Jingle Bells - Christmas in Portlaoise

Former POW ROBERT 'FAT' CAMPBELL recalls what life was like at Christmas and New Year for the men in Portlaoise prison during the 1980s.

Robert was first interned in October 1973 and was released in June 1975. He was again arrested in Belfast in May 1980 after a shootout with an SAS unit. However, he and seven comrades escaped from Crumlin Road Prison in June 1981. Sentenced to 30 years imprisonment in his absence, he was once again arrested in the 26 Counties in October that year. Robert was sentenced to ten years in Portlaoise in February 1982. On the day before he was due for release in 1989, Robert was served with a British extradition warrant. He successfully applied for bail and when released, went on the run. Robert was pardoned under the Good Friday agreement on Christmas Eve 2000.

There was no special build up to Christmas Day in jail. Not like on the outside, where you're run off your feet buying presents and getting the food and drink in for the big day. None of that for us.

Food came from the prison kitchen and drink was strictly forbidden. Unlike some of the other jails I've been in, 'home brew' was frowned upon. There were a few attempts to beat the system but if the screws didn't get it then the OC or some of his staff soon sniffed it out. So all in all, it was a case of the sooner Christmas is over the better. There was too much sadness associated with it and prison life became just that little bit harder. You couldn't help but think of home and what would be going on. From the laying out of the presents on Christmas Eve, to their opening on Christmas morning, the memories were constant. In a way, it's ironic that thoughts of happy times actually made you sad. I suppose that applies to life in general and not just jail life.

However, it was never a case of being disheartened or dropping the head. You wouldn't be allowed. For as soon as Christmas Eve rolled into Christmas Day, someone would be crying out the door "Happy Christmas... HO! HO! HO!" followed by rough versions of 'Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer', 'Jingle bells' and 'Frosty the snowman'. "Do your whack," they would say and that's exactly what you had to do.

Come the morning, we all tried to stick to the usual routine. Breakfast first, then a walk in the yard or maybe a little jog for five or ten miles. After showering and dressing, we'd pass the time in the recreation hall until the Christmas dinner would arrive. Normally we'd eat in the cells but at Christmas, the canteen would be decked out and we'd get stuck in to what I thought was a reasonable dinner. This would consist of the traditional turkey and ham followed by dessert. Afterwards, most of the lads would go back to the cells to let the dinner settle but for those of us involved in the Christmas concert, there was last minute stuff to attend to, like 'sharpening our knives' to make sure that they went in our backs cleanly - though not painlessly.

CHRISTMAS PLAY

October 1981 was my first Christmas in Portlaoise and I had little time to settle before the 'directors' of the festival concert were doing the rounds looking for volunteers to perform in the show. They didn't exactly ask you to participate. It was more a case of nailing you to the cross if you didn't. It took me about 30 seconds to realise that you were better off with these rascals as opposed to against them.

The early concerts or plays consisted mainly of a few five-minute skits written by Johnny 'Jonty' Johnston and Seán Mulligan. This later evolved into full length shows written by a small group of prisoners. The lads would gather in a cell and throw ideas about and decide on a theme for the show. Led by Eamon Nolan and Arnie O'Connell and assisted by Pat McNamee, Crawley 'The Yank', Jimmy Fox and myself, we'd try to slip into a cell unnoticed. But soon the word would go out that we were on the move. Those who weren't involved would look at us with a concerned wariness. They would be on their best behaviour and try to look innocent, all in an effort to avoid getting rolled out on the big day. It was a case of locking the gate after the horse had bolted.

From January right through to December, we'd be gathering the information to inflict fatal wounds to egos of even the toughest men. And they knew it. You'd walk past someone and say hello and their imagination would run riot. "Why is he smiling at me?" they'd ask themselves. "Has he got something on me?" And you not smiling at all! Then they'd come up to you with information on someone in return for a promise that you wouldn't mention them in a concert. "A promise? You have more than that. You have my personal guarantee." Sure enough, the scéal would be divulged and sure enough, at some time during the concert, we'd reveal who divulged it, thus creating even more trouble for the informant.

There were even cases of presents being left in our cells. Apple cakes or Mars bars would be left on the bed with a note thanking you for being such a good friend and suggesting you spare them embarrassment during the show. I even remember Jimmy Fox leaving me a black forest gateau. That immediately sparked off a hunt for scéal on Jimmy, who we hadn't even thought of until then. Mind you, the scéal didn't have to be true, for we weren't shy about making up a story or two.

We had a wide range of themes for our plays, from Cinderella to our own version of getting letters to Santa. When reaching Santa, letters from Martin Ferris or Tommy Eccles or similar characters would be read out and no one was spared a 'reddener'. We had the 'dirty dozen', where twelve men would be selected to go on a secret mission, and the selection process would be hilarious. Then there was the theme of the Christmas Escape. Except this wasn't to be a play. It was the real thing!

ESCAPE

In November of 1985, we had started gathering as usual to prepare our Christmas play and things were going quite smoothly. Too smoothly, in fact. Unknown to us, there was a gathering of a few other characters. Their plan wasn't to perform in the Christmas play but to blow their way out of the jail. Six weeks before Christmas, the plan was put into action. It happened on a Sunday morning while most of the men were either in the recreation hall or at Mass. At a given signal, 12 men left their cells in a co-coordinated fashion. Armed with small pistols, they successfully took over the inside of the jail and using their own home-made keys, made their way to the front gates of the jail. The hard part was over. Going through the first of the three gates, the intention was to blow the second gate open and make the screw open the third and final gate. Sadly, when blowing the middle gate, it only buckled and remained closed. The lads were trapped and could only wait as the screws gathered their wits and nerve to bring them back to their cells. That would've been our best Christmas present in years but it was denied to us by a bit of pure, bad luck.

