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Avoiding certain jobs

David*

As someone with a record, I often feel completely isolated. Going public with my past carries a huge risk – as do enhanced criminal record disclosures. For example, I work in a respected ‘status’ role in higher education within a niche subject with a small circle of experts, employers and colleagues. The same people that would process an enhanced disclosure would be the same people that I work with. It is a thought that motivates my avoidance of certain jobs, even though I would otherwise not seek to conceal my past among friends and family. I have thus paid over and over for what were – in the field of crimes – petty actions.

I do think the current employment legislation for ex-offenders needs radical reform. It is set completely against the employee and places too much power (and power to abuse) into the hands of employers. The ‘official’ guidance for ex-offenders is that after a certain amount of time, spent convictions should not impede your life in a major way. This is so inaccurate I do not know where to begin.

Since my offences, I have served my country in the armed services – with two tours of active duty under my belt – gained a BA, MA and PhD and published in respected academic journals. I have also lectured and taught at one of the country’s leading universities. However, the current enhanced criminal records disclosure procedure leaves me terrified. I have avoided about 80 per cent of the employment opportunities that are open to me. I suffer frequent bouts of unemployment because my research field involves fixed-term contracts and I select jobs that do not involve an enhanced CRB.

This is becoming increasingly difficult because I believe employers are abusing the enhanced disclosure process and using it to vet employees. In short the whole system of dealing with ‘reformed offenders’ is out of tune with reality and the structure of society. It does not affect the ‘convicted’ elite of society or repeat offenders; it only serves to disable, impede and waste a massive cohort of British society who I trying to move on with honest lives.

I came to Unlock because I am tired of running away from my past and giving in to a system primed to knock me down. Unlock has been a critical first step in this process. It has provided me with clear, unambiguous guidance. As far as I am aware it is the only body/charity/website that offers the type of detail that is necessary for me to go forward. Knowledge is power – and personal empowerment.

‘In It’ by Jonathan Robinson: a Review

Review by Richard

This is one book that definitely needed to be written. In It is one man’s journey through the prison system and it gives a very clear view of what works and doesn’t work within that system. What works is the opportunity for prisoners to reflect on what brought them into prison. What doesn’t work is just about everything else except security – and even that was imperfect.

Robinson, a trained pilot and flying instructor who robbed his employer to impress his wife with money, struggles from day one with the uncoordinated and, at times, crazy bureaucracy that prevails throughout the system. The core message of the book is that prison simply does not work as a method for civilising the uncivilised and educating the uneducated. But there’s the rub: that is not what the majority of the British population at large want it to be. Most people simply expect the prison service to lock people up and punish them for their crimes, and that is exactly what it does. However, the very high re-offending rate that results from this approach is something that both policy makers and the author himself try to address.

Through his experience and his writing Robinson spends his entire sentence struggling to come to terms with the difference between what he thinks prison ought to be, “a thriving, self-sufficient, enthusiastic [place] whose occupants … put back in what they’ve been given,” a place run by “enthusiastic staff who give praise [and] good leadership” thus making it an “Efficient, happy ship,” and what it actually is: a place with “Prisoners prevailing in bed, the odious repulsive food littered around the battleground dining room set-dressed by huge slovenly quantities of unwashed plates making up the scenery.”

The book is structured as a day-by-day diary recorded in as-it-happened notes, and this is both a revealing insight into the everyday life of a prisoner but also the book’s biggest weakness. Although he says in the epilogue that a lot of material has been edited out the book still suffers from being at least fifty percent longer than it needs to be to make the point – just as many prison sentences are. What comes through well is the way in which minor snags and an unresponsive system give rise to unnecessary frustrations and routine basic injustices, such not having clothes that fit or food that is edible. All of his very valid observations could have been made without much of the irrelevant details that fill the book and it would have benefitted hugely form being better edited. Although, as Robinson points out, when you have no control or influence over your life, minor issue take on a huge significance and “These life shattering events are important in prison.”

Although repeatedly remorseful about his crime, Robinson still comes across as expecting the National Offender Management Service to be a super-efficient customer service department whose purpose is to improve his opportunities and those of his fellow inmates. This it clearly is not. But, as he points out, there seems to be no justification for the appalling waste of energy, both human and material, that results from prisoners not working during their time inside and the huge amount of money being wasted on unnecessary heating bills and dozens of other inefficiencies.

