Del Lardo
29-10-2007, 14:07
Shamelessly stolen from PH original thread here. (http://www.pistonheads.com/gassing/topic.asp?h=0&f=141&t=442266&i=0)
Chap has a sprited drive in the Lakes. Back end comes around on his Honda Integra R leaving him stationary on the wrong side of the road. Motorbike man promptly arrives onthe scene and T bones him hard. Motorcycle chap is thrown over the car and has life threatening injuries. Air lifted to hopsital. Survives but in a bad way for life.
CPS bring a case to Crown Court. Found guilty of dangerous driving. 12 months in jail.
I know there are some people on here who like me enjoy a spirited drive but reading this has really made me think..... If you have time I really recommend reading the full PH thread.
Here's some thoughts of the chap who was sentenced.
1) Chaps description of the accidents, events afterwards, court and sentencing:
I caused an accident after losing control of my car. It was sideways straddling both sides of a B road, a motorcyclist coming the other way came around a blind bend to be confronted with a car blocking the road. The impact launched him over my (destroyed) car and dumped him on the middle of the road, unconcious. His bike had been thrown some 14 metres back the way it came. My car dangled precariously over the edge of a drop past the verge.
After about a minute or so of getting my breath back following the airbag deploying, I realised I'd caused a very serious accident. I'd seen the motorcyclist only for a split second before the impact imploded against the B piller behind my head and shattered every window on the car. My sunglasses had disappeared from my face, glass from the door window was mingled with blood dripping from my face.
There was no way of opening the drivers door, I clambered over the passenger seat and observed one of the worst sights of my life.
For about 50 metres down the direction I'd come from, were the tell tale black lines of a skidding car. These were only interrupted by gouge marks on the road surface where car had met bike. In the middle of this lay the biker, motionless, unconscious, a mess. Onlookers, other motorists, were out of their cars but nothing more than background fuzz.
By the time I got out of the car, some other bikers had begun trying to help the badly injured guy laying on the centreline of the road. For a long minute, he didn't move, he didn't seem to breath. I'd just killed a man. Then some movement, some spluttering. Blind panic from someone who's just woken up to wish that he hadn't. His girlfriend, who had been a few minutes further behind on her own bike, arrived. Screaming and wailing, wondering how this has come to happen. No doubt a million thoughts all arriving at once. Most of them fearing the worst.
First aiders helped on the scene, I didn't know how to help medically. I was guilty, impotent and wondering how I'd gone from an enthusiastic drive to a potential killer in the space of 50 metres. It only took 3 or 4 minutes for the Police to arrive, I volunteered myself immediately as the guilty party. I was breath tested and questioned on-scene, sat in a Volvo, bleeding on the back seats whilst in full view of the prone motorcyclist, by this time being worked on by the paramedics who'd arrived, hoping the patient could last long enough for the air ambulance to arrive.
I'll never forget that poor man, lying there screaming for his helmet to be taken off, his girlfriend in tears and despair and me, not badly injured, no reason to have caused this, other than wanting to enjoy the road.
The motorcyclist spent days in intensive care, being treated for most of his right arm being smashed to pieces, his collarbone wrecked, serious head injuries, damaged eye socket, chipped bones on his ankle and a massive nerve injury. A year later and even after a number of operations, he still has many to go to correct his broken body and his impaired eyesight. The nerve damage to his dominant right arm means he'll never regain full use of it. He can no longer support his children by working on the rigs as he did beforehand.
My car was impounded by the Police and kept from the day of the accident, 30th April 2006 until the July. I was first formally interviewed in June 2006, then again in September. I was charged via postal summons in November last year. Magistrates passed the case to Crown Court on 13/12/06, as their sentencing powers were not sufficient and at that point I knew I was going to prison.
10 days short of a year after my accident, I pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 12 months imprisonment and banned from driving for 3 years, for dangerous driving. Aside from the odd speeding conviction (I was driving 65,000 miles a year for the previous 10 years), I had never been in trouble with the Police before.
There was no feeling, no shock, no crying or anger when I was sent down from that court room. Just numbness. As the judge finished his sentencing, I had just one opportunity of shouting to my other half how much I loved her, before being lead into the downstairs of the court. The guard, a nice guy in his late 50s, explained that he had to handcuff me to himself, and down I went. Immediately down, through a number of locked, barred gates, to a booking in counter. All my possessions, and my belt, taken. My height measured. All my details recorded. Then 4 hours in a windowless cell with nothing but a wooden bench and contemplation for company.
4.30pm on a sunny Friday afternoon, leaving a happy looking Carlisle, but for me, in the back of a paddywagon. Watching people leaving school and work with a smile on their faces, looking forward to a weekend of choices. I was heading to HMP Durham.
You can say what you like about prison, and how easy it is, how great you think the facilities are, how prison is like a holiday camp. It's none of those things. It's a demeaning, soul-less place full of sad and sometimes evil people who have lives none of us would ever want or even imagine. All the freedoms you take for granted are removed in the name of control and security to the point that you're constantly reminded how little value society as a whole places on your miserable little existence.
I could write reams and reams about the prison system and the feelings being in it evoke, but I fear to do so would be heavy reading for the casual PHer. I would be happy to answer any questions people have about prison or my ordeal, though
Prison:
Day One, April 20th 2007
When I left that courtroom, my friends, family, normal life and worst of all, Jilly [my OH] I felt nothing but numb. Only a few steps behind the courtroom and you’re in a whole new underground world. The guard handcuffs his arm to mine, he’s a decent guy in a sh*tty job, my chirpy small talk is probably a pleasant change for him. I’m only hiding the shock, though.
