It can be a positive or negative thing but it always means change, the call of a kanga as a prisoner is moved out of a unit.
“One off, Gov!”
Whenever a prisoner leaves a wing it is critical that the wing staff on duty are notified – for it has long been established that Kangas can’t count. When roll-checks don’t add up the whole prison goes on lockdown until everybody is accounted for. For example, if a prisoner is required by Healthcare the escorting officer will notify the wing staff that they are taking a prisoner – “One of, Gov!”
“One off, Gov!” has also become a punchline, like “Taxi for Moose!” when I inevitably say something stupid. But these three little words can have myriad meanings and can bring a prisoner to the zenith and nadir of their emotional spectrum.
Try to imagine Tom’s state of mind when “One off, Gov!” precedes him being taken to reception to be released at the end of his sentence. Jubilant? Ecstatic? Elated?
Now think how he might feel when Tom has a £46 discharge grant to last him until he can claim universal credit, with nowhere to live and a crippling addiction. Would he still be celebrating his release – or dreading it?
“One off, Gov!” when a prisoner is on his way for a visit with his family – a brief oasis of hope for one hour out of the 168 he faces in prison that week.
“One on, Gov!” when he returns to the wing afterwards. His lasting memory is of his tearful children being half-dragged from the visits hall wondering why Daddy can’t just come home. Incidentally, I think this might go some way to explaining why the children of men that have served prison sentences are more likely to end up in prison too. When these kids worry about their dad’s behind bars, Daddy’s instinct is to protect them by saying that it’s just like a holiday, “I’m here with all of my friends – don’t worry about me!” Daddy is effectively removing the fear of prison from his children.
But one recent incident of “One off, Gov!” resonated with me – it was a stark warning against complacency.
As I progressed through my sentence I started to earn incremental privileges. I had better job choices, more time out of cell, extra visits and gym sessions. As my security risk was deemed to have decreased I progressed from a B-Category prison to C-Category. I must have looked like a puppy on his first walk when I saw grass and trees – never mind the fact that I was allowed to walk and sit on grass again!
I have worked hard throughout my sentence and navigated the many pitfalls that prisoners face. I never grassed on anybody, never ripped anybody off and I never had a nicking or a warning in all that time. After many years in prison I began to build up privileges that included moving to the enhanced wings until I finally landed on a “super-enhanced” unit.
Now I have a room, rather than a cell. I have a wooden door rather than a steel one – and I have the key. In my institutionalised state it took time to realise I could go outside without the Kanga unlocking me. Because we are unlocked the cells are dry – The washroom facilities are communal. But there are conditions. There is a curfew from 11pm to 6.30am where every prisoner is to remain in their own cell – aside from using the bathroom.
There are other benefits to being housed on this unit. The association room (or common room) is equipped with TV, pool table and soft chairs. There is a food prep area complete with microwaves and fridges and a dining area where we can eat together if we wish – it’s altogether civilised.
Like everywhere in life there are begrudgers and people that rub each other up the wrong way. But while the 40 residents are far from best buddies, generally a decent sense of community prevails. But these units can be perilous to progression – there is a risk that residents can become complacent and forget that they are prisoners.
Mark, a pleasant guy who lived for exercise, the gym and a healthy diet had been on the unit for almost two years. He was a regular in the kitchen, the gym and the CV room and was always quick to smile. Mark was a lifer and was within a year of his first parole hearing – if successful he would be moving to open conditions.
On a random Wednesday I came back from work and immediately sensed that there was something ‘off’. The other lads were stood around but nobody was joking or taking the piss – there was a quiet, reflective mood amongst the group.
“One off, Gov!” the kanga walked along the corridor and out into the yard where we were gathered, a cardboard folder under his arm. He was trailed by the ominous sound of a trolley with a wonky wheel – the trolley in turn was followed by Mark.
He pushed the trolley filled with clear plastic bags into the yard – all of his possessions were laid bare to the world. When he left one of the lads explained that he had been caught with a mobile phone – he was on his way to a different unit – a tumble from grace to a lower level of Dante’s Inferno.
That night I tried to imagine how Mark might be feeling – I didn’t like the thought. He would be back in a shitty cell with a bed, toilet and sink – maybe a TV and table if he was lucky. He would be locked behind his cell door for the majority of the day. He would also run the risk of his cell being stripped if he left it for any length of time.
There would be no access to cooking facilities, no CV room and no access to hot water for a brew between 5.30pm each evening and 8am the following day. At best his parole would be significantly delayed – at worst he could face as much as a two year knock-back.
While I tried to feel sympathetic for Mark, the narcissist in me meant I couldn’t help but imagine how I would feel if I had a similar tumble from grace. It gave me some invaluable perspective and I was reminded of just how lucky I was – in fact it made me think about an allegory I heard many years before.
Imagine putting all of your problems, all of your worries into a box – a plain, square cardboard box with no marks or distinguishing features. Then seal the box up. Next you take a trip to a warehouse and as you walk inside you see that the building is beyond vast. You look around and see that it is filled with plain, square cardboard boxes. Every person on the planet has done the same thing as you – they have put their problems into a box and now are depositing it in this warehouse. But there is a catch – you can’t leave the warehouse without a box.
So, do you chose to stick with your original box of problems or do you gamble and take somebody else’s instead? Personally I stick to my own every time I imagine that warehouse.
If ever I start to feel sorry for myself I just imagine that there are literally billions of people on this planet that would be delighted to trade their problems for mine. Instead of worrying about the things I might not have, I try to be thankful for all that I do have.
When it is my “One off, Gov!” it will be a good thing.