Despite the strange use of punctuation and speech marks throughout the book, and the lack of thorough editing, Robinson writes well. His metaphor of prison as a film set and each event as a scene played out by characters who he often names after film stars gives a vivid sense of the personalities involved and brings great humour to a tragic set of circumstances. Highly recommended reading for anyone involved in criminal justice policy.

In It is available to purchase as an eBook from Amazon.

Scott’s story

Scott Woodage

I was fortunate to have a good upbringing and benefit from a private education. I have always had an entrepreneurial streak in me and even at a young age, I remember selling seashells to holidaymakers whilst on a family holiday in Barmouth. I made enough money to buy myself a fishing rod and it was a great feeling.

I left school with average grades, although excelled in Commerce, gaining a Grade A GCE in the subject. Around this time, my mother and my stepfather divorced, and much to my mother’s dismay, I decided not to study A Levels, rejecting the idea of university, and opted for a trainee Sales Executive role with a computer software house.

I did well, and soon I was outselling everyone, including the Sales Manager. I asked the Managing Director to sack the Sales Manager and to let me have his job. He declined. I resigned and set up my first business venture, The Selvac Group. The business was in the competitive promotional incentives market and we soon acquired a good name within the industry, which led to us servicing many household brands: Barclaycard, Kodak Film, Moben Kitchens, Ford Motor Company, to name a few.

Within a relatively short period I was a self-made millionaire. The company had 12 full-time employees, and I was enjoying life. I worked hard and partied even harder. But I soon developed a gambling addiction and an obsession for making money.

Despite these problems, I was short listed for Shell Livewire’s Young Entrepreneur of the Year. It was 1990 and I was still only 19 years old. Then the crash! In 1991, with the country suffering a major recession, overnight our order book became depleted – with orders cancelled, combined with frozen budget spends. I used every penny I had, and borrowed heavily, to salvage the business, but it was rapidly going to the wall.

One evening, my business partner and I were discussing the severity of the situation when we both agreed to a plan that would ruin not only my life, but affect the lives of my family, friends and many others as well. The company still retained a strong credit rating, and this meant we could borrow and buy goods on credit. Goods came in, they were sold at ludicrously low prices, and we never paid our creditors.

Soon I made my fortune once again and continued living the high life. We got away with things for about a year, until the inevitable knock at the door. I was arrested and charged with fraud. In court, I pleaded guilty and, to my surprise, escaped prison and received a Probation Order. I flitted from job to job. Sometimes I had money; other times I had nothing. I wanted to get back into business and befriended one of my bosses to lend me £10,000. She did, but the venture never worked out. I was prepared to work off the debt when, out of the blue, she reported me to the police. That was that.
I received 12 months in prison. Fortunately I ended up doing most of my sentence in an open prison. It was not a deterrent, and I would visit prison on two more occasions: in 1999 for a major Ponzi fraud and again, in 2006, for an EBay fraud. It was starting to tot up. In between, I had met up with my biological father – and fathered a daughter of my own.

In 2009, I hit my rock bottom. I was an out-and-out gambling addict and problem drinker. I was robbing Peter to pay Paul and was finally arrested when I could not make good on my promises. I was remanded. An eventful three-hour Magistrate appearance and a day of reflection later, they carted me off to HMP Bullingdon where I became washed up, and very depressed.

In the holding cell, I met a fellow prisoner who could clearly see my pain. He suggested that I look at the RAPt Program. He explained that he was an alcoholic and was serving a life sentence for murder. The RAPt Program had helped him in various ways, and he had found manageability in his life that had been absent for a long while. That was what I needed. I wanted to have what he had.

In April 2010, I started the RAPt Program. Wow! I have never experienced power like it. I became immersed in the program and opened up to total strangers. I shared my darkest secrets, my moments of depression, along with moments of elation. We laughed together and cried together. The release was unlike anything I had ever known. I felt free. After graduation, I joined as a RAPt Peer Mentor and found the experience very rewarding. I also took on several other Peer Mentoring roles for Toe by Toe and on the Vulnerable Prisoner Wing. I never knew Peer Mentoring could be so enjoyable. Time flew by, and I was soon at an open prison again. I continued to Peer Mentor for RAPt, Toe by Toe, and added Aim Higher into the mix.

