on the TV or is in a movie you can bet your arse on it that every con in the UK is watching him. He’s fucking brilliant.

Bobbie Frankham, the legendary cobbled fighter. The gypsies love a fighter. Men who fight like Bobby become icons. They earn respect the hard way. The kingpin of the gypsies was Johnny Frankham. This guy could have a serious fight. He was a British light heavyweight champion in the 1970s, but Johnny’s fought ‘em all, not just in the ring. He’s spilt blood in pub car parks, fields and circus tents, all the way to the Royal Albert Hall. That’s what you call legendary. No wonder the gypsies love him to bits. A man of rock.

Jimmy and Wally Stockin. Two cracking gypsy bare-knuckle fighters. They’re both up there in the legendary status, both men of respect. They were born fighters, bred for fighting. When they stepped on the cobbles you knew there would be blood spilt, ribs smashed to bits and teeth knocked out. Fuck Russell Crowe or Charlton Heston or Stallone - that’s all fairy stories. The Stockins were for real! True gladiators.

Liam Galvin. You’ve probably not heard of him so I’ll tell you who and what he is. He’s the chaps’ official cameraman. He does all the filming of wedding parties and compiling DVDs. He’s the dog’s bollocks.

Kevin Paddock. Another legendary fighter and he beat Lenny McLean in the ring. So much for Lenny saying he could never be beaten. No man is unbeatable. We all have to taste the bitter-sweet defeat, but a true fighter comes back and wins. Guys like Kevin don’t get a lot of media coverage, coz they’re low-key men who don’t want to be in the limelight. They’re fighters, not actors. But to me they’re legends I salute.

Johnny Waldron. Another fighter who beat Lenny McLean. He knocked him clean out in Round 1. If that’s not legendary, then what is?

Brian Hall. He used to run the Rising Sun boozer in Essex for years. Brian used to spar with Henry Cooper and he prepared Roy Shaw for the Donny The Bull Adams fight in the 1970s. Men like Brian Hall are never forgotten! I’m not sure what he’s up to today. I’d like to think he’s helping out in some local boys’ boxing gym, coz the kids listen to men like Brian; they all trust a fighter.

Peter Scott. Another famous cat burglar. You’ll probably remember him for nicking Sophia Loren’s jewels in the 1960s. He was known as ‘The Human Fly’. He’s had Picasso paintings and diamonds worth millions, and has also lost millions through his life of crime. But he would never ever steal from the poor. He was known in the game as a ‘gentleman thief ‘. Sure, he spent some years in Her Majesty’s Prisons, but I’ll tell you now: he would have no regrets. This man lived his dreams. I really don’t know if he’s alive or dead, but believe me he really was born a legend. He was one of the best thieves we’ve ever had. If you was ever a victim of Peter Scott, then you was robbed by the best.

Old Duchy - Peter to his friends. If there ever was a legend it’s this guy. Get his book and learn how to become a survivor. This guy was a thalidomide victim, born with no legs and a twisted-up body. Every day of his life he fought his way up. He’s done it all; seen it all; had it all. He’s a fucking hero. And he’s done a bit of porridge too. We love him to bits. This guy makes his disability his advantage. Nobody in their right mind would mess with Duchy. He’s a fucking lunatic - a good loony, that is. But he won’t just do anybody’s - only the elite. You better believe it. Three cheers for Duchy. Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!

Rocky Hart. He got stabbed to death in Parkhurst in the mid-1980s by fatso pea-brain and no-good cunt Rogers. He was already serving life for murder. Then in a cowardly act he slipped up behind Rocky in the kitchen and took him out over fuck all. He killed a top diamond geezer. The cunt got nutted off and sent to Ashworth Asylum and Rocky Hart got a grave. All the chaps respected Rocky and we won’t ever forget him. He was a proper good fella.

Max Lacololi. One of the top three doormen. When him and his mate Stilks are on the door you can guarantee a peaceful night. Unlike a lot of doormen, these guys know how to nip the bud before it grows. A good doorman means a good club. A bad doorman means a bad club. Max can work on my door anytime. Look me up later, Max. You’ve got it, mate.

