Insanity - My Mad Life - Charles Bronson

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following day, I was supplied, at my request, with a new cheap throwaway mobile phone. New because it meant no one would be ringing me; it had £10 worth of credit on it. Charlie is allowed to make phone calls, which to date he refuses to do because of his fight to have open visits with his wife, Saira. The prison authorities will not allow Charlie any contact with visitors and all visits have been ordered to take place with Charlie behind a steel cell door, so, consequently, as a protest Charlie now refuses to make phone calls. I took up my entitlement to use £5 worth of calls in a seven-day period and that way, if need be, I could phone for help.

      I felt a lot safer with the mobile phone, but what it did make me aware of was all of the times Charlie needed help and how he was refused access to a doctor, when he was left lying in a stinking cell trussed up in a restraining belt two sizes too small for him and with only a few cockroaches for friends. Nah, I wasn’t prepared to go to those lengths to see what Charlie must have been feeling or thinking … I’d use my imagination and, besides, the supplies of apple pies were running low!

      Dinner had arrived … mmmmmm, aaaaaaah … the smell of fish and chips nearly brought me to my knees in appreciation. Hey, this wasn’t too bad after all … wasn’t I doing well, my second day in solitary? No sweat.

      I had to sort Charlie’s handwritten notes into order so that would help while away the hours. Most people cannot read Charlie’s scrawled handwriting … me, I’ve got no problem. If I could read Reggie Kray’s almost impossible, hieroglyphic-style handwriting, then Charlie’s presented no problems. (After all, my scrawl is just as bad.) Time was flying! This made me aware that so long as Charlie was kept busy, then time would fly equally fast for him. I mean, after all, at least he had his art and his many hundreds of letters from fans to reply to. Yes, I had decided, that was the key to it all … keep busy.

      Charlie has had his art materials taken from him countless times by the prison authorities as a punishment for minor and major breaches of prison rules. Charlie even went on hunger strike at HMP Whitemoor for a 40-day period when the prison confiscated his art materials, but by doing this they were ‘taking away his soul’, his reason for living, and now, after only two days, I was beginning to understand what he meant!

      Charlie once punished me by withdrawing all his art from me. He wrote, ‘I’m not sending you any more art until January 2002 because you don’t appreciate my art.’ My misdemeanour was not to have sent him photographs showing his pictures hanging on my office walls! That’s how much he values his art works. Charlie actually sent me more drawings before the period of withdrawal had expired … he’s such a softy!

      Teatime had arrived! I stood by the door with baited breath … what goodies could I expect? Nothing! What … nothing? Yes, nothing. I was supposed to be brought a meal three times a day, but the person responsible for this had been called away on urgent family business and it was passed on to someone else. Now isn’t that typical of what happens in Charlie’s life? Others are delegated a job and that’s when things go wrong — talking but not communicating.

      So there I was, standing by the door arguing! The only thing I was handed was a list of urgent phone calls that had been left at the office for me! I blew my top. ‘For fuck’s sake, what am I supposed to live on until tomorrow morning?’ I said with an aggression that surprised me.

      ‘Hang on a minute …’ the person responded but, before they could say anything else, I apologised and said I didn’t know what had come over me. I explained that I wouldn’t be getting anything else until breakfast and needed my tea. Ten minutes later, I was brought a bag of crisps, a Mars bar and two cheese pasties … oh well, better than nothing, I suppose.

      Again, I was now made to think of the times Charlie had told me over the phone about his meals being messed up. He told me that if he was expecting a visit, when he was allowed open visits, he wouldn’t have dinner because his visitor would be able to buy goodies from a vending machine in the visits room. But if the visitor didn’t turn up, he would be starving by the time his last meal of the day was served. I was beginning to understand what this cock-up would mean to a solitary prisoner. I was beginning to understand why such a small thing as a missed meal could set him off.

      The solitary conditions brought me even closer to Charlie and here I was reading his handwritten notes that were now very relevant to my own condition. I could also understand why actors have to become the person they are playing; they go and study the person in great depth.

      I noted among the list of phone messages I’d been given some time earlier that one call in particular was from Charlie’s wife, Saira. What was I to do? Break my code of silence and return her call? Would it matter if I did … after all, it was Charlie’s wife calling me?

      No! I had to see it through; unless it was a life or death situation I would remain in solitary. Hey, hang on a minute, I thought to myself, Charlie has a radio in his cell … I want one, too! I hadn’t realised what interesting programmes there are on the radio; a great lifeline in such conditions, that radio became my friend.

      Breaking point, I must admit, was near. Without a cigar, I was nearly climbing the walls, although at this stage I wasn’t chewing my nails, but I noticed that I had developed the habit of playing about with my eyebrows. By doing so, I was making them look rather curly, and when the steel door opened I was greeted with laughter. Not knowing what it was about, I didn’t find it funny, until it was pointed out what was making them laugh — my ‘Dennis Healey’ eyebrows; I, too, eventually saw the funny side.

      This really was becoming insanity at its best! I imagined Charlie twiddling with his moustache, making the ends curly, as I had done with my eyebrows. A cigar, I’d love a cigar, I thought to myself. Charlie surely craved things as well; maybe it would be apple pies instead of cigars.

      I had to make a brave decision. Nicorette patches were called for, one for each arm, I thought. No, maybe more to help me through, but the instructions said not to overdose by applying too many patches, so it was only the one patch to get me through the night.

      That night, even though the chilly winter was biting into my toes, I was sweating. I tore off the patch and eventually by breakfast time I had found a friend in sleep.

      I called for Nicorette gum and, some hours later, along with my dinner and more lists of urgent telephone messages that needed answering, I chewed on my first piece of Nicorette gum … yuk! Fuck this for a lark! I thought in temper. Is this what Charlie really had to endure? Probably not half or even a quarter of it … at least he didn’t have to chew on Nicorette gum! No doubt about it — Charlie certainly didn’t have it as bad as I had! I mean, he only had to endure beatings and the liquid cosh, while I had to endure cravings for nicotine! There I was, contemplating taking a hostage or two just so I could get my hands on a juicy Cuban cigar.

      A change of clothing was to make me feel refreshed; I washed using a basin, no shower! Then again, Charlie gives himself a body wash up to three times a day; of course, he also does up to 6,000 press-ups, which generates a lot of sweat! I quickly dispensed with the idea of pumping out a quick 6,000 and found another method of keeping warm — running on the spot, lifting my legs high, and before long I was in a sweat.

      I knew why I was doing this; I had an aim, I was not going to let it beat me. Everything was going great until I had a piece of sad news relayed by a note along with another list of ‘urgent’ telephone calls. Before long, I found it playing on my mind … all day! The sad news was starting to consume me; my isolation had helped to magnify and enlarge this piece of news until it consumed my whole fucking mind!

      Teatime arrived and, somehow, I had to break the solitary conditions I was enduring in order to attend to a very urgent matter.

      Charlie, however, in such circumstances wouldn’t be able to do this. He couldn’t say, ‘Hey, let me out for a few hours, I need to sort this problem out.’ I had learned a valuable lesson from all of this and it brought it home to me how Charlie must have felt when he received a piece of bad news and was powerless to do anything about it. If only Jack Straw or David Blunkett could be put into isolation, then they’d

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