We arrive at the holding cells area of the court to a reception desk, where it’s goodbye to my belt and tie- you know why, too. Lots of form filling follows, whilst my now worldly possessions are removed, inspected and logged from the bag I’d brought with me. Never has a pair of grey briefs looked so f*cking pathetic. I’m told I can’t take most of the toiletries I’ve brought with me, such as toothpaste, shower gel (no soap on a rope) and shampoo. They’re bagged up separately and given back to my barrister upstairs. HMP Durham is the usual first port of call for custodial sentences from Carlisle, but as the prisons are so full, the guards downstairs can’t confirm where I’ll be going tonight.
Four hours in a bare cell with just a wooden bench. A million thoughts are still gliding aimlessly through my mind. I can’t complain, this is all about punishment and no better time to start than now. “gez scouse on tour”, “kellez kendal krew” and hundreds of other works of art list the previous tennents who’ve enjoyed my surroundings. At least reading those takes my mind off the stench of p*ss.
It’s about 4.30pm, another short walk, handcuffed again, and we’re on the wagon. At least it’s movement, at least something’s happening. It’s confirmed Durham have space, and with that, we’re off. The cells in the prison wagon are about half the size of a plane toilet, you sit on a hard moulded plastic seat, and the cell wall in front of you has a cut-out for your knees. At 6’ I just manage to fit in without struggling, god knows what it’s like if you’re pretty tall? There’s a window to look out of, you’re on the other side of those blacked out windows that press photographers try to snap through when someone (in)famous gets a ride from Her Majesty. It’s a warm, sunny late spring Friday afternoon and as we head out through the Carlisle traffic, the everyday people are leaving their everyday schools and jobs, planning their everyday, legal Friday nights. In freedom. It’s hard not to begrudge all those happy looking people, very hard. I won’t be planning my Friday nights, or any other night for a while. For now my nights, and my days, will be planned for me.
Around 6pm we arrive at HMP Durham. It’s moments like this you realise how much your freedom is a gift, as four of us are unloaded and herded into the prison, up the stairs and into the reception area. Five or six prison guards are behind a large desk, scurrying around, creating the paperwork to put us into the system. We’re told to wait in a large, perspex walled waiting rooms until our names are bellowed and you begin answering what become standard prison questions; “Been in Durham before?”, “Been in prison before?”, “Drug problems?”. Somehow I feel unique in answering no to all three. I’m asked if I know what to do if I discover a prisoner who’s overdosed. I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest.
Back to the perspex room and wait for another shout, where I’m given my prison number, VT4352, and handed some of the clothes I’ve brought into prison with me. I’m allowed 12 items of clothing, a couple of writing pads and my nearly empty toiletry bag. Every item is logged, signed for by both the guard and me and the items I can’t have are put into storage.
Next up is another room to be fingerprinted. No high tech, just an ink pad and sheet of card. I stand against the wall as my photo is taken and ID card is produced. Mustang Sally is playing on the radio and the guards don’t waste an opportunity to take the p*ss. Thank god these guys are human.
At the back of the same room is a hatch manned by inmates, where I’m handed my prison issue clothes; two T-shirts, tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirt, prison jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Then it’s into a cubicle where I’d stripped and searched, my suit put into storage, I won’t be wearing it for a while. Luckily I’m allowed to put my own clothes on. As sad as it sounds, familiar clothes have a strange comfort to them, like they’re braving a strange journey with me.
A quick interview with a nurse, weighed, then another guy in another office. The three question repetition; “Been in Durham before”, “Been in prison before?”, “Any drink or drug problems?”, no, no and no. Still.
E Wing is an induction wing, I arrive clutching a clear plastic bag full of my clothes, bed sheets and paperwork. Like all the staff so far, the officer greeting me was very polite and very concise although a little flustered by having so little time due to staff shortages. He runs through some of the basics, hands me my pack of plastic plates and cutlery then explains some of the routines, but by now it’s passed 9 o’clock, I’m emotionally and physically wrecked, there’s too much to take in. “You’ll pick it up” he assures me. Not like I’ve got much else to do, is it?
I’m given some emergency phone credit and use the phone by the wing office to ring Jilly. I’m too headf*cked to crack up over the phone, but it’s so amazing to hear Jilly on the other end. Only 9 hours ago I was holding her in the waiting area of court. It feels like that happened in a previous life. I’ve found out you’re allowed a special reception visit when you first come into prison where loved ones or friends can come for one visit in the first few days. Jilly, Mum and Dad have already phoned the prison and booked themselves in for tomorrow. I wish it was tomorrow, now. As much as I try to reassure her I’m OK, she’s cracking up. It’s harder for her than for me.
Mark, my new cell mate, is a star. I arrive at cell 3-15 like a lost puppy, a bag of clothes in one hand, linen in the other and more cloth in my head than both put together. Without a prompt Mark’s got me organised. It takes him a minute to do what would have taken me hours, sorting the bedclothes, putting stuff in cupboards for me. Finding someone decent for a cell mate has been the first good thing of the day. The only good thing.
Having a portable TV in the room was a godsend I wasn’t expecting. More useful as background noise, helping me doze during the evening, proper sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I grab a few minutes here, a few minutes there. I’m not exactly a conversational masterpiece.
Day two, Saturday 21st April.
I’m getting a visit today. It’s the first thought in my head and it stays with me until breakfast, 8.40am.