Rickie Tregaski. This geezer copped an extra six years on his sentence for cutting little Sarah Payne’s killer, Roy ‘Dogface’ Whiting. He cut him here in Wakefield. How the fuck can a judge give anybody six years for cutting a filthy child-killing nonce? Rickie should’ve got a medal and early release. Hey, and guess what? The nonce got a nice few quids’ compensation too. How sick can it get?

Alphie O’Leary, Laurie O’Leary’s brother. The Krays respected both of them. Sadly Alphie died in 2002, but he’s never forgotten. The O’Learys came from the poor part of east London in the war era. They were born tough in them days. You had to be handy. Alphie was a gentle giant, a kid who’d done well out of life. He even ended up travelling the world with the great Eric Clapton. Alphie was respected in both walks of life, the good and the bad. He was that sort of man. He could drink with a prince or a gangster and be loyal to both. That’s what you call a legend in my book. R.I.P.

Geordie George Craig. He was a hard man; they don’t come a lot tougher. He was one of those sorts of men you don’t hear a lot about, coz he never went around blowing his own trumpet. He served several sentences and served them his way, and only his way. Then he got out and did a lot of good in life by opening up the ‘Lazarus Centre’ in Sunderland, housing the homeless, alcoholics and drug addicts. Ever since then he has never looked back and all he earns now is respect. I suggest you read his best-selling book Mud Sticks, and then you’ll see what a real winner is. Respect.

Eric Rubin. I met this Russian guy in Parkhurst. He was nicked with Valerio Viccei on the Knightsbridge safe deposit boxes. Eric was a tough cookie. Parkhurst to him was a holiday camp considering he’d served time in the Russian salt mines. Eric’s stories blew me away. He was the original Papillon. What he don’t know about hardship and torture ain’t worth knowing. He even had the chain marks on his ankles and wrists. This guy I truly admired. Sadly his health wasn’t good - he was coughing up a lot of blood. I don’t know what happened to him, but I’d like to think he survived his 20-year sentence and got out and kicked some more arse. The Russian Mob can sure be proud of Eric Rubin - a top villain.

General Hoffman, a little Spanish bloke, who was opposite my cell in Long Lartin in 1990. He was known as an international player. There was nothing this guy hadn’t done. He was a true survivor, as well as a funny little fucker. He was always up for a laugh. One day he pretended to have a heart attack and just lay still on the corridor. The screws were running all over the place, everybody panicking. Then he jumped up and said, I’ll have a nice cuppa tea now. This is one guy I want a pint with outside.

Sidney Earnshaw. Old Sid spent 40+ years locked away, mostly in the asylums. I met him in Ashworth Asylum in 1984. He was in his seventies then. Sid was one of the forgotten faces, but I soon changed that. I sorted him out and got him back in touch with the outside world. His face lit up and all my mates enjoyed meeting him. Sid had just lost his way in life and become totally brainwashed. The system had chewed him up. He loved a bet, so I sorted him a phone number so he could put some bets on. And, fuck me, did he win or did he win? It turned out he was a horse-racing genius. The Ashworth screws couldn’t understand how all the dosh was coming to him. He was winning more dosh than the screws’ wages and he had a life of luxury. I brought him back to life.

Tommy Comerford. A true Scouser and a Liverpool legend, known as ‘The Boss’. I’ve known Tommy for years, so he must now be in his late 60s or early 70s. There’s fuck all this man hasn’t done, from hijacking lorries loaded with booze to armed blags. I last bumped into him in Long Lartin in the 1980s. Tom’s a character and I do hope he’s now free and enjoying his old age. This guy’s eaten more porridge than the Scottish Guards, so it’s time for some eggs and bacon.

Courtney Rumpole. I met Courtney in Long Lartin in the 1980s. He was one of the best hooch masters in the system. A bottle of his hooch would blow your socks off. I used to tell him, Pack in the crime and start your own brewery. What better job could there be for him? He’d be a self-made millionaire. I hope he took my advice.

