Wandsworth by Peter Doherty
excerpt book one.
p1
Lonely Villein
(It is always the unreadable that occurs)
Afternoon ...
Windows crusted with dry summer's flake and
a lonely fly. All a screen ignored by the
viewer who though facing it, stares and
stares straight throughout his silence -
he sits cross-legged on a low wooden chair
his back rest softened by green towels.
The close horizon is pale and blue, misty in
the late afternoon sun that is bright and
hidden in the white aqua sky. A river
and sea, islanding the close region of
Sheppey is the base of the mists drift
that rises gently and still like in a still.
Mostly sky, the canvas is supported by
strips of low bumpy ground in light greens
and yellows. Few runs of trees line elongated
buildings and wonky fencing.
There is a knock on the door. He slowly
rises and opens it, rolling his eyes to his
surprise, no one is there. He glances up and
down the landing quickly and returns into
the small room.
A thin gangly bed runs from the door to the
window of the cell, tightly wrapped in a
fire blanket with a hard white pillow. It
looks like a hospital bed. The rest of the
confine is cramped with a spindly table, a
small cupboard and child sized wardrobe.
An illusion
The window appears clear now and the sky a
rich definitive biro purple, the light in the
room is deceptively dull, as villein has
hung a pale green sheet from crooked screws,
soothing the harsh electric white that blares
from the plasticised case.
Blue smoke from the reflection curls in on
itself and his fingers (held in tobacco mould
this hour and again) lazily, in pose,
tweezer the roll-up's roach. He breaks wind
and flicks ash into an orange peel.
Wormwood Scrubs
excerpt book two.
Sorrow bound; the mornings are depressed, the nights are depressed, the momentary magnificence of melody swept up in all the dirt and pity of the landing. Times past rage up like lies—can I have been there? Seen her? Who dares not to tell me how sweet and special love could be. How daft I am now; belly numb in torments. It’s a Wednesday. I don’t care for dates anymore; it doesn’t matter so much.
My achievements are meals, answering letters. How I dread visits (supervised anyway). The resentment is hollow. I know how well I have to swallow this one, for there is no getting out of it. I once had an idea that, because of my surname and regardless of my father’s progression, the IRA could bust me out of Wandsworth—I'm sure they’ve got enough on their plate. London is dreamily showered in ... late April? I hear the guards laughing like schoolboys every morning without fail. There’s no getting back to sleep once the light floods in and the banging starts.
Well shelved now, all plums and glories. Perhaps I’ll detonate, explode in these endless agonies and then piece myself together in defiance of mesmerizing dullness of depression and the repression of liberty. Occasionally the keys jangle right outside the door, pricking up my arms and ears. It rarely reburns in the cock, just the doctor who looks like James Brown dishing out the Gavascon.
Caribbeans on exercise; someone shows up to the window.
"Pete! Peter?!" A few pebbles clatter against the bars and plastic glass. I can’t fathom a response. "Fuck you then, cunt. Moody cunt!" comes their response. "Fuck earthen cunt … Moody cunt!" comes their reply to themselves.
Torrent of disgust, heartfelt and rotten oranges for dessert that I’d rather were unsmelt. We rot together here. Godforsaken drivel. I’ll stretch & yawn and suddenly topple over the table all dizzy from numbness in the heady soul.
[first page Pentonville diaries]BOOK Three
Saturday 28th January 2006
The story starts here with a slap
in the mush from some unsympathetic magistrate ……
So the latest is I'm banged up in Pentonville
with more than a tailors dozen charges
on me tail, which the justice system seem to
be making a taper out of. God knows
why, the band should be mashing up
the toon, Glasgae and Shepherds Bush this weekend
and instead I'm birded off on remand after
a slow clucking duck walk (sitting too)
through the bowels of Bethnal Green nick,
Thames Magistrates and now da 'Ville. Innit
bleeding marvellous.
And for what, a few joeys in me sky
while on bail on bail on bail ……. Fuck'em.
In replying to this letter, please write on the envelop:
Number RG 7750 Name Doherty
H.M.Prison
PENTONVILLE
CALEDONIAN RROAD
LONDON
N7 OTT
Arcady, my love, therein we'll again
don't know where, don't know when
So in reality its tea and roll-ups until the
8th and then all prayers my way Mamma
p2
January 2006
29th Sunday (29-336) Fourth Sunday of Epiphany New Moon Chinese New Year
I see paint cracked walls
stained with shite
long long lock up days
cold lonely nights
and I think to myself
what a wonderful world
I see men touching fists
saying "watcha bruv"
screams from below
shit parcels from above
and I think to myself …
I see my true love
on a Rimmel advert
THE HMP WAYLAND PRISON JOURNAL
BY
PETER DOHERTY
2011
++++++++++++++++++
A/ A maj 7 / G / C F / C / G / A
A / C*7 / F* (Bm / E ) - (D / Dm )
cheap shott A/ C
I stole a love song my love
for you, coz you said you wanted to
fly along to a song
so heartfelt and new
Now I'm in the dock up against the crown
and it's along drop to stir pot
they're taking away my come-down
and if a fair cop I think not
a cheap shott that was
now it's gaol, oh I'm jail-bound
bail oh bail, bail me or I'm jail bound
bail oh gaoler, I'm jail bound
I'm gaol bound oh oh ….
page 2 HMP WAYLAND
Hearts are full of contempt here, the
familiarity or the distance is immaterial,
scrawny little fellas, or huge heaving
mountains of men - there's a slight
of bitterness to us all. A resentment
when I was coming here everyone told
me that it was a drug free jail.
Blimey they were right.
-----------------------------------------
Its all pharmaceutical bits, and even
then trade is slow. There's nay gear
about it all. Madness. A more scheming
group of minds you won't find, and
still it's a slow build. There's more gear
down the block at the 'ville than in
the main locations at this place.
---------------------------------------------
Did a stupid thing just now. I
spat out the window not seeing the
shapes of some fellas beneath, with
their pick up sticks doing their cleaning
rounds. He came off the wall slowly,
tattoos grizzly with hair in the spiteful
morning sun. He looked up.I looked
down. He looked at the little bubble
of spit on the concrete slab.
"Sorry mate, it was an accident -
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