Charles Bronson - Bronson

There is so much more to Charles Bronson than meets the eye. You may know of him as the strongest man in the prison system, Britains Number 1 psycho, or the man responsible for more hostage-takings than any other inmate.

Yes, he has been locked in a cage like the fictional Hannibal Lecter because of his extreme danger. And yes, Lecter-style, he did, infamously, threaten to eat a hostage unless he was given a cup of tea. But the Charlie Bronson I know is a man of great humour and warmth; a talented raconteur and artist. In adversity, a man of real insight.

Charlie is genuinely hilarious. Im not Hannibal bloody Hector, he says, deliberately mispronouncing the name. He eats people. Ive never eaten anyone! Im no more Hannibal Hector than Maggie Thatcher was.

Charlie is a lost soul, a man from a different age. Ten thousand years ago he would have been the strongest man in the jungle; two thousand years ago, in Roman times, he would have been the unbeaten gladiator; two hundred years ago he would have been a circus strong-man. As I write, he is locked up 23 hours a day in a cell without so much as a window to open, with little natural light, no breeze on his face. His furniture a chair and table is made of compressed cardboard. His bed is a concrete plinth with a fire-proof mattress on top. When he is unlocked for his one hours exercise, in a razor wire-topped pen, he is accompanied by up to a dozen prison officers, sometimes with dogs and often in riot gear.

Charlie has few visitors. Charlie has been locked up, bar 140 days, for 28 years. Most of that time, almost 24 years, has been spent in solitary. His only creature comforts are a battery-operated radio (he doesnt watch television) and paper, pens and pencils for his art work. He has, he says, eaten more porridge than Goldilocks and the three bears. He knows more about the sharp end of prison life than any dozen governors you might nominate. He commands respect from other convicts. Many people fear him; few really know him.

It has been my privilege over recent years to get to know the real Charlie Bronson, to find out what makes him tick, and to work with him on this book. It has not always been easy. He can be very supportive, but also very demanding. I have lost count of the number of lawyers, authors and even members of his own family he has blown out over the years. At one point, I would read only the first and last lines of his letters to me, to gauge his mood, and then put them to one side for a day or two. I really liked the guy, but I could get seriously pissed off with him. I dreaded the words Im not happy, Robin or Ive got serious mind problems.

But his humour kept me going. Heres a little extract from one of his letters:

At times it looked very doubtful Id ever get out. But recently Ive become a very understanding guy more in control. Could be Im maturing? But its probably because I want to get out to get my dick sucked. Well, Im only human! I may go into films! If that prat Vinnie Jones can do it, why cant I?

Right. Howz yourself?

Have you met my brief yet? If not why not! Have you got all the paperwork? If not why not! How did your sailing trip go? Sea, sun and sex? If not why not! My last holiday was on the Isle of Wight but that was only Parkhurst!

And heres a postscript Charlie added in a letter last summer: Oh! Guess whos below me? Lifer! Ex-Broadmoor ! Swallows things. (Sometimes calls you up.) And he speaks highly of you. (Well, he aint got much in life.) A very sad case!

Cheers, pal!

* * *

Charlie knows little about modern life, he has been in jail for so long. He first went inside in 1974, the year that President Nixon resigned over the Watergate scandal. His language is from the 70s brill; wizard; geezer. He talks of Doris Day and Shirley Bassey. He has fought the system for more than a quarter of a century.

When I first met Charlie in Britains most secure unit a jail within a jail he must have shaken my hand half-a-dozen times. Here was a man denied normal human contact. A generous man, who quite simply cannot control his aggression, as he has proved in spectacular style over the years. Not a murderer, but a man who went inside originally for an armed robbery during which no shots were fired. His seven-year sentence doubled because he was uncontrollable in jail, and then, in his first brief taste of freedom, he went to work as an unlicensed boxer. Soon he robbed a jewellers in his home town of Luton, Bedfordshire. He had lasted just 69 days on the outside.

Sitting opposite me during that first visit was a broad-shouldered man in a green-and-yellow cotton jump-suit, HM Prison emblazoned in big black letters on the back. Charlie was smiling, broken-toothed , through a fearsome black and grey beard. His head was shaven and his eyes were alight behind his small, oval sunglasses.

We had an hour together. I had gone through the most rigorous security checks to visit Britains most violent inmate: police vetting; forms to fill in; mug-shots . I was frisked twice at HMP Woodhill, on the outskirts of Milton Keynes in Buckinghamshire. An electronic device was used to take a fingerprint, to ensure I was the same person going in and out. A video-grab of my face was taken for a similar comparison. I went through two metal detectors, like the ones you see at airports, and was checked again with a hand-held detector. My shoes had to be taken off to be X-rayed, the inside of my mouth was checked for contraband, as was my hair and my belt buckle. All my possessions, except loose change, had to be put in a locker.

After walking through air-lock doors, I entered the reception area for visitors, clutching a yellow visiting slip in a hand which had been stamped with a fluorescent code. There were about a dozen other visitors, including solicitors. None of them was going to House Unit Six in the new Close Supervision Centre, a maximum security block well away from normal Category A inmates.

Oh, a yellow slip? said a friendly prison officer. House Unit Six? Clearly, not many visitors went there. He looked at the form. Come to see Charlie? Well have to escort you.

I was the first civilian visitor, apart from his solicitor, to see Charles Bronson since he had staged the longest prison siege in living memory, holding an education worker hostage for 44 hours.

Two friendly female warders led me first through barred doors and then across a yard where, as only Milton Keynes can, there were several life-size concrete sheep on a patch of grass to the secure block, bounded by razor wire and thick mesh fencing. Down a stark corridor, and under the watchful presence of closed-circuit TV cameras, we finally entered a secure room where I was allowed to use my loose change to buy chocolate bars and fizzy drinks in plastic bottles from two machines. Charlie had signed a form requesting half a dozen bars; I bought eight. The rest of my money was bagged and sealed. I was allowed to take in not a penny, not a scrap of paper nothing.