Les Cromer. A top geezer and a true pal. He was opposite my cell in Walton Jail in the early 1990s. I had fuck all at this time as I was on a lot of punishment. Les was only on remand, but they were holding him in the seg block over an alleged fight up on the wing. He used to leave me stuff in the recess for when I slopped out: biscuits, sweets, Mars bars, etc. He even got me a little transistor radio. All this stuff was a luxury to me. Anyway, Les got out and sadly died soon after in a car crash. He was a young man with everything to live for, with a great family he loved a lot. He was a good, solid, staunch man, the best. Respect!

John Dillon. Another top Scouser. This guy had a nice escape from the prison van when he was being escorted from Risley to Liverpool Crown Court in the 1980s. Bang! Masked gunmen got him out of the van and he vanished. Sadly he got nicked soon after. That’s showbiz! I last saw him in Full Sutton some time back. He’s your typical Scouser - a funny fucker. The Scousers are good lads to do bird with. Apart from that mad cunt who almost bit my thumbs off in Walton. I always seem to bump into loonies.

Billy Simpson. He was a nobody till I smashed him with a teapot. Then he became a legend. Billy ‘Teapot’ Simpson. it’s fucking mental. But it will stay with him till the day he dies. I’ll have a teapot done in flowers for him. Everybody knows the teapot.

Abouzuz. I met this Arab guy in Gartree in the 1980s. He was a big, strong bloke who got nicked in Leicester and copped a ten stretch. He used to do a lot of sparring with me on the exercise yard in the seg block. That was until I knocked him out. It was a genuine accident, but after that he never did come out no more.

Roy Ivors. I first met Roy in the 1980s down on ‘the island’. He was a powerful man; so strong that he almost kicked his way out of a Cat A security van whilst being escorted to a jail. The eight screws in the van shit it, so they drove to the nearest cop shop. The van was a write-off. He’d kicked a big fuck of a dent in it. It looked like a JCB had crashed it. Roy was serving a 19 stretch. He should be well out by now and I’m one guy who hopes he’s doing well. Max respect to the man.

Mohammad Khan. The West Midlands police force fitted this guy right up. He copped 18 years for a blag he could not have committed, and he proved it and walked out from the appeal court. What happened? I met him in Gartree in the 1980s and he showed me all his depositions. It was obvious he’d been fitted up. He was apparently seen running away from this armed blag he was supposed to have done, but a few days before the robbery took place Mohammad lost two of his toes and he was heavily bandaged up. How could he have been running? Sure as hell, he walked free. Around this time the West Midlands police were fitting up plenty. There was a massive inquiry and a lot of the Old Bill were sacked. But how many were jailed? Very few. The slags should’ve all got 18 years. We can only be grateful to the courts of appeal, where the injustice of some of our trials can be seen and men like Mohammad Khan can be freed.

Hey, talking of toes, there was a lunatic in Rampton who actually bit his big toe off. Don’t ask me why, or how, he just did. Yeh, it freaked me out too, coz he actually ate it. He ate his own fucking toe. Jesus … get me the fuck out of here!

Tony Peterson. I only met him in Belmarsh in 1996, but the guy’s a living legend. He was in the ‘69 Parkhurst Riot, the riot of all riots. Sadly he got nicked in ‘96 over a trumped-up charge. I never heard how he made out, but I do hope he walked. They were trying to wind him up in Belmarsh over visits, so I stepped in. Some silly screw was just getting lemon, so I said, You wind my mate up and you wind me up. Now what’s it to be? It passed over peacefully. Who said screws are brain dead?

Big Pat Purcell. I first met Pat in Full Sutton and then in Shitemoor - oops, sorry - Whitemoor. Pat’s a good old-fashioned cockney with good old- fashioned morals. He made it out and stayed out. A big black roller collected him from the prison gate and it’s been party time ever since. Cheers!