I became a mentor for someone who could not read or write properly. I spent a lot of time with him and with my encouragement and motivation – coupled with his desire to succeed – within a year he gained TWO GCSE’s in English and Mathematics. I was so proud to be part of that success story – amongst others.

In November 2010, I won Aim Higher Mentor of the Month and became an Accredited Mentor. This culminated in me being selected to give a speech in Parliament to the All Party Parliamentary Penal Affairs Group on the subject of Prison Peer Mentoring. The standing ovation capped it off for me. I knew then that I needed to help others.

I have made use of my time in prison, and totted up several qualifications including a BSc in Psychology, Stress Management Advanced Diploma, Level 4 Life Skills Coaching Diploma, amongst many other Vocational qualifications. I was released from prison in early 2012. Since then, I have set up a successful Internet business, and employed eight full-time staff. I am currently selling part of that business to a large media company. I continue to practice what I have learnt – 12 step – from my mentor in my daily affairs, and meditate on a regular basis. Today my life is better. I no longer have obsessive behaviour; I live a law-abiding life and enjoy every day. I have gained the respect and trust of my family and friends. I owe this to one fellow prisoner who took the time to talk to me in my darkest hour. He introduced me to a new way of life and for that I will be forever grateful. I now have a new friend for life.

I have met some truly extraordinary people due to 12 step and never get tired of hearing and carrying the message to others. I can never repair the damage I have caused to my victims but I can influence the future. Now I seek to live crime free, and to help other ex-offenders find the serenity I have found in my own life.

Scott is the co-founder of Second Chance Mentoring – http://www.secondchancementoring.org.uk

Poem – Penrose steps

One. This is the first step. Star gazing, whilst we are plain sailing. And the moon phasing. Singing a tune that only you and I know.

Two. Light exploding, pain slowing down every breath that I take. I can only dream. Life and its lies, little pleas. Stare at me, dangerously.

Three. Entropy. Particles stop colliding. Friends who stop confiding. Shadows fall. Ignored calls. I could have given more, but we stall.

Four. Back up, reality, a paper cut a tiny wound, stinging with venom, relentlessly, intensely, condenses me, darkness senses thee, destroys me, spoils me like an only son. Star-gazing, moon phasing. Singing, again. Back to the beginning.

One.

by Anonymous

Criminal Records Ruin Lives

Obsidian Black

It’s now more than thirty-three years since I was released from prison. I thought then, naively, that the worst was over. I had served two years of a three and a half year sentence. But I didn’t realise then that the real punishment hadn’t even begun.

I’m not complaining about being sent to prison; I deserved it. I was just eighteen and had done something terrible when I was wild-drunk and running with a gang; so I’d got my just desserts. What I didn’t understand at the time was that I had actually been sentenced to eighty-two years as a near-unemployable pariah. Under current laws, I will have a criminal record until I’m one hundred years old.

The sentence didn’t begin to take effect immediately. Once released on parole I went straight back to work in an engineering factory, but my apprenticeship was ruined. I wasn’t allowed to continue it because of union rules. I would have been over twenty-one by the time it was completed and that wasn’t allowed. So the first stage of the life-long punishment was to restrict me to semi-skilled work. But I didn’t let that happen.

At twenty, still on parole, and at the encouragement of my Probation Officer, I became a Probation Volunteer. I’d learned to my cost how easy it is to go out on the raz with some mates, load up on drink and drugs and, if things get out of hand, end up in prison. So I was encouraged to use that experience for the benefit of others; and I did. I ran a small group for young men on probation using my engineering skills to teach motor mechanics. It went well, and I learned that I loved teaching and helping others. My parole expired with no further problems. I was officially a free man. But that was an illusion.

Still determined to reach my potential, I left the production line, went to college and qualified as a technician. I got good grades and found work in the entertainment industry in London. It was the mid-eighties and there was plenty of work and money. But I’d become disenchanted with the depth of relationship a man can have with machines, and I still wasn’t satisfied by manual labour so, after travelling extensively across Europe and Asia, I returned to education. I’ve always loved to study so I planned to take two A levels over two years during the day, and another over one year in the evenings. I worked the rest of the time as a barman, a pot-washer and a decorator. By the end of the first year my grades were so good that my tutor encouraged me to go straight to university; so I applied.