The heavy squad soon arrived and the jail was immediately closed down whilst a systematic search was carried out. For weeks, the jail was in turmoil, which meant that our chance to write and rehearse our Christmas play just wasn't there. More importantly though, those involved in the escape were being held in solitary confinement. Efforts to have them moved back to the wings were in vain so it was decided we'd refuse to eat our Christmas dinner in protest. To which John 'the Yank' Crawley quipped, "hey lads, I thought the idea was to make THEM suffer!" John loved his grub. We managed to get by though and later on that day, instead of the usual feature length Christmas play, we had a hearty sing-song. It was simply a case of 'the show must go on.' We'd never let the screws keep us down. Rab Hunter sang his inimitable version of "I hear you knocking but you can't come in". This was in response to the screws not being able to gain access to our cells, even thought they had the keys.

Several months earlier, half a million pounds had been spent on refurbishment of the jail. Included in this was the changing of the old wooden cell doors to up-to-date, new, solid, steel doors. Willy Reilly and Ned Harkins, the two prison Governors, were delighted with them. However, one of the kids discovered that placing a simple plastic knife in a gap near the lock prevented the screws from opening the doors. So, when they arrived on the wings with riot shields and batons, we all jammed our ten pence plastic knives in the locks, which left hundreds of screws running around like headless chickens. That's when the song "I hear you knocking but you can't come in" was first sung. The whole jail joined in. After some negotiation, in our favour, we removed the knives and let them in. But there were none of the beatings there might have been had they got into the cells in the first place.

VISITS

Whilst Christmas is a relatively joyous time on the outside, in jail it brings the natural sadness of being without family and friends at a time when most people are travelling from afar to be with their loved ones. I remember my first Christmas in Long Kesh, when I was just 20 years of age and still a single man. I was interned not many weeks after Jim Bryson and Patrick Mulvenna had been killed by the Brits on the Ballymurphy Road in 1973. Being in jail didn't bother me in the slightest. Five-a-side football with Matt Bradley and Seando Moore kept us happy enough. Christmas was a happy time for us and I often wondered why the older men seemed so sad. Years later, when I was in Portlaoise, a married man with three kids, I realised how difficult it is for men with families. All the worry of how your partner would cope and missing your kids could lead to a fairly stressful time. Of course, the women would see to it that the kids would be looked after, and the men would have enough to spoil themselves in whatever small way they could.

Visits in Portlaoise were horrible — the worst I've experienced in any jail I've been in. It consisted of a dank, grey cubicle with two ground-to-ceiling sets of wire, which prevented any physical contact with your family. So, at Christmas, it was particularly painful to see your kids all dressed up in their new clothes and be unable to hold them. Mothers would leave Belfast on the bus with the kids to make the four-hour journey to Portlaoise. On reaching the jail, the women would take the kids' Christmas clothes out of bags and dress them before going into the jail. The kids would be thrilled to have their Christmas clothes on three days before their friends, who were back at home with their dads. As a parent though, it was heartbreaking to watch your kids in this environment and to witness the strength of the mothers bringing them through it. Alas, for the kids, the adventure was to be short-lived, as the 30-minute visit would soon be over and the clothes whipped off, to be saved for the real Christmas. It took years of protest by the women outside and further suffering by the men inside before the old visit boxes were finally destroyed and the right to open visits was won. My son Robert was born while I was in Portlaoise and it was three years before I ever touched him or my other two kids. However, I was lucky! For some of the lads it was eight or nine years.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

New Year's Eve is the worst time of the year to be in prison. Christmas could some and go, but New Year's Eve would test the best of us. The TV would be full of it. A review of the year gone by would be on every channel. Locked up in our cell from 8.30pm, the radio would take over, running down the clock until midnight. You couldn't hide from it. No sense burying your head in a book and hoping it would pass by. No use turning out the lights and thinking "when I wake up it will be next year". Your wee head would be racing with memories of New Year on the outside. You knew exactly what was happening. You didn't need to see it to know it. The parties would be in full swing, 'Auld Lang Syne' would be sung all over the country, Kisses would be flying. Hands would be red with shaking. It would be as clear as day in your mind.

In jail, the closer it got the worse you felt. Half eleven... a quarter to twelve... five to twelve. The stomach heaving. Two minutes to go. One minute. You'd urge the hands forward. "Hurry up and get it over with." All the lads would be feeling the same. Sad, tired, the heads down, feeling sorry for themselves. I often felt especially sad for those prisoners from isolated areas. I come from a strong republican community and had good solid support. Some of these lads had no- ne on the outside for them. Their support was on the inside.

Five seconds to go. They're going mad on the radio. Four, three, two, Gong! The first bell would strike. And it came with such an unmerciful roar. Were the heads dropped? Not at all. One hundred and twenty republican prisoners were on their feet. A thunderous noise erupted from their cells. Doors were battered and cries from within roared out. "Happy New Year." "Up the IRA." "Happy New Year, Jim." "Happy New Year, Pete." "Happy New Year, Doco." "Happy New Year, Colm." "Happy New Year, Joe." "Happy New Year, Desi." "Happy New Year, Danny." "Happy New Year, Brendan." (All of them have been killed on active service since leaving jail.)

From a cell high up on the 4's landing, the voice of Dickie Rock sang "Hey it's good to be back home again." We'd sing it through to the end, finishing with cheers and laughter that echoed through the jail. Silence would descend. Men fell back on the beds, each with their own personal memories of New Year's Eve. You could hear a pin drop. We were into another year. Back home again? Maybe this would be the year.

• This article is re-printed with the kind permission of the West Belfast Sinn Féin Newsletter