Mad Ritchie. I met Ritchie up in Ashworth Asylum in the 1980s. He was a big bald-headed guy, with big spaced-out eyes - everybody’s nightmare - and he talked with a growl. But I took time to get to know him and deep down he was a genuine guy - a bit freaky, but I love a loon. One nutter came running into my cell shouting, Help, help, Ritchie’s gonna chop me up and put me in a curry. So I said, Fuck off or I’ll put you in a stew! Ritchie was a strange guy. He forever played The Eagles tape Hotel California. He was also bang into the Bible and once when he got on my nerves I grabbed his Bible and slung it through the cell bars. Fuck off now, Ritchie, I said, or you’re next. It was that close to a punch-up. Fortunately he walked away. These loonies are okay just in small doses, coz they can come on too strong, and when they do it’s like a mad dog. You’ve got to get in first or lose your throat.

Bob Taylor. Bob copped life in the late 1970s. I met him in Parkhurst. He was a brilliant artist, but he had serious psychological problems and kept losing the plot. Once in Gartree he stuck a 6-inch nail in a lump of wood and rammed it into a con’s neck (for a laugh). He lived on dog-ends: where there was an ashtray, there was Bob. Fuck knows what happened to him. He probably got lung cancer and died.

Franco Vincitore. I met Franco in Woodhill back in 1993. He was on remand over some blag, but I believe he got a not guilty. He used to work out with me on the yard. He was a good training partner. I really put him through it, but he loved it coz he knew it was good for him. One day out in the sunshine we were throwing the medicine ball at each other and doing sit-ups. My ball was a big 11-pounder full of sawdust. I shouted and pointed up at the sky. Look. Look at that! He looked up and I threw the ball. Crash! It smashed into his head and almost knocked him sparko. Franco, I said, always be ready, be alert. And only trust one man - yourself. He was a top guy I admired.

Another man I salute is Tony Crabbs, a lifer and a good friend. He once climbed through some razor wire and sat on top of a CCTV camera for four hours in the rain to support me and then got a good kicking for his troubles after. Would any of your friends do that for you? I bet not. That’s my friends for you in a nutshell - the best hard nuts but staunch! It’s all loonyology!

Now see why I’m so lucky with all the amazing people I’ve met and shared time with. It’s been a brilliant experience and it’s still not over. My life has yet to start up. Wait until I’m free and then my real life will begin. I can’t fucking wait.

The Mad, The Bad and The Downright Evil

So who is, or was, the maddest bastard I ever met? I bet you’re dying to know. What a question. Let me think … I need to think some more about that one. That’s like me asking a 35-stone fatty their favourite bar of chocolate. It’ll come to me, though. But, until it does, here’s my latest poem. Oh yes, I’m a poet. Yeh me. What’s so funny? It’s not just poofs and toffs who write poems. I do too. This one is called Sucked Away:

God … My face is blown away

My soul’s gone with it

I’m empty and lost

Heartless and soulless

Somebody pass me an axe

A very sharp one

It’s time to do some chopping

It’s time to walk the line

Who’s coming with me?

Put your hands up

Don’t be shy

I’ll take you all

The more the merrier

You over there with the long beard

Yeh you - you scary fucker

It’s time you took a ride

A one-way ticket

Hell awaits

Hey you - yeh you

You with the big fat nose

You’re scaring the kids

It’s time you moved on

You’ve had a good innings

Stop crying

You’re all the fucking same

Hopeless and spineless

You make me sick

My skin’s crawling

You’re crackheads

Pissheads

Take your last drink

Cheers

Here’s to Lucifer

Kiss my arse

Lick it

Stick your nose right up my butt

Go on, do it

That’s better

You’ll feel good

Born again

That’s the trouble with you lot

You don’t know you’re born

You’ve never had it so good

Whilst you’re on your knees

Clean my boots

Spit and polish

Put some elbow into it

I want to see my face in it

A reflection of madness

Loonyology

Amen!

So here’s the maddest fucker I ever met, and by God I’ve met the lot. It’s Robert ‘Cannibal’ Maudsley. I’ve known this nutter for 30 years and believe me he’s madder now than he was 30 years ago, okay, and he’s two cages from me.

