Insanity - My Mad Life - Charles Bronson

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a hanging suicide. It’s not as simple as you might think. The people who have to cut them down and attempt to save them have to live with that for ever. The face, the horror, that protruding tongue, those bulging eyes, the smell of shit and the stink of piss. That final zip of the body bag shuts the despair of it all away! Then the smell of death lingers on for days, weeks after. The atmosphere, the pain … why? ‘Could I have helped?’ ‘Was it me?’ People are left traumatised. I’ve been there, believe it, it’s a form of madness for us all.

      Psychopaths? Yes, it’s insanity, but it’s the coldest form of insanity. They are heartless and soulless. Dangerous beyond your wildest imagination, they are the madmen nobody wants. Doctors fear them. Asylums don’t want them. So many must live in prisons under maximum-security conditions, mostly in isolation.

      So what causes such men to act so violently? A brutal childhood or are they just basically evil beyond help? How can a man put a gun to someone’s head and say, ‘Bye, bye,’ and blow someone’s brains out, laugh and walk away to enjoy a bag of fish and chips?

      How can a man pick up a baby and throw it out of a twenty-fourth-floor window? How can a man knife to death three old-age pensioners at a bingo hall and steal their pensions? How can a 19-year-old man and a 21-year-old woman mug and kill a pensioner for her fish supper? Yet they do and they get a laugh out of it. Not all psychos are like this … some are just totally evil.

      I know one who is an armed robber and a contract killer; he would shoot his own granny if the price was right. Be thankful those types are a rare breed, but they do exist. They live out there on the streets; they are killing machines. Professional psychos.

      So what turns a man into an insanity machine? What makes predators of men? They are motivated by one thing — insanity! And I’ll tell you what’s insane — Broadmoor doctors, they’re all nuts. They try to rehabilitate people like the Ripper, but what for? Rehabilitate him for what? The cunt will die inside. There is nothing to rehabilitate him for. Why not just kill him now and get his brain out on the laboratory table. Why rehabilitate a monster who will never see the light again?

      I’ll tell you what’s insane, Sir David Ramsbotham’s (the former Prisons Inspector) report on HMP Woodhill’s CSC unit, which condemned it as ‘barbaric’ and ‘inhuman’, but there are still 30 of them living in it. So what good are reports?

      I’ll tell you what’s mad — letting the nonces in HMP Whitemoor work in the kitchens and giving them the best jobs. Why?

      I’ll tell you what’s insane — making documentaries of monsters and letting them speak, but they will not allow me to speak. Why can’t I speak? What about all this? Isn’t it all mad? Am I insane? Well, I am a problem; I’m a serial hostage-taker, the only one in Britain. Lots say I’m mad, but am I? It’s so easy to wrap a guy up and demand something, but it’s not as easy to release him. A siege is madness; the longer it goes on, the madder it gets. A gun would solve the problem.

      I believe the negotiations are mad; they want blood and they want a bad end so they can all get sick leave, because they’ve been traumatised. ‘Oh, that nasty Bronson has upset me, my nerves have gone. I need £50,000 compensation and six months on the sick … I may even write a book!’ They’re all mad, seekers of sympathy; I call them ‘maggots of madness’; I’ve more respect for the hostage.

      I’m often asked, ‘Charlie, did any of them hostages fill their pants?’ Yes, several, and it’s not nice for me to smell it. I hate the smell of shit! How do those sewer workers put up with it? In fact, how do the queers put up with a shitty dick? It sort of makes me feel ill. Still, each to their own, I say!

      Now where was I? Oh yeah, sieges. It’s dangerous and exciting and it’s actually a buzz. I’m often asked why do I do it. Simple … I like to cause their insane system some problems. They deserve to be destroyed. I’ve got a pathological hatred for the plums up in Prison Service headquarters, and I give them problems. Or, I should say, did give them problems, as I’m now retired from sieges. In fact, I’m now a pacifist. I’m a peace-dweller! I’m on a mission of love. Well, ’til some cunt upsets me!

      LEVELS OF INSANITY

      1. Simple — mostly sad people who long to be wanted and loved so they cause havoc for a bit of attention. They’re treated with tranquillisers; a lot of fucking tranquillisers! ‘Johnny, be good and you can watch TV.’ ‘Now pop this pill in your mouth.’ ‘Did you make your bed, tidy your room? Good boy.’ You need patience for Johnny — time and lots of support. He can be cured with love and kindness.

      2. Very disturbed — you need to be cautious. These types can snap and become a problem; they’re unpredictable and totally irrational. They ooze danger; red light, be prepared. Try to pacify them, try to get into their mind and convince them it’s safe. Get their confidence, build up a positive relationship and hope you’ve cracked it. If it can’t be resolved, then just inject.

      3. Totally dangerous — would you step into a lion’s den without protection or a big fuck-off gun? Look, let me tell you … you can’t get through to this sort; once the fuse is lit, run. Come back later when the storm has passed.

      There are killers and killers and I’ve met them all. Every type of killer on the planet, and I’ve met them — sick bastards, sad bastards and pure evil bastards. To most people, a killer is a killer, but it’s not so. I’ve met guys who kill for love; they kill once and part of them dies, too. It’s emotions; they can’t handle it and they crack and kill. Most killers are domestic cases; they’re sad people, broken men, believe it!

      A guy comes home early, unexpectedly, and finds the milkman right up his wife’s arse … what’s he supposed to do, order a few yoghurts? Nah, he goes insane, he can’t help it. The bitch fucks his world up and he goes to prison for life and she goes to hell, and the milkman … well, he loses his bollocks. That’s life — tragic!

      But the sickos, the psychos, the predators are a different breed; believe it, unique specimens, cold and cruel. No remorse just a regret of not killing any witnesses. They rot in jail! Thirty or forty years and then they leave in body bags. Killers like Dennis Nilsen (the UK’s version of the USA’s Jeffrey Dahmer), Sutcliffe, Ireland, Hutchinson and Miller, they’re just never gonna walk the streets again! You’d better pray they don’t and hundreds like them.

      Fear of the unknown — we all have to fear something or someone, all of us. It’s no good saying you’re fearless, ’cos you’re a liar, OK. Fear is personal, but it’s still there. Subconsciously, most madmen fear themselves. Some people are terrified of moths. Can you imagine a great big pansy of a man running away from a moth, but to him it may as well be a two-ton rhino!

      What do I fear? I fear my unpredictability and all around me fear it, too. Each day, I am unlocked by never less than six guards. Nobody knows what I’ll do … I don’t even know! I can smile one second and then explode the next, it doesn’t take much to set me off. Sure, I’m not as bad now as I once was. Age and maturity — I seem more in control as time goes by. Maybe I’m cured … whatever, I’m still in max secure, still in solitary, so the system seems to think I’m still a danger man.

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