I still wanted to continue my work with young offenders, drinkers and drug users to help others avoid the pit I’d fallen into. In the summer before the university term began, I trained and started work as a volunteer alcohol counsellor, and I got some work as relief worker in a hostel. When it became apparent I was just as bright and committed as the paid staff, I decided to make a career of it. With my shiny new A level and my engineering qualification I was accepted onto a social work course as a mature student. Then, on the first day, the true extent of my sentence started to become clear. Although it was now was ten years since my conviction, I had to fill out a form disclosing my offence – and was promptly dismissed from the course. One of the lecturers, someone very committed to the ethos of rehabilitation, was sympathetic to my situation. He offered me a place on a psychology course, but he also advised me to tell the staff at the counselling agency and the hostel about my record – up until that point I’d never been asked – so I disclosed; they both sacked me on the spot. There was a clear ‘us’ and ‘them’ distinction to be made. I was clearly labelled as one of ‘them’ and so could not become one of ‘us’ for fear that the reputation of their agencies would be tarnished. I was clearly too bad to become good.

Nevertheless, I continued my degree and I loved it. I gained first-class marks for my dissertation and only missed an overall ‘first’ by three marks. I became committed to the idea of education as a way out of unhealthy and unhelpful lifestyles. With good grades and references, I applied for a place in clinical psychology, and I was offered interviews for two prestigious courses. I accepted – and then told them about my record. The offers were immediately withdrawn. Fourteen years on; and still too bad to be good.

After graduating, I got some part-time sessional work teaching A levels at the local college; no questions asked. Then I got a full time job with the Probation Service – full disclosure notwithstanding – and I did well. After a few months my manager suggested I go for a master’s in social work. I attended an interview and was offered a place on the course. You can probably guess the next bit – so, instead, I took a job with the National Association for the Care and Resettlement of Offenders; they had a specific policy of not excluding ex-offenders. I worked hard and did well running training courses for health and criminal justice professionals. But, after four years, the funding ran out and I was made redundant so I went to work part-time in a prison assessing drug use and offering harm reduction advice. The Governor knew about my record and was enlightened about reformed characters helping others. Then one of my NHS contacts suggested I apply for a full-time job with them. As it was now eighteen years since my offence, I was considered rehabilitated enough and got a great job in the NHS. I did well for the next seven years, and worked my way up to being a commissioning manager – even after disclosing my record. Things seemed to be looking up, and my past was well behind me.

However, over the next two years, scandals of child abuse in care homes started to emerge, Dr. Harold Shipman was convicted of mass murder, the Criminal Records Bureau (CRB) was launched and Ian Huntley murdered Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman. Everyone in health and social care was twitchy, and employers started covering their backs. Policies on employing ex-offenders were rapidly redrawn. My manager came to me and said that I was going to have to leave; it was nothing personal, just a matter of policy. It was now twenty-five years since my conviction.

I could have fought it at a tribunal, but that would have meant going public about my past and would have been wholly counterproductive. The only way out was to become self-employed; so I did. At that time, limited companies weren’t subjected to the same kind of scrutiny as employees because everyone was too busy purging their existing workforce and vetting new appointments. Limited companies offering consultancy had an air of legitimacy about them that job-seeking individuals did not. That tactic lasted for a couple of years until the care industry caught up with the changes in legislation and effectively ended the rehabilitative culture by screening everyone for everything. A friend of mine even lost his job in a fence-building company when his employer won a contract to install fences around schools – even though his record had nothing to do with kids, no-one was taking any chances. The ‘us’ and ‘them’ was now more clearly defined and supported in law. No more could one-time poachers become worthwhile gamekeepers.

Since its inception in 2002, at least 150,000 ‘unsuitable people’ have been prevented from working with children and vulnerable adults as a direct result of a CRB check; and I’m one of them. Even though I have never harmed a child or a vulnerable person – or even hit a healthy adult – I became labelled as ‘unsuitable’, and the breadth with which the terms of CRB checks were applied is staggering. Because local authorities, the NHS and charities look after vulnerable people, and were all falling over themselves to demonstrate their commitment to protecting the young and vulnerable, doors were slamming shut all around me. As a result, I no longer qualified even to be a dustman in the town where I was working as an interim manager in local government. The menial, manual labouring jobs usually available to ex-cons – parks workers, cleaners, road-sweepers etc. – were suddenly locked behind a screen of suspicion, and the chance to work in an office with the respectable people became completely unattainable.

