For John, my brother.
You fought hard against it,
you said you had no regrets
and that you’d been around the
world twice and seen it all.
We miss you and love you.
Charles Bronson
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
INTRODUCTION
FOREWORD
Chapter 1 INSANITY
Chapter 2 BEDLAM
Chapter 3 CRAZY LITTLE THING CALLED INSANITY
Chapter 4 MAD AS A HATTER
Chapter 5 BEHIND THE WALL OF HELL
Chapter 6 MONSTERS AND BEASTS
Chapter 7 DEAD MEN BREATHING
Chapter 8 BROADMOOR – DEAD MEN DREAMING
Chapter 9 ARSEWORTH AND RAMPANT
Chapter 10 THE MADNESS OF LIFE
Chapter 11 VENGEANCE IS MINE, SAYETH BRONSON
Chapter 12 MAVERICKS
Chapter 13 PRISON MADNESS
Chapter 14 BRONSON’S DIARY
TIME SERVED
Copyright
BY STEPHEN RICHARDS
Charles Bronson! Two words that conjure up conflicting thoughts: One — is he the great American Death Wish actor? Two — Oh, yeah, I know who he is, he’s that madman in prison who keeps taking hostages … I think. In this case, we’re talking about Charles Bronson, the man dubbed the UK’s hardest man, the man labelled the UK’s maddest and baddest hostage-taker, self-confessed ‘King of the Roofs’ and one of the kindest men you could ever meet!
There are three sides to this man Bronson — good, mad and bloody bad, the good side very rarely being revealed to the person who has experienced the mad and the bloody bad sides. The mad and bad parts of Bronson’s persona are usually held in reserve for those on the same side of the prison wall he’s behind, particularly paedophiles and bully screws.
The able and willing part of Bronson’s persona is generously bestowed upon those who have earned his kindness. As if some king giving his grateful subjects a royal wave, as if the Pope giving his papal blessing, as if a great wizard casting a lucky spell for his willing students, Bronson can equally give his heart and soul for those he believes in. But there is also a warning label attached to the Bronson kindness — ‘Handle with care, treat with respect or you’ll regret it!’
When you breed man-eating piranhas, they say you haven’t been a successful breeder until you’ve been bitten by one of the killer fish. Piranhas don’t actually bite as such — they scoop out the flesh of their victim, leaving a big messy hole! Once you’ve been blooded, then, and only then, have you received your rite of passage and you can declare yourself to be a successful breeder, displaying the healed wound as proudly as a newly promoted Hell’s Angel shows off his newly won patches.
Very few people are able to say they have endured the wrath of Bronson after a close friendship and then, afterwards, were able to start all over again with the man. I, Steve Richards, have had that dubious honour.
Charlie Bronson and I have fallen in and out of friendship more times than I care to remember. I’ve been blooded and obtained my patches the hard way — Charlie respects me for my stance. Once, writing to the big man, I mentioned a particular subject that I was disgruntled about: ‘I want you to bend over, 90 degrees, from the waist, take the document and ram it up your arse.’
Charlie sent the letter to one of his then close supporters and had written over the top of it, ‘He’s either mad or very brave!’
Our little fall-out lasted for quite a while. He’d write to me in a nasty and sarcastic, but funny, manner and I’d respond with an equally caustic reply — childish, really!
During the course of our love–hate relationship employing angry words, one thing became apparent — Charlie was able to express his anger by proxy. He wasn’t able to pin me down and punch my lights out; he had to express his anger by letter. He dared, I thought to myself, to cross swords with the Golden Pen, a name given to me by some of the criminal fraternity. The man I was fighting was able to give as good as he got; as a consequence, both of us suffered the damage of our ever more daring penmanship and, I can tell you, he gave a good fight and became a great, great friend of mine, a friendship that I would not wish to lose.
I am the sole survivor of similar disagreements that he has had with those who have supposed him to be unable to comprehend what goes on in the outside world. I believe this special bond I have with Charlie gives me the authority to be able to speak so expertly about him.
Not once did I blame Charlie for his actions; always, instead, I blamed the penal system for what they had done to him. After reading this book, I’m sure you, too, will also blame the system for its mismanagement of one of its most misunderstood inmates.
During the course of being honoured in assisting Charlie with his work, I banished myself into solitary in order to experience what he must feel like and to get a better understanding of how it can make or break you as a person. Obviously, I couldn’t endure the 24 years he’s suffered in such solitary conditions, but what I was able to do was divest myself of all the worldly goods we, outside solitary, take for granted.
First, it was away with my mobile phone, my precious cigars … oh, what the hell, they could go as well, as would my other daily luxuries. I even banished myself to a stark building with a steel door, locked from the outside, with no heating, no ventilation, no phones, no snacks, no newspapers … nothing! With just my pen and a notepad, I was beginning to know what solitary felt like.
I did, however, grant myself two luxuries: One — soft toilet roll; Two — cans of Pepsi-Max. The Pepsi would help take away my craving for nicotine and now the fight was on. One hour into the venture I felt great — yeah, I can do this, no problem.
After a sleepless night on wooden pallets, stacked four high to represent Charlie’s sleeping conditions, I was wondering if what I’d embarked on was, as Charlie would put it, a mission of madness. The following morning saw me standing by the steel door like an expectant dog waiting for its master to return home … the door opened … light, real light!
I decided to take an hour off, equivalent to the one-hour exercise Charlie is allowed. What would I do in this hour? Sneak off, look for a newsagent and buy a pack of cigars? After all, I still had money in my pocket. Yes, no, yes, no, yes … so the inner battle went on. I walked up to the shop, went in and bought a tray of Mr Kipling’s Apple Pies. Was I that mad after only one day! If I’d bought the cigars, I’d have let Charlie down. OK, he wouldn’t have known, but in our new-found closeness it meant a lot to me not to lie to him, to keep the faith, bro’.
In the early stages of my captivity, I was like a giggling schoolboy on a mystery school outing … this was going to be an adventure after all! Washed down with the Pepsi, the apple pies tasted good. I soon forgot about the cigars I had craved, and then I found myself looking at stark reality! The magical mystery tour had turned into a sudden realisation that this might be madness.
I was sitting looking at the bricked ceiling, the plain-bricked wall and a closed steel door. It dawned on me … what if something happened, like if I developed appendicitis or I was to have a heart-attack or something equally life-threatening? At least if this happened to Charlie he could bring this