More than one Home Secretary has tried to convince the nation that prison works. Such pronouncements are often born of political expediency as a vote-catching exercise in times of particular need and rarely withstand informed scrutiny. In my experience prison merely protects the public from the potential wrong-doing of those the courts succeed in withdrawing from circulation for a period of time: that apart there is little to be said for it.
The Prison Service espouses the ethos of rehabilitation and there are several praiseworthy initiatives within the penal system with the broad aim of giving inmates the opportunity to improve the skills necessary to enable them to lead worthwhile lives on release; unfortunately, there are very few officers interested in rehabilitating prisoners, and most prisoners are either not interested in or capable of being rehabilitated anyway.
The typical officer has traditionally operated on the premise that the longer the inmate spends in his cell the less of a problem he is likely to be to him and his colleagues. This thinking is supported by his union (the Prison Officers’ Association) that seems to exist largely to ensure that any management initiative is strangled at birth, irrespective of its merits, and operates in the interests of its members with little regard for the virtues of reason, fairness or common sense. As for the prisoners themselves, most are simply following the family tradition of separating those better placed than themselves from the things that have made them better placed, while others are so morally and intellectually bankrupt they see no realistic chance of ever being able to maintain an acceptable lifestyle by socially acceptable means.
It was into this atmosphere of institutionalised indifference that I ventured in 1985 as, seemingly, the first of a new brand of officer – at Chelmsford anyway – who was prepared to support the view that any positive step towards rehabilitating even one prisoner would increase the chances of reducing the number of future victims. In this account of the fifteen years I spent working within our penal system I tell of the deep suspicion with which I was initially viewed by some of my new colleagues, though in time I believe I earned the grudging respect of most. For my part, I eventually came to accept that they weren’t all idle, bigoted, racist bullies and I generally found a way to get on with a majority of them.
Towards the end of my time in the Service I had the privilege of being given the opportunity to study projects in the rehabilitative field around the U.K. at fairly close quarters and this enabled me to form a balanced and authoritative view of what was happening and what wasn’t. I have chronicled my findings in what turned out to be the longest of my chapters, but I hope that there is something there to interest more than just the inquisitive mind.
Immediately after I retired as an officer I spent a brief spell working for the Social Services Department with damaged youngsters – phew! – I then returned to Chelmsford to work for a couple of years as a civilian tutor in pre-release subjects – until the whole thing blew up in my face in spectacular fashion. Read on and enjoy.
The Prison Service espouses the ethos of rehabilitation and there are several praiseworthy initiatives within the penal system with the broad aim of giving inmates the opportunity to improve the skills necessary to enable them to lead worthwhile lives on release; unfortunately, there are very few officers interested in rehabilitating prisoners, and most prisoners are either not interested in or capable of being rehabilitated anyway.
The typical officer has traditionally operated on the premise that the longer the inmate spends in his cell the less of a problem he is likely to be to him and his colleagues. This thinking is supported by his union (the Prison Officers’ Association) that seems to exist largely to ensure that any management initiative is strangled at birth, irrespective of its merits, and operates in the interests of its members with little regard for the virtues of reason, fairness or common sense. As for the prisoners themselves, most are simply following the family tradition of separating those better placed than themselves from the things that have made them better placed, while others are so morally and intellectually bankrupt they see no realistic chance of ever being able to maintain an acceptable lifestyle by socially acceptable means.
It was into this atmosphere of institutionalised indifference that I ventured in 1985 as, seemingly, the first of a new brand of officer – at Chelmsford anyway – who was prepared to support the view that any positive step towards rehabilitating even one prisoner would increase the chances of reducing the number of future victims. In this account of the fifteen years I spent working within our penal system I tell of the deep suspicion with which I was initially viewed by some of my new colleagues, though in time I believe I earned the grudging respect of most. For my part, I eventually came to accept that they weren’t all idle, bigoted, racist bullies and I generally found a way to get on with a majority of them.
Towards the end of my time in the Service I had the privilege of being given the opportunity to study projects in the rehabilitative field around the U.K. at fairly close quarters and this enabled me to form a balanced and authoritative view of what was happening and what wasn’t. I have chronicled my findings in what turned out to be the longest of my chapters, but I hope that there is something there to interest more than just the inquisitive mind.
Immediately after I retired as an officer I spent a brief spell working for the Social Services Department with damaged youngsters – phew! – I then returned to Chelmsford to work for a couple of years as a civilian tutor in pre-release subjects – until the whole thing blew up in my face in spectacular fashion. Read on and enjoy.