To find work I found myself having to download my record onto websites at the application stage, without knowing who was reading it or what would happen to it next. In the real world – and despite the rhetoric – if you have a criminal record you don’t actually qualify for confidentiality or privacy. Your past is considered public business – and people love to gossip. Even the agencies funded by the taxpayer to support the rehabilitation of offenders lurched into the fray. They would all print nice little blurbs saying that having a record wasn’t “necessarily a barrier to employment,” but they still had the right to know about it and discriminate against people because of it. The well-intentioned Rehabilitation of Offenders Act (1974) had been torpedoed as effectively as the General Belgrano, and ex-offenders everywhere were drowning in the raging waters of a moral backlash.

Every society seems to need an ‘out-group’, a bunch of people we can all point at to feel good about ourselves by claiming we are better than they are; ex-offenders were now, definitely, that group. After nearly two years on the dole, and in grave danger of losing my home and not being able to support my teenager, I went to my MP. His response was chilling: “It’s a tough life, get used to it.”

Then, at last, and after making a full disclosure at the application stage, I got a job with one of the country’s biggest rehabilitation charities famed for “turning lives around”. My background, skills and experience made me ideally suited to the role and my presentation at the interview went very well. But the managers hadn’t read my application form thoroughly; they hadn’t read my disclosure. So, after two weeks in the job, and having been introduced to nearly one hundred colleagues, I was dismissed when the CRB check came back. But it wasn’t as simple as that. First I had to go through a risk assessment. What happened in this session was that I was dragged back through the most difficult and shameful period of my life by someone who was still in primary school at the time. The risk assessment used was the same as the one the Probation Service use with people very recently convicted, and I was treated as if I had committed my offence just the day before. It was a truly gruesome experience; like having your soul scorched with a magnifying glass for the sadistic sense of power it brought to my employer. Then the results were phoned through to one of the agency’s directors; I was never told their name. The decision to fire me was made on policy alone and delivered over the phone the next day. The results of the assessment weren’t even relevant; there was no evidence of risk to either clients or colleagues, just the reputation of the employer. There had been no need to put me through that at all. Oh, and would I “be a love” and drop the keys off.

It was obvious to all my suddenly ex-colleagues why I had had to leave – so no confidentiality for me. Bumping into them at social events afterwards was excruciating. And long-gone was the right to rehabilitation that the charity earned its £50+ million per year from. My family and I were devastated; my child had been overjoyed when I finally got work and had been looking forward to the first proper holiday together for two years. Never underestimate the toll that parental unemployment takes on the kids. And then I had to explain why it had happened. It’s tough explaining to a thirteen year old why everyone hates their dad.

My career for the last twenty-six years has been in health, social care and education. Employment agencies in those fields now use “a clean CRB/DBS within the last 12 months” as a form of qualification; a qualification I can never obtain in this lifetime – and not the way such vetting procedures were intended to be used. CRB and DBS checks have shut me out, and no-one is taking on inexperienced beginners in their fifties – no matter what the trade or profession. Imagine you are over fifty, and applying for work. Think about how you’d feel if you had to be risk-assessed based on how you behaved during your worst five minutes on one wild night out when you were just eighteen. That’s how the system works.

Now, it’s easy to say “There are other ways of earning a living.” But, if you actually read job adverts, you’ll see they all demand previous experience of the role on offer; either that, or you have to be twenty-one and fresh out of college. The notion of ‘transferable skills’ is no more meaningful than most buzzwords. The last full-time job I applied for, reverting to my engineering background, was as a surveyor for a solar panel installation firm. I passed the interview and they offered me the job on the spot. Then they asked for a CRB check – not previously mentioned in the advert or the person spec. I showed them the one I had from the charity job a couple of years previously, and that was that; there’s the door.

And it’s even easier to say “Well, you shouldn’t have done it, should you.” And you’d be right. I’ve got no argument with that, or with the concept of a criminal record as a deterrent, or with the police and courts keeping records of crimes committed to be taken into account in any future sentencing. But deterrents only work for premeditated crimes, and mine wasn’t. And the whole point of punishment is to bring about a correction to behaviour, which I achieved over thirty years ago. So, how long should a punishment continue? How long should the state, its institutions and its charities punish someone for a teenage crime with such ruthless, systematic social exclusion? Eighty-two years? That’s a life sentence.

