Barber to the Block

The clink of the gate behind me was less a slam of finality and more a metallic sigh of acceptance. Three and a half years. Fourth strike. The courtroom had been a blur of raised eyebrows and hushed murmurs, my barrister practically vibrating with a mixture of exasperation and, dare I say, admiration. Apparently, my ‘violent convictions’ had been so uniquely categorized, so wildly diverse in their violent flavor, that they’d snagged a mention in the 2014 law books. Belmarsh, though? That was a different beast. My family’s name, my ‘connections,’ they weren’t just whispers in the wind this time. I wasn’t that wide-eyed twenty-one-year-old anymore, a fresh face in the system. No, this time, I’d earned my stripes, and more importantly, my network.

It wasn’t long before I found myself an introduction orderly, the unofficial greeter and guide for new arrivals. But my real hustle, the one that truly set me apart, was my styling business. It wasn’t on any official roster, of course. This was Belmarsh, not a bloody salon. But the officers, those weary wardens of the concrete jungle, they knew. And when someone needed a trim, a shave that didn't resemble a badger’s nest, they’d point them my way. A discreet nod, a whispered name, and suddenly I had a client. The payment, however, was always in the currency that truly mattered inside: tobacco.

In my thirteen, maybe fourteen years locked up, only two people had ever tried to stiff me. Two. And that’s a statistic I’m damn proud of. Because in prison, not getting paid isn’t just an inconvenience; it’s a declaration of war. If some muppet thinks he can settle his tab with your jawbone, well, you’re in deep trouble, mate. The rules inside are a twisted mirror of the outside world, and you have to shut that kind of nonsense down, and I mean *immediately*.

Take this one chap, for example. A real piece of work, this one. He’d got himself locked up for manslaughter, an ex-cage fighter, the whole nine yards. He decided he was going to punch this other bloke unconscious, a simple case of unpaid dues. But here’s the kicker: being a professional cage fighter means your hands are a goddamn lethal weapon. And using them outside the ring, well, that’s illegal as hell. This particular cage fighter was a Grade A bully, a proper twat. But after I dealt with him, and by ‘dealt with him’ I mean dismantled his ego and his sense of entitlement, about eleven guys suddenly materialized out of the woodwork. They thanked me. Actually *thanked* me. Apparently, this ‘ninja man,’ as they started calling me later, had thoroughly disgraced the bully. He’d been seen crying at his cell door, begging the very people he’d been tormenting for months. Months of blackmailing their families, draining their canteen money, running up phone bills on their credit. Nasty stuff.

So, when it came down to adjudication – that’s prison trial, for the uninitiated – for fighting, things got interesting. The governor, the big cheese, he deemed the bully ‘not guilty.’ Why? Because *he* got beaten up. See how that works? I, on the other hand, got found guilty. Loss of privileges, a few days in the segregation unit – the ‘block,’ as we called it. The bully, the one who’d been throwing chairs and threatening people, he walks. The system, eh? He got found guilty of throwing a chair at the governor. Four security guards made sure he regretted that outburst, and let me tell you, it was a sight for sore eyes. Screams, the thud of impact, his face being dragged across the floor, unconscious. A proper good little d***head, he was. He ended up doing three or four weeks in the block and then got shipped off to some far-flung prison, a special destination for individuals like him. I felt like a hero, I won’t lie. And honestly, what else could they expect?

My little encounter with the bully seemed to impress people across the entire prison. Seven hundred and fifty inmates, and word got around. ‘Ninja Man,’ they called me. Never seen a parcelon get hit three times while standing still, apparently. He was charging from a distance, screaming about murder, ripping his top off like the original Hulk. Big guy, proper bully. Justice, you make it yourself sometimes. And that’s the thing, isn't it? Accepting or even knowing that you’re about to do something and being willing to accept the punishment beforehand. A slight operational organization, I suppose you could call it.