Maudsley got life back in 1974 at the same time as I got put away myself. He was a young man of 19 years. He’d left Liverpool and headed for Kings Cross, London, to be a rent boy. Some fucking rent boy. He’s 6 feet 2 and built like a shithouse door. There’s no way he got too many punters but he copped for one and cut him to bits. He pleaded guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He got sent to Broadmoor Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

Two years later he took a fellow lunatic hostage with another loony called John Chessman. The hostage was a young lad called Alan Francis. He was the weakest on the ward, which is why they grabbed him. He never weighed

10 stone soaking wet. They dragged him into the boot room and barricaded the door. Alan’s screams could be heard all over the Asylum. The cowards were torturing him. My argument is that if their victim had been a guard or a doctor would they have sat back and allowed the screams to go on without smashing the door in to save him? The truth is, Broadmoor did not give a fuck about it. He died in agony. Half his brain was protruding out of his skull and some of it was missing - one of them ate it. Well it is an Asylum so what did you expect?

Chessman and Maudsley stood trial at Winchester and both got a further life sentence. Chessman went to the Scrubs where he took another hostage and shagged his arse all night long. Maudsley seemed to settle for a spell up in Wakefield Jail; that was until 1978 when he started again. This time he killed two prisoners - two in one night. Again one had a bit of brain missing. The cannibal was hungry. Again he was sentenced to two more life sentences with a recommendation that he died in prison. That’s now four life sentences. Fuck me, how many lives has he got?!

Since that double murder he has literally been held in isolation. He’s definitely a survivor, but a complete nutter.

It was four years back that I had a big fall out with him over a watch. I had a new watch sent in and I thought I’d give him my old one. It was a summer’s day and he was in one yard, me in another. Our yards are 20-foot- square cages where we walk up and down for an hour a day alone. This unit is a maximum secure control unit. We are not allowed to mix. We are always escorted from our cells to the yard by no less than seven screws, sometimes more.

Anyway, I said to him through the fence, Fancy a watch Bob? He said, Yeh.

So I said, Look, it’s a Seiko, a good one. I’ll sort it for you that you can have it.

He said, Thanks.

And that was that - or so I thought.

I went out of my way to sort it, as it’s all got to be done proper or he can’t have it. It must go on his Property Sheet. So I get to see the Reception screw and he was an old school screw, a decent chap.

Yeh sure, Charlie, I’ll do that for Bob.

Next thing Maudsley is shouting at the screw, Fuck off!

I’m now confused. The screw says, I’ve a watch for you. I need your signature to go on your property.

But Maudsley is shouting, Fuck off! I tell the screw, Bin it, fuck him.

I then tell Maudsley, You’re an ungrateful cunt. He says, I’ll stab your eyes out and eat your heart.

Yeh? Not before I break your jaw and bust all your ribs.

And that’s it. We now hate each other. I’ve had dummies and nappies sent to him, even the Gay News and a male blow-up doll - all to wind him up. I pray one day I’ll bump into him at 300 mph; unlike him, I don’t need a blade. He has to have a tool to come at me. It’s the only chance he’d have against me.

I can make allowances for the insane, but not in this case as this guy is a walking danger zone. He really would rip my heart out, but then again I really would punch a hole in his face. Why did he mug me off over the watch? Who knows. I don’t think he even knows. Maybe the untold solitary years have now made him madder. He’s really got nothing left in his life except his mad, mad world. He lives in a complete fantasy world of violence. He has no humanity in his entire body. So I make him the maddest bastard in the system. In a strange way I actually feel sad for him, but I’d still enjoy punching him up. Nobody rips my heart out or eats my brain, especially a fucking nutcase like Bob Maudsley.

When it comes to nutters, Ian Walbey takes some beating too. In Woodhill CSC Unit he had a bad day and got a bit depressed. So he got a razor and cut his face to shreds. It took 100 stitches to put it back together. A hundred fucking stitches! He almost lost his eye over it. That’s what you call depression. That’s what you call loonyology.

Can you believe it’s 30 years since Elvis left the planet? There was a loony in Rampton Asylum who used to sing ‘Jailhouse Rock’ all the time - at 3 a.m. when the asylum wanted to sleep. So we sort of went off Elvis after that. Cunt. He had a slight accident and he had to have his jaw wired up. Peace at last.