In the last four years, I’ve applied for over four hundred jobs, and now I’ve lost my home. I’m trying to survive on £150 pw as a part-time unskilled worker with no benefits or state support of any kind – and I’m taking another degree. Maybe, this year, my offence will finally become spent, but only if I don’t want to work to help or educate others. That kind of work is now permanently ring-fenced for the saintly; enhanced DBS searches reveal everything to almost anyone who asks. Everyone is treated as a potential paedophile, and that is the justification used for the removal of the right to privacy – just as the prevention of terrorism is used to justify mass surveillance.

At the last election my previous MP was replaced by a man who summed up the situation very nicely. He said “You’ve been caught in a net never intended for you.” It was good to have that recognised, but I still can’t pursue my profession, and there are still hundreds of thousands of us trapped in that net.

Unnecessary checks are a crime – and should be reported to the police

To paraphrase Ken Livingstone, if legislation changed anything it would become illegal.

The aptness of that phrase should surprise no one observing the mad world of vetting checks. As the Manifesto Club’s recent report shows, little has changed despite the Protection of Freedoms Act. Unnecessary criminal record checks still continue. And although the club’s report focuses on school parent volunteers, a similar pattern exists elsewhere.

The Scouts, who have conducted over 10 million taxpayer pounds worth of ‘free’ checks, seem oblivious to the legislative change. Their ‘updated’ vetting rules list so many types of people requiring checks that many Scout Groups probably still think it easier to vet every parent. And student tutoring schemes also show few signs of reducing checks.

The GOLDEN rule of these schemes, which place university students in schools for 3-4 hours a week, is that students are ALWAYS supervised. But while Bath University is reviewing its policy, others continue taking a hard line. At the LSE, Reading and other universities checks on students continue unabated.

At London’s Imperial College, student tutoring manager Dr Annalisa Alexander told me “I would never send a student to a school without an enhanced clearance certificate and the schools we work with require it”, adding “I would not like any of my students to be left on their own with a class”. Clearly the universities cannot object to their students being checked – at their expense – as doing so would endanger these valuable schemes.

One often overlooked problem with illegal checks is the devastation they can sometimes cause. In my youth work, I encountered examples of parents – sometimes on their second marriage – finding themselves being automatically banned from working, even with their own children, after an unnecessary vetting check revealed a long forgotten conviction.

The independent charity UNLOCK, which seeks equality for people with previous convictions, know more than most that many unlawful checks take place every year. For their clients, having to undergo an unnecessary check often destroys any attempt at rehabilitation, as many employers automatically reject anyone with convictions, no matter how old they are.

UNLOCK recommend complaining about unnecessary checking requests to The Ministry of Justice (MOJ). The MOJ ‘owns’ the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act (ROA) and The Exceptions List of this act provides the basis for whether or not a role requires a check. But as UNLOCK’s Christopher Stacey points out, “The Ministry of Justice are poor in their attempts to police the ROA Exceptions”

Stella Francoise of the MOJ’s Sentencing Policy and Penalties Unit told me they have no enforcement function. She said that complaints about illegal checks should be directed to the Disclosure and Barring Service (DBS). The DBS recently introduced a procedure to allow the person being checked to request a delay while the DBS asks the checking body to confirm their request is legitimate. But the MOJ gave no indication about what punishment would be administered to those found breaking the law. And as Christopher Stacey notes, the number of prosecutions for illegal checks “Stands at none”.

With the DBS and MOJ both apparently trying to avoid enforcing the law, one wonders if a more direct approach would work. Requesting an illegal criminal records check is a CRIME under The Police Act 1997. It carries fine of up to £5000 and/or a maximum 6 month prison sentence. And crimes should, I argue, be reported to the police.

It is an untested route, but one wonders what action the police would take over an illegal check. It would also be fascinating to watch the reaction of the Scout Group leader or the zealous head when having to explain their intentions to Knacker of the Yard! I currently have no reason to do such a thing, but if anyone else does – and wants to try it – then please share the result.

Shaun Joynson is a former teacher and Scout Leader who supports the Manifesto Club’s Campaign Against Vetting.

This article was originally published on the Manifesto Club website, and thank you to Shaun for his permission to republish the article here.