Anyway, before I knew it, those were the only two people in thirteen, fourteen years who hadn’t paid up. The second one was always in segregation, so I never did get around to dealing with him. The list of those who *did* pay grew, a massive, ever-expanding roster. The officers had to let me out of the block eventually. People were queuing up, desperate for their services. Tobacco was the main commodity, of course, but shower gels, soap, conditioner, cleaning products, fizzy drinks, chocolate bars, crisps, custard creams, biscuits – anything and everything.

Then there was the cake business. My job, once I was out and about, was making cakes and selling slices. One slice, I think it was five pounds. The cost of making three big trays of cakes – chocolate, white chocolate, and a fruitcake with chocolate drizzle – was substantial. I’d be lucky to get a couple of slices for myself. But the money was good. And it was fun. Plus, you had to be a bit of a bloody bully to even get into the kitchen in the first place, especially with seven hundred prisoners and only six cookers. I mean, it was only on weekends, but still.

I started out small, you know, a four-day weekend operation. The sheer variety of cultures and foods was incredible. I’d buy a chicken, some minced meat, and I’d trade with my mates. One was Caribbean, one was Indian. They’d make me two different dishes, and I loved a bit of mild curry. We’d freeze it all up in our containers and it would last us the week. And then there was my role as the number one servery guy, the one who served the food, the cleaner, the absolute king of the wing. It was good because I was doing my music at the time, too, in the studio. We’d get the biggest bass system out, usually some yellow blaster bass, Sub-Zero type thing. We’d clear the wings, get the association out, people mingling. Then I’d crank up the music, and everyone would just shut down. It was hilarious, because literally six weeks later, someone released a song called ‘Shutdown.’ Obviously, they’d heard it through someone’s mobile phone and got the logistics, but the actual song, with the beat? Pure quality. A masterpiece, really. It’s all about the instruments you use, you know?

So, at least I did that. Everything was good. Depends on your perspective, I suppose. If you’re old school, you know, any moment we’d suss out any nonsense, we’d make sure to find out about it, look into the paperwork, talk to the victim. Some people lie, of course. I uncovered a few convicted people who were complete liars, just wanting to take someone’s property, their car, their money. That’s the dark side. But then you get the real ones, the hardcore justice. Trying to make sure these people never do things like that again. If you understand. Some people say you have to go through what they went through, but if you’ve had a broomstick shoved up your arse and someone’s kicked it in, especially in your rear, and you’ve had a sock full of human s***forced down your throat, gagging you, any screams just turning into s*** from your mouth… well, it’s a curious sound, but I’ll never see those people again. Obviously, it’s the way they like it. People like it like that.

But now, I’ve got all my things ready. My qualifications are done. I’m released. Happy and excited to be back with my family. Usually, one of my family picks me up and brings me back to London. Usually, you’d be out in the sticks, miles from anywhere, and have a long drive back. I’d have to try and hit a market or go somewhere. You usually have to cash your bond, you know, because I came out with quite a lot of money, and they couldn’t just hand it over. So, they had to give me a special bond or check that I had to cash at some local place where I’d never been. You have to do that. I mean, I can do it without anyone. So yeah, it’s a good day. Family. That’s when I announced I was retiring from all criminal activities and officially entering the world of professional entertainment. Registered, officially, on the government. Taxis, licenses, permissions, permits – all of those things come with it, especially when you’re opening your own record label. Record label. Very, very exciting times. Everyone knew what I did, understood it. It’s very complex to be the sole owner of your own record label. Domain auditions, the video of the house has been sent in, three hundred thousand people auditioned with videos. To trust our lot, you know? So if I feel like I want to work with people, I work with specific people. If you’re telling it, and I see it, then I feel comfortable and ready, then you may be signing the contract and becoming a celebrity, actor, superstar, rockstar, host. Don’t mean anything. It’s an agency or whatever you do. Professionals get professional services. So, there’s a new story. But always remember, you have to dress the part, be the part, and do everything that people in the profession that you do. The entertainment industry is a billion-dollar industry with professionals, and it’s a very highly confidential and private superstar agency. So yeah, it’s a lot of Omar Diamondz music productions. But there’s time for another book. Show off to the world.