Breakfast? As much as I hate the cheeky cockney tw*tter, prison needs Jamie Oliver. It was supposed to be sausage, a plum tomato and scrambled egg. I would have been better off having shat on my plate. And that’s another thing, plates. You get one plastic plate, bowl, spoon, knife and fork. They’re yours, for the duration of your visit. I head down from the 3rd floor of a large Victorian prison wing, to the ground floor, where meals are handed out. Then it’s back up to your cell, with your meal, where you’re locked back in to eat. If you eat all of your food, it’s probably a miracle, or you’re a sadist. Anything left on your plate (likely), you can’t take it back or put it in the tiny bin in the cell. You cut it up into small pieces and flush it down the cell toilet. I bypass most of breakfast and put it straight down the toilet. A bit like being bulimic but without having to taste the food twice. How do you wash your now greasy plate and utensils? In the small cell sink, used also for washing yourself. No washing up liquid, just grease.
The ordeal of my first meal depresses me. Eating is one of my main pleasures, and the food I’ve just tried is borderline inedible. Apparently we don’t get breakfast on the weekdays, maybe that’s a blessing?
Breakfast out of the way and it’s back to remembering I have a visit soon. It’ll be very nearly 24 hours since I last saw Jilly, and in the circumstances, it’s been the hardest 24 hours of my life. 30 minutes feels like 30 hours, but eventually there’s a knock from an officer on the cell door, I’ve got a visit. A handful of us are led to the ground floor, where an officer walks us across the prison through numerous barred gates and locked doors, towards the visiting centre. It reminds me of sheep being moved through pens when they’re being dipped, but not enough that it allows me a smile about it. It’s strange, I’m about to see someone I’ve never been nervous of seeing in my entire life, but I feel apprehensive. When I see her am I going to laugh or burst into tears? Either could happen.
Prisoners from different wings are brought together in a waiting room just by the visiting centre, we’re all wearing the same dark blue jeans and blue striped short sleeved shirts. Some of them obviously know each other and take the opportunity to catch up about their cases and appeals and so on. Listening to them reminds me of Shawshank- no one’s guilty! After 30 minutes or so we’re led to a desk where we have to hand in anything in our pockets, where it’s noted in a book and signed for. We’re pat-down searched and then into the visiting room itself and sent to a numbered table already designated to you. None of the visitors are in yet. I walk over to table 25. It’s one of those tables on a metal frame, seats attached. 3 on one side, one on the other. Like a penal version of a Happy Eater kids table.
Last night I was given a small photocopied booklet by one of the officers, explaining the prison routine and how to organise visits. I brought it with me to the visit, hoping I could take it in to explain to Jilly how she’s going to be able to visit me in future. I had to ask one of the officers if it was OK to take it in with me. Luckily, after it was thoroughly inspected, they brought it over to the table for me. So much has happened I don’t think I could have remembered enough to have been clear, otherwise.
The room itself has about 40 low tables. At one end is our entrance/ exit, at the opposite end a high desk with a couple of officers behind it, viewing footage from the many CCTV cameras dotted throughout the room. Directly in front of me is a small tuck shop, manned by an old woman who looks like an escapee from lollipop lady school. More importantly right now, is the visitors entrance opposite me.
All the prisoners sat for about 10 minutes at their tables before the first visitors were allowed in. Each prisoner’s visitors come in one group at a time, report to a desk to confirm ID, then are allowed to go and sit with their loved one. Every time another group comes through the door I glance up in a kind of ‘I’m not looking’ way, waiting to see some faces I recognise.
As the room begins to fill, mainly with visitors who seem more than experienced with the routine, another idiosyncrasy of the prison system dawns on me. Half the tables and chairs in the room are moulded grey plastic, dour affairs and half are wooden and padded with nicely coloured cushioning. Then it dawns on me, the nice chairs and tables are being used by the remand prisoners, unconvicted, whereas the convicted ones are provided with the harsh ones. Having listened to some of them talking before the visit, I suspect quite a few of the inmates enjoying padded bottoms will soon enough get to sample the plastic seats.
The room’s almost full now, cons and remanders chatting away to their two or three guests like they’ve never been away. There seems to be a worrying amount of bottle blond perma-tanners in here. Like a lot of the prisoners they’re visiting, they also look like they should be locked up for robbing a branch of JJB Sports.
At last I see Jilly, Mum and Dad walk in. While they present their paperwork at the desk and look around I try not to make immediate eye contact. I still don’t know how I’ll react. They look just like I feel, nervous yet relieved to see each other at the same time. It might have only been 24 hours, but months of emotion have flown through us all, it’s written on our faces. We all get chance to briefly hug, then it’s me on one side of the table looking across at three shocked people. For the first time we all get to talk about the past 24 hours. I was well supported with friends and family at the sentencing, but despite constantly telling them I was going to go to prison, they were knocked for 6 when it was confirmed by Judge Batty. It really wells up inside as Jilly tells me how she was looked after by all our friends, and how many people have offered their help. Apparently the landlady at the local pub had got the champagne on ice, only for the potential party to turn into a wake. Well, I’m not dead yet. In the finest tradition everyone had got absolutely slaughtered, if only I could have joined them. Plenty of time for that in a few months, I suppose.
I do my best to explain the processes I’ve been through and still to go through, but until my induction begins proper on Monday, I’ve got more of my own questions than answers, there’s not a lot I can tell them about what’s going to happen in the next few weeks. How long will I spend in Durham? When will I find out my release date? Will I qualify for early release? I just don’t know. As we talk the feeling of stress lessens and lifts from our shoulders, but there’s something about being emotionally exposed that makes me feel uncomfortable. I can’t pretend all is well, on the other hand I can’t show them how upset I am, either. If I did we’d all end up in a teary mess.
Apparently before they were allowed into the visiting centre, they had to show ID, then they are walked to another room, where they can put their belongings into a locker. Before being allowed into the actual room, they had to stand on a line along the floor and be checked by a sniffer dog for drugs. Only then were they allowed to come into the room. Security is tight, and so it should be.