I met a lifer down in Parkhurst in the 1970s called Ginger Evans. He had a valve in his heart, a hearing aid, a glass eye, one leg shorter than the other and a hair lip. Fuck me, I’ve never seen nothing like it! I just had to ask the 10 million dollar question:

Hey, Ginger, what did you get life for?

I blew my wife’s head off with a shotgun, he smiled.

What for? I asked.

She was a moaning bitch. She drove me mad!

There’s not a lot you can say to that is there?!

Henry Farrell, now there was a nutter if ever there was one! I don’t mean that in a nasty way, coz I actually liked the guy. He just acted strange and it upset people and made them very wary of him. I first met him in the asylums in the ‘70s and ‘80s and then again in Parkhurst in the ‘80s. I spent a few weeks on B Wing with him at Parkhurst. B Wing was full of ‘London faces’, cons like Reg Kray, Bobby Maynard, Martin Long, Paul Edmunds, Terry Smith. In fact at this time it was multicultural. It had sections of cons - not so much gangs, but more like families. Everybody stuck to their own - the Greeks, the blacks, the Irish, etc. - but if one section had a bucket of hooch for sale or a lump of dope, the deals were done. That’s how it was in the ‘70s and ‘80s at Parkhurst. It was party time from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. Henry was in no-man’s land, ‘lost’. He kept darting from one cell to another upsetting people, talking mental, with his big staring eyes. He didn’t mean any harm, it’s just how he is: ‘mad’. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he had some hooch, some dope and some pills and he ended up in Reg Kray’s cell, where there was a party going on. Hey, I bet this all sounds like the West End to you! Reg told Henry to call it a night and go and bang up and get his head down. Henry got very lippy and insulted Reg and next thing - bang! - he was knocked out cold. We got him back to his cell and banged his door up. Problem solved. The next day Henry walked into Reggie’s cell and made another scene, so again he got knocked out. And that’s how it was! There wasn’t a day went by without somebody getting a slap. It really was a fucking madhouse! It’s hard to believe, but on some cell doors there’d be a doorman - you only got into a party if you’d been invited. There was one con who had every part of his cell pasted with fanny pictures. To sit in there for five minutes used to fuck up your head. Fanny everywhere. You wouldn’t be allowed to do that now, not with women screws. Crazy times.

Dennis Mercer must come high on the loony list too. He actually made me feel sick. He had a way of destroying all humanity and feelings. I don’t think he was off our planet. Broadmoor 1979 was a very mad era for me. I met the maddest of the mad, lots and lots of characters. Mercer was in the next cell to me in Norfolk Intensive Ward, which was a max secure unit for Broadmoor’s most dangerous men. Mercer used to have ‘strange ways’ and act out ‘strange things’. His cell always smelt of shit. No wonder - he spread it all over the walls! He also used to bang the door all night with his head. When we all got unlocked in the morning, out he used to come, covered in shit and with blood all over his head and body. Not a nice way to begin a day. Sights like that never leave the brain. It’s horror on horror, insanity gone mad, and that stink seems to stay with you all day. All asylums smell of shit and piss, but this was bloody ridiculous. He would’ve made a brilliant pig farmer, the best. On second thoughts, no, it would be cruel to the pigs! Broadmoor’s the best place for him.

One loony you didn’t fuck with was big Steve Roughton, who stood at 6 feet 5 inches and weighed 280 pounds (of muscle). I met him in Ashworth Asylum back in the 1980s. Boy oh boy could he punch. Boy oh boy did he punch. He chinned more screws than any loony in the asylum, but to his friends he was a gentle giant, and to his mother he was her angel. That’s how it is with real loons. They’re lovely people. You just don’t upset them, or they can turn as fast as switching a light on. Steve used to strip off naked and run all over the asylum grounds. You just let him do it, let him burn himself out, otherwise people would get hurt. You can’t run away from Ashworth. It’s got a fucking big 25-foot wall around it. It’s max secure. Some call it the Broadmoor of the North. I spent a year in that place. I’ve got stories that will make you laugh and cry.

I’m one of only a handful of guys who