Author’s note: I’ve always had a soft spot for Jeffery Archer, he’s always seemed a rather amusing and generous person who has managed to drag himself back up from various scandals. I’ve even met him once and he was charming. Anyway, he was sent to jail for lying and I thought I would have a bit of fun.
In this issue, the Brains Trust begins its hard-hitting serialisation of Jeffery Archer’s explosive Prison Diaries. In these testaments to the sordid underbelly of life as a lag in British prisons, Archer turns his gimlet eye to expose the over-crowding, deprivation and brutality that are everyday life for the convicts banged up in jail. The shocking treatment of those on the wrong side of the tracks is revealed by Britain’s top investigative writer. We warn our readers that they may find some parts of these uncensored passages upsetting.
From the start Archer reveals the loneliness and solitude as well as the appalling food in North Sea Camp Prison:
“Monday. Luncheon with Ken Livingstone, Andy Trotter, Metropolitan Police Deputy Assistant Commissioner, and the Prison Governor. Discussed crime policy and the affect of licensing laws in London. Disappointed that Peter Stringfellow had been barred from the refectory for refusing to remove his rings which wardens claimed could have been used as a knuckle-duster. These chaps really are the limit. Found hair in my Terrine au Foie Gras avec Calvados. Shocking. You’d thing Albert Roux would keep a closer eye on this sort of thing.”
The overcrowding of cells is also revealed by Archers pitiless glare:
“Wednesday AM. Joined in suite today by new chap who will be using third bedroom. Jardine Fortesque. Ghastly, gauche old Harrovian clearly born on the wrong side of the stable door. Apparently convicted of spending his company’s pension fund on roulette and attempting to exhaust two identical eighteen-year old Swedish twins. We are now forced to share my private dining room and en-suite bathroom as he managed to bung up his lavatory during a routine search for drugs.”
Bullying and intimidation are never far away in the repressive atmosphere of fear that permeates every part of the prison.
“Wednesday PM. Dropped my tennis racket on way out to local members club to knock a few balls around with Jonathan Aitken. Nice chap, but he does insist on starting each set with a prayer and hug which rather puts one off. Anyway, the warder refused to pick the racket up for me. Had to remind him who I was and issue a sharp rebuke. Honestly!”
In the final, most thrilling passage he details how he single handedly thwarted a daring prison breakout.
“Friday. Had arranged trip out for all of my wing for a spot of culture. Everyone very enthusiastic. Insisted on packing a lot more clothes than I would have thought necessary for a visit to the theatre. Unfortunately, everyone dropped out with tummy upsets shortly after I revealed we were off to see the Lincoln Players production of my play ‘The Accused'”
Sex and Drugs and Growing Old 