Dad manages about 4 minutes in the visit room before a b*llocking from one of the roaming officers. All drinks are served in lidded paper cups, with a straw sized opening on the top to drink through, to prevent visitors from passing drugs to inmates via their drinks. Dad removes his and within 30 seconds he’s reminded to put it back on or he can leave!
Jilly and I get a few minutes alone before the end of the visit. She is, of course, still very upset. I think the friends around us, being so good, have cushioned her heavy landing the day before. Like me, she likes to show a brave face, but I doubt either of us can or need to today. In what seems like an instant, the visiting time is over. In a reverse of the process this morning, we’re searched, led back to our wings and back to a day in the cell.
Uneventful describes the rest of the day. Two meals came and went, luckily they weren’t as bad as breakfast. Maybe I won’t starve to death. I would only have slight reservations about feeding someone else’s dog my lunch and dinner. When I went to collect dinner, a white board listed tomorrow’s meals with a number beside each. We have to choose tomorrows food the day before. Seems bizarre.
Thank the lord for snooker, the championship at the crucible has begun. Like watching Golf, snooker can remove vast chunks of time without you realising it, like a kind of baize time machine. With no books and only my writing pad for company, the TV is essential. Ironically, this evening ‘Porridge’ was on. Now I understand the meaning of black humour. It actually seems quite accurate, too.
Ah, while I remember, Saturdays you also get a ‘tea pack’. This is a bundle of tea bags, coffee and sugar sachets to last you until the next Saturday. I won’t be using mine, Mark [my padmate] can have it. He reminds me that anything in short supply has a currency value, so if it’s available for nowt, get it, and sell it!
My final moments of today are whiled away watching match of the day. Usually I’d catch matches live on the telly, well that’s how it happens in freedomland, but today I have to make do with watching Man Utd draw with Borough. Bugger. Let’s hope Chelsea cock up against Newcastle tomorrow. Being in Geordieland, I’m probably not alone.
Letter to CPS from injured Motorcycle chap:
After the accident I now suffer with continuous pain with the nerves from my paralysed right hand and arm which used to be my dominant side
I have been prescribed four different types of pills to be taken four times a day without fail to try and ease the pain these help to a certain extent until temperature changes moving from one room to another going outside is the most excrutiating pain imaginable I can only describe it as holding my hand and arm in boiling cooking oil. This pain is as constant as breathing in and out it wears me down to the point where I have to ease the pain by taking morphine unwillingly but necessary.
I am now unable to do the most mundane jobs from washing myself even tying shoe laces is impossible driving to the shops is a thing of the past.
The last four years my partner and I have owned a caravan in the Lake District our escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life we travelled on motorcycles which has been a lifetime involvement this route we have travelled for years and treat this particular route with respect. The day our life's changed we were on our way to the lakes.
I woke up in intensive care with my partner by my side apparently I was hit by a car travelling on the wrong side of the road my partner was seconds behind and seen me in the middle of the road lying unconscious ever since then my partner has been reliving the shocking experience over again every night.
If it hadn't been for the luck of two motorcyclists one knowing first aid the paramedics, police, air ambulance, trauma team and everyone involved my partner and I will be eternally grateful but take one link out of the chain of Samritans I would not be living today.
The offshore career which I've had for the last 13 years was abruptly stopped and will never continue due to the loss of my right arm which was explained to me by the surgeon he also said forget the person you used to be you will never be like that again. It was only a few years before in cases like mine the arm would have been amputated.
My whole world has been turned upside down I used to repair all kinds of machinery in the oil industry looking after multi million pounds worth of engines and equipment now I cannot even fasten my own laces. I am also having to write with my left hand the simple task of putting my watch on and off cannot be done without help am at a loss at the prospect of my future employment.
I used to be physically fit running eight kilometres in between weight training every other day the paramedic at the scene commented that if it had not been for my muscle mass and fitness it may have been a different outcome my muscle took the impact from my internal organs which helped to save my life.
Two decades of lifting weights and physical fitness which missing a day made me feel guilty now I struggle to walk even small distances without having to put my arm around my partner for support, now my partner has the burdon of trying to be my right arm as well as looking after two children.
Since leaving the hospital after the initial accident I have had nerve transfer operations one involving a nine and a half hour operation in theatre leaving me with skin grafts and scars from the neck downwards and will be having more in the future. I have been fortunate in one way that double vision which occured during the impact to my head has nearly returned to normal this gave me a break from more surgery which the eye specialist had planned.
The second operation with the renowned Professor Kay of St James hospital in Leeds who has given me the chance to move my hand and arm if everything goes to plan if not more operations will have to be undertaken.
My every day life has changed dramatically I wake up in the morning still thinking I have the use of my right hand and arm until I try to move, then the realisation of what happened has to be accepted all over again. Washing myself is not a task I can do alone a bath has to be planned in advance.
Due to the sever impact to my head my memory has been affected both long and short terms for example not recognising the police officer heading the case after meeting him previously, my partner stepped in to save my embarrassment reminding me, this happens a lot with friends hospital staff who know me but I can't seem to place them. I also repeat myself a lot ask the same questions over a space of time its not until this is pointed out to me that I become aware of this. I think it is fair to say this is a tiny example of how this accident has impacted on my life it is not the life I had prior and to be honest my life was pretty good. This is an ongoing battle which some days I seem to be losing others I get through this is not what I thought I would be like at the age of 42, the worst and hardest thing of all is I was going about my own business and someone else's action has devastated my whole future.
Every day is becoming mentally harder and harder as the realisation of what happened slowly sinks in and the thought of the rest of my life trying to cope with the dragging around a useless lump of flesh and bone that just hangs off my body
Chap has a sprited drive in the Lakes. Back end comes around on his Honda Integra R leaving him stationary on the wrong side of the road. Motorbike man promptly arrives onthe scene and T bones him hard. Motorcycle chap is thrown over the car and has life threatening injuries. Air lifted to hopsital. Survives but in a bad way for life.
CPS bring a case to Crown Court. Found guilty of dangerous driving. 12 months in jail.
I know there are some people on here who like me enjoy a spirited drive but reading this has really made me think..... If you have time I really recommend reading the full PH thread.
Here's some thoughts of the chap who was sentenced.
1) Chaps description of the accidents, events afterwards, court and sentencing:
I caused an accident after losing control of my car. It was sideways straddling both sides of a B road, a motorcyclist coming the other way came around a blind bend to be confronted with a car blocking the road. The impact launched him over my (destroyed) car and dumped him on the middle of the road, unconcious. His bike had been thrown some 14 metres back the way it came. My car dangled precariously over the edge of a drop past the verge.
After about a minute or so of getting my breath back following the airbag deploying, I realised I'd caused a very serious accident. I'd seen the motorcyclist only for a split second before the impact imploded against the B piller behind my head and shattered every window on the car. My sunglasses had disappeared from my face, glass from the door window was mingled with blood dripping from my face.
There was no way of opening the drivers door, I clambered over the passenger seat and observed one of the worst sights of my life.
For about 50 metres down the direction I'd come from, were the tell tale black lines of a skidding car. These were only interrupted by gouge marks on the road surface where car had met bike. In the middle of this lay the biker, motionless, unconscious, a mess. Onlookers, other motorists, were out of their cars but nothing more than background fuzz.
By the time I got out of the car, some other bikers had begun trying to help the badly injured guy laying on the centreline of the road. For a long minute, he didn't move, he didn't seem to breath. I'd just killed a man. Then some movement, some spluttering. Blind panic from someone who's just woken up to wish that he hadn't. His girlfriend, who had been a few minutes further behind on her own bike, arrived. Screaming and wailing, wondering how this has come to happen. No doubt a million thoughts all arriving at once. Most of them fearing the worst.
First aiders helped on the scene, I didn't know how to help medically. I was guilty, impotent and wondering how I'd gone from an enthusiastic drive to a potential killer in the space of 50 metres. It only took 3 or 4 minutes for the Police to arrive, I volunteered myself immediately as the guilty party. I was breath tested and questioned on-scene, sat in a Volvo, bleeding on the back seats whilst in full view of the prone motorcyclist, by this time being worked on by the paramedics who'd arrived, hoping the patient could last long enough for the air ambulance to arrive.
I'll never forget that poor man, lying there screaming for his helmet to be taken off, his girlfriend in tears and despair and me, not badly injured, no reason to have caused this, other than wanting to enjoy the road.
The motorcyclist spent days in intensive care, being treated for most of his right arm being smashed to pieces, his collarbone wrecked, serious head injuries, damaged eye socket, chipped bones on his ankle and a massive nerve injury. A year later and even after a number of operations, he still has many to go to correct his broken body and his impaired eyesight. The nerve damage to his dominant right arm means he'll never regain full use of it. He can no longer support his children by working on the rigs as he did beforehand.
My car was impounded by the Police and kept from the day of the accident, 30th April 2006 until the July. I was first formally interviewed in June 2006, then again in September. I was charged via postal summons in November last year. Magistrates passed the case to Crown Court on 13/12/06, as their sentencing powers were not sufficient and at that point I knew I was going to prison.
10 days short of a year after my accident, I pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 12 months imprisonment and banned from driving for 3 years, for dangerous driving. Aside from the odd speeding conviction (I was driving 65,000 miles a year for the previous 10 years), I had never been in trouble with the Police before.
There was no feeling, no shock, no crying or anger when I was sent down from that court room. Just numbness. As the judge finished his sentencing, I had just one opportunity of shouting to my other half how much I loved her, before being lead into the downstairs of the court. The guard, a nice guy in his late 50s, explained that he had to handcuff me to himself, and down I went. Immediately down, through a number of locked, barred gates, to a booking in counter. All my possessions, and my belt, taken. My height measured. All my details recorded. Then 4 hours in a windowless cell with nothing but a wooden bench and contemplation for company.
4.30pm on a sunny Friday afternoon, leaving a happy looking Carlisle, but for me, in the back of a paddywagon. Watching people leaving school and work with a smile on their faces, looking forward to a weekend of choices. I was heading to HMP Durham.
You can say what you like about prison, and how easy it is, how great you think the facilities are, how prison is like a holiday camp. It's none of those things. It's a demeaning, soul-less place full of sad and sometimes evil people who have lives none of us would ever want or even imagine. All the freedoms you take for granted are removed in the name of control and security to the point that you're constantly reminded how little value society as a whole places on your miserable little existence.
I could write reams and reams about the prison system and the feelings being in it evoke, but I fear to do so would be heavy reading for the casual PHer. I would be happy to answer any questions people have about prison or my ordeal, though
Prison:
Day One, April 20th 2007
When I left that courtroom, my friends, family, normal life and worst of all, Jilly [my OH] I felt nothing but numb. Only a few steps behind the courtroom and you’re in a whole new underground world. The guard handcuffs his arm to mine, he’s a decent guy in a sh*tty job, my chirpy small talk is probably a pleasant change for him. I’m only hiding the shock, though.
We arrive at the holding cells area of the court to a reception desk, where it’s goodbye to my belt and tie- you know why, too. Lots of form filling follows, whilst my now worldly possessions are removed, inspected and logged from the bag I’d brought with me. Never has a pair of grey briefs looked so f*cking pathetic. I’m told I can’t take most of the toiletries I’ve brought with me, such as toothpaste, shower gel (no soap on a rope) and shampoo. They’re bagged up separately and given back to my barrister upstairs. HMP Durham is the usual first port of call for custodial sentences from Carlisle, but as the prisons are so full, the guards downstairs can’t confirm where I’ll be going tonight.
Four hours in a bare cell with just a wooden bench. A million thoughts are still gliding aimlessly through my mind. I can’t complain, this is all about punishment and no better time to start than now. “gez scouse on tour”, “kellez kendal krew” and hundreds of other works of art list the previous tennents who’ve enjoyed my surroundings. At least reading those takes my mind off the stench of p*ss.
It’s about 4.30pm, another short walk, handcuffed again, and we’re on the wagon. At least it’s movement, at least something’s happening. It’s confirmed Durham have space, and with that, we’re off. The cells in the prison wagon are about half the size of a plane toilet, you sit on a hard moulded plastic seat, and the cell wall in front of you has a cut-out for your knees. At 6’ I just manage to fit in without struggling, god knows what it’s like if you’re pretty tall? There’s a window to look out of, you’re on the other side of those blacked out windows that press photographers try to snap through when someone (in)famous gets a ride from Her Majesty. It’s a warm, sunny late spring Friday afternoon and as we head out through the Carlisle traffic, the everyday people are leaving their everyday schools and jobs, planning their everyday, legal Friday nights. In freedom. It’s hard not to begrudge all those happy looking people, very hard. I won’t be planning my Friday nights, or any other night for a while. For now my nights, and my days, will be planned for me.
Around 6pm we arrive at HMP Durham. It’s moments like this you realise how much your freedom is a gift, as four of us are unloaded and herded into the prison, up the stairs and into the reception area. Five or six prison guards are behind a large desk, scurrying around, creating the paperwork to put us into the system. We’re told to wait in a large, perspex walled waiting rooms until our names are bellowed and you begin answering what become standard prison questions; “Been in Durham before?”, “Been in prison before?”, “Drug problems?”. Somehow I feel unique in answering no to all three. I’m asked if I know what to do if I discover a prisoner who’s overdosed. I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest.
Back to the perspex room and wait for another shout, where I’m given my prison number, VT4352, and handed some of the clothes I’ve brought into prison with me. I’m allowed 12 items of clothing, a couple of writing pads and my nearly empty toiletry bag. Every item is logged, signed for by both the guard and me and the items I can’t have are put into storage.
Next up is another room to be fingerprinted. No high tech, just an ink pad and sheet of card. I stand against the wall as my photo is taken and ID card is produced. Mustang Sally is playing on the radio and the guards don’t waste an opportunity to take the p*ss. Thank god these guys are human.
At the back of the same room is a hatch manned by inmates, where I’m handed my prison issue clothes; two T-shirts, tracksuit bottoms, sweatshirt, prison jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Then it’s into a cubicle where I’d stripped and searched, my suit put into storage, I won’t be wearing it for a while. Luckily I’m allowed to put my own clothes on. As sad as it sounds, familiar clothes have a strange comfort to them, like they’re braving a strange journey with me.
A quick interview with a nurse, weighed, then another guy in another office. The three question repetition; “Been in Durham before”, “Been in prison before?”, “Any drink or drug problems?”, no, no and no. Still.
E Wing is an induction wing, I arrive clutching a clear plastic bag full of my clothes, bed sheets and paperwork. Like all the staff so far, the officer greeting me was very polite and very concise although a little flustered by having so little time due to staff shortages. He runs through some of the basics, hands me my pack of plastic plates and cutlery then explains some of the routines, but by now it’s passed 9 o’clock, I’m emotionally and physically wrecked, there’s too much to take in. “You’ll pick it up” he assures me. Not like I’ve got much else to do, is it?
I’m given some emergency phone credit and use the phone by the wing office to ring Jilly. I’m too headf*cked to crack up over the phone, but it’s so amazing to hear Jilly on the other end. Only 9 hours ago I was holding her in the waiting area of court. It feels like that happened in a previous life. I’ve found out you’re allowed a special reception visit when you first come into prison where loved ones or friends can come for one visit in the first few days. Jilly, Mum and Dad have already phoned the prison and booked themselves in for tomorrow. I wish it was tomorrow, now. As much as I try to reassure her I’m OK, she’s cracking up. It’s harder for her than for me.
Mark, my new cell mate, is a star. I arrive at cell 3-15 like a lost puppy, a bag of clothes in one hand, linen in the other and more cloth in my head than both put together. Without a prompt Mark’s got me organised. It takes him a minute to do what would have taken me hours, sorting the bedclothes, putting stuff in cupboards for me. Finding someone decent for a cell mate has been the first good thing of the day. The only good thing.
Having a portable TV in the room was a godsend I wasn’t expecting. More useful as background noise, helping me doze during the evening, proper sleep wasn’t going to happen, so I grab a few minutes here, a few minutes there. I’m not exactly a conversational masterpiece.
Day two, Saturday 21st April.
I’m getting a visit today. It’s the first thought in my head and it stays with me until breakfast, 8.40am.
Breakfast? As much as I hate the cheeky cockney tw*tter, prison needs Jamie Oliver. It was supposed to be sausage, a plum tomato and scrambled egg. I would have been better off having shat on my plate. And that’s another thing, plates. You get one plastic plate, bowl, spoon, knife and fork. They’re yours, for the duration of your visit. I head down from the 3rd floor of a large Victorian prison wing, to the ground floor, where meals are handed out. Then it’s back up to your cell, with your meal, where you’re locked back in to eat. If you eat all of your food, it’s probably a miracle, or you’re a sadist. Anything left on your plate (likely), you can’t take it back or put it in the tiny bin in the cell. You cut it up into small pieces and flush it down the cell toilet. I bypass most of breakfast and put it straight down the toilet. A bit like being bulimic but without having to taste the food twice. How do you wash your now greasy plate and utensils? In the small cell sink, used also for washing yourself. No washing up liquid, just grease.
The ordeal of my first meal depresses me. Eating is one of my main pleasures, and the food I’ve just tried is borderline inedible. Apparently we don’t get breakfast on the weekdays, maybe that’s a blessing?
Breakfast out of the way and it’s back to remembering I have a visit soon. It’ll be very nearly 24 hours since I last saw Jilly, and in the circumstances, it’s been the hardest 24 hours of my life. 30 minutes feels like 30 hours, but eventually there’s a knock from an officer on the cell door, I’ve got a visit. A handful of us are led to the ground floor, where an officer walks us across the prison through numerous barred gates and locked doors, towards the visiting centre. It reminds me of sheep being moved through pens when they’re being dipped, but not enough that it allows me a smile about it. It’s strange, I’m about to see someone I’ve never been nervous of seeing in my entire life, but I feel apprehensive. When I see her am I going to laugh or burst into tears? Either could happen.
Prisoners from different wings are brought together in a waiting room just by the visiting centre, we’re all wearing the same dark blue jeans and blue striped short sleeved shirts. Some of them obviously know each other and take the opportunity to catch up about their cases and appeals and so on. Listening to them reminds me of Shawshank- no one’s guilty! After 30 minutes or so we’re led to a desk where we have to hand in anything in our pockets, where it’s noted in a book and signed for. We’re pat-down searched and then into the visiting room itself and sent to a numbered table already designated to you. None of the visitors are in yet. I walk over to table 25. It’s one of those tables on a metal frame, seats attached. 3 on one side, one on the other. Like a penal version of a Happy Eater kids table.
Last night I was given a small photocopied booklet by one of the officers, explaining the prison routine and how to organise visits. I brought it with me to the visit, hoping I could take it in to explain to Jilly how she’s going to be able to visit me in future. I had to ask one of the officers if it was OK to take it in with me. Luckily, after it was thoroughly inspected, they brought it over to the table for me. So much has happened I don’t think I could have remembered enough to have been clear, otherwise.
The room itself has about 40 low tables. At one end is our entrance/ exit, at the opposite end a high desk with a couple of officers behind it, viewing footage from the many CCTV cameras dotted throughout the room. Directly in front of me is a small tuck shop, manned by an old woman who looks like an escapee from lollipop lady school. More importantly right now, is the visitors entrance opposite me.
All the prisoners sat for about 10 minutes at their tables before the first visitors were allowed in. Each prisoner’s visitors come in one group at a time, report to a desk to confirm ID, then are allowed to go and sit with their loved one. Every time another group comes through the door I glance up in a kind of ‘I’m not looking’ way, waiting to see some faces I recognise.
As the room begins to fill, mainly with visitors who seem more than experienced with the routine, another idiosyncrasy of the prison system dawns on me. Half the tables and chairs in the room are moulded grey plastic, dour affairs and half are wooden and padded with nicely coloured cushioning. Then it dawns on me, the nice chairs and tables are being used by the remand prisoners, unconvicted, whereas the convicted ones are provided with the harsh ones. Having listened to some of them talking before the visit, I suspect quite a few of the inmates enjoying padded bottoms will soon enough get to sample the plastic seats.
The room’s almost full now, cons and remanders chatting away to their two or three guests like they’ve never been away. There seems to be a worrying amount of bottle blond perma-tanners in here. Like a lot of the prisoners they’re visiting, they also look like they should be locked up for robbing a branch of JJB Sports.
At last I see Jilly, Mum and Dad walk in. While they present their paperwork at the desk and look around I try not to make immediate eye contact. I still don’t know how I’ll react. They look just like I feel, nervous yet relieved to see each other at the same time. It might have only been 24 hours, but months of emotion have flown through us all, it’s written on our faces. We all get chance to briefly hug, then it’s me on one side of the table looking across at three shocked people. For the first time we all get to talk about the past 24 hours. I was well supported with friends and family at the sentencing, but despite constantly telling them I was going to go to prison, they were knocked for 6 when it was confirmed by Judge Batty. It really wells up inside as Jilly tells me how she was looked after by all our friends, and how many people have offered their help. Apparently the landlady at the local pub had got the champagne on ice, only for the potential party to turn into a wake. Well, I’m not dead yet. In the finest tradition everyone had got absolutely slaughtered, if only I could have joined them. Plenty of time for that in a few months, I suppose.
I do my best to explain the processes I’ve been through and still to go through, but until my induction begins proper on Monday, I’ve got more of my own questions than answers, there’s not a lot I can tell them about what’s going to happen in the next few weeks. How long will I spend in Durham? When will I find out my release date? Will I qualify for early release? I just don’t know. As we talk the feeling of stress lessens and lifts from our shoulders, but there’s something about being emotionally exposed that makes me feel uncomfortable. I can’t pretend all is well, on the other hand I can’t show them how upset I am, either. If I did we’d all end up in a teary mess.
Apparently before they were allowed into the visiting centre, they had to show ID, then they are walked to another room, where they can put their belongings into a locker. Before being allowed into the actual room, they had to stand on a line along the floor and be checked by a sniffer dog for drugs. Only then were they allowed to come into the room. Security is tight, and so it should be.
Dad manages about 4 minutes in the visit room before a b*llocking from one of the roaming officers. All drinks are served in lidded paper cups, with a straw sized opening on the top to drink through, to prevent visitors from passing drugs to inmates via their drinks. Dad removes his and within 30 seconds he’s reminded to put it back on or he can leave!
Jilly and I get a few minutes alone before the end of the visit. She is, of course, still very upset. I think the friends around us, being so good, have cushioned her heavy landing the day before. Like me, she likes to show a brave face, but I doubt either of us can or need to today. In what seems like an instant, the visiting time is over. In a reverse of the process this morning, we’re searched, led back to our wings and back to a day in the cell.
Uneventful describes the rest of the day. Two meals came and went, luckily they weren’t as bad as breakfast. Maybe I won’t starve to death. I would only have slight reservations about feeding someone else’s dog my lunch and dinner. When I went to collect dinner, a white board listed tomorrow’s meals with a number beside each. We have to choose tomorrows food the day before. Seems bizarre.
Thank the lord for snooker, the championship at the crucible has begun. Like watching Golf, snooker can remove vast chunks of time without you realising it, like a kind of baize time machine. With no books and only my writing pad for company, the TV is essential. Ironically, this evening ‘Porridge’ was on. Now I understand the meaning of black humour. It actually seems quite accurate, too.
Ah, while I remember, Saturdays you also get a ‘tea pack’. This is a bundle of tea bags, coffee and sugar sachets to last you until the next Saturday. I won’t be using mine, Mark [my padmate] can have it. He reminds me that anything in short supply has a currency value, so if it’s available for nowt, get it, and sell it!
My final moments of today are whiled away watching match of the day. Usually I’d catch matches live on the telly, well that’s how it happens in freedomland, but today I have to make do with watching Man Utd draw with Borough. Bugger. Let’s hope Chelsea cock up against Newcastle tomorrow. Being in Geordieland, I’m probably not alone.
Letter to CPS from injured Motorcycle chap:
After the accident I now suffer with continuous pain with the nerves from my paralysed right hand and arm which used to be my dominant side
I have been prescribed four different types of pills to be taken four times a day without fail to try and ease the pain these help to a certain extent until temperature changes moving from one room to another going outside is the most excrutiating pain imaginable I can only describe it as holding my hand and arm in boiling cooking oil. This pain is as constant as breathing in and out it wears me down to the point where I have to ease the pain by taking morphine unwillingly but necessary.
I am now unable to do the most mundane jobs from washing myself even tying shoe laces is impossible driving to the shops is a thing of the past.
The last four years my partner and I have owned a caravan in the Lake District our escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life we travelled on motorcycles which has been a lifetime involvement this route we have travelled for years and treat this particular route with respect. The day our life's changed we were on our way to the lakes.
I woke up in intensive care with my partner by my side apparently I was hit by a car travelling on the wrong side of the road my partner was seconds behind and seen me in the middle of the road lying unconscious ever since then my partner has been reliving the shocking experience over again every night.
If it hadn't been for the luck of two motorcyclists one knowing first aid the paramedics, police, air ambulance, trauma team and everyone involved my partner and I will be eternally grateful but take one link out of the chain of Samritans I would not be living today.
The offshore career which I've had for the last 13 years was abruptly stopped and will never continue due to the loss of my right arm which was explained to me by the surgeon he also said forget the person you used to be you will never be like that again. It was only a few years before in cases like mine the arm would have been amputated.
My whole world has been turned upside down I used to repair all kinds of machinery in the oil industry looking after multi million pounds worth of engines and equipment now I cannot even fasten my own laces. I am also having to write with my left hand the simple task of putting my watch on and off cannot be done without help am at a loss at the prospect of my future employment.
I used to be physically fit running eight kilometres in between weight training every other day the paramedic at the scene commented that if it had not been for my muscle mass and fitness it may have been a different outcome my muscle took the impact from my internal organs which helped to save my life.
Two decades of lifting weights and physical fitness which missing a day made me feel guilty now I struggle to walk even small distances without having to put my arm around my partner for support, now my partner has the burdon of trying to be my right arm as well as looking after two children.
Since leaving the hospital after the initial accident I have had nerve transfer operations one involving a nine and a half hour operation in theatre leaving me with skin grafts and scars from the neck downwards and will be having more in the future. I have been fortunate in one way that double vision which occured during the impact to my head has nearly returned to normal this gave me a break from more surgery which the eye specialist had planned.
The second operation with the renowned Professor Kay of St James hospital in Leeds who has given me the chance to move my hand and arm if everything goes to plan if not more operations will have to be undertaken.
My every day life has changed dramatically I wake up in the morning still thinking I have the use of my right hand and arm until I try to move, then the realisation of what happened has to be accepted all over again. Washing myself is not a task I can do alone a bath has to be planned in advance.
Due to the sever impact to my head my memory has been affected both long and short terms for example not recognising the police officer heading the case after meeting him previously, my partner stepped in to save my embarrassment reminding me, this happens a lot with friends hospital staff who know me but I can't seem to place them. I also repeat myself a lot ask the same questions over a space of time its not until this is pointed out to me that I become aware of this. I think it is fair to say this is a tiny example of how this accident has impacted on my life it is not the life I had prior and to be honest my life was pretty good. This is an ongoing battle which some days I seem to be losing others I get through this is not what I thought I would be like at the age of 42, the worst and hardest thing of all is I was going about my own business and someone else's action has devastated my whole future.
Every day is becoming mentally harder and harder as the realisation of what happened slowly sinks in and the thought of the rest of my life trying to cope with the dragging around a useless lump of flesh and bone that just hangs off my body