Jim MacVeigh’s Pros and Cons: A review

Review by Richard, Co-editor

True to its title, MacVeigh’s Pros and Cons crawls through the gutters of Bristol’s red light district, deprived estates and seedy inner-city bed-sits in a tale of misogynistic murders, street prostitution and drugs. Almost all of the female characters are on the game and all the men are steeped in crime.

MacVeigh paints a world or sordid morality and deception where sex and affection rarely mix and everything, and everyone, is for sale. His hero, Boswell, is constantly torn between a fear of returning to prison and his inability to rise above his prison mentality where blackmail and backstabbing are par for the course, great kudos is earned by attacking sex offenders and the police are both incompetent and complicit in sexual abuse. I found it hard to find a character I liked.

The plot develops slowly through a series of murky sexual encounters, masturbatory fantasies, off-the-shelf fetishes and racial stereotypes where crimes against women are rooted in the worst of Freudian excuses for violent acting-out. Whilst the names of streets, pubs and urban areas are accurately used to label the setting, very little of it is actually described and, without being familiar with Bristol, it would be hard to imagine where the action takes place.

The dialogue is realistic and believable, although limited, with most of the story being told by an all-seeing narrator. In the final quarter of the book MacVeigh’s hero, a recently released ex-prisoner, suddenly, and barely believably, becomes an expert psychological profiler sought out by a senior detective to help him solve a case whilst the hero gets the upper hand with everyone.

Nevertheless, it is a gritty drama with some interesting plot twists, and the suspense is nicely built up towards an unpredictable ending.

Pro’s and Con’s is available to purchase on Amazon.

Call for submissions, from the new co-editors

Richard & Tyler, Co-editors of theRecord

theRecord is a free online magazine for law-abiding people with convictions.

We are always on the lookout for interesting contributions by people who have a criminal record. Articles can be about people’s success stories, the struggles of living a law-abiding life following a conviction, problems with and objections to the disclosure of convictions when seeking work or volunteering, building new circles of friends, or anything that has helped inspire and support a change towards a law-abiding lifestyle.

As ever, we want theRecord to represent your journey, so please keep contributing your stories, reviews, creative pieces and views on the latest developments. Whatever you want to say, we need to hear it.

If you write for theRecord, you can expect to deal with editors sympathetic to your situation and keen to give you a voice to help bring about positive changes in your life, the lives of others and to the way people with convictions are treated and their criminal records are used.

We publish articles in four basic categories:

1. News: latest news that affects people with convictions

2. Your views & reviews: your views on the current situation and what needs to change and reviews of books and articles that affect people with convictions.

3. Your stories: tell your story. Have you turned your life around? How are you dealing with having a record? What effect has it had on your life? What changes have you had to make to move forward?

4. Show your conviction: This section provides a platform for people with past convictions to get appreciation and recognition for the positive work they’ve done since their last conviction. This could include photography, art, poetry, writing or examples of crafts: anything which showcases the abilities of people with past convictions.

If you think you might be interested in publishing something in theRecord, then just drop us an email at therecord@outlook.com

We’re looking forward to hearing from you.

Richard and Tyler

Co-editors, theRecord

theRecord is back!

If you thought we’d been a little quiet recently, we hope we can make it up to you with the news that theRecord has gone live online! For the last few months we’ve been working hard behind-the-scenes to build a brand new website that’s just aching for all your content. Check it out @ unlock.devchd.com/community.We’ve brought the magazine right up to date with the help of a talented designer. Like most websites, theRecord will be constantly evolving and if you’ve got any thoughts on what we could do better then please let us know (of course, if you want to tell us how brilliant it is, we’d quite like that too).

In terms of how theRecord will work, there’ll be much less emphasis on a monthly published edition, and much more focus on developing high-quality interesting contributions from a broad range of people with convictions. However, we’ll still be providing you with monthly updates straight to your inbox, where we’ll recap the latest news and articles that have been posted during that month, so that you can easily find out what’s new.

We’re also pleased to announce that we have two new co-editors on board. They’ve put out a call for submissions, so if you’re interested in contributing to the magazine, please get in touch with them at therecord@outlook.com.

It’s a long time a-comin’

IanC

Like an addict seeking their fix, the highs (and lows) of debating LASPO continue. Will it, won’t it? When? “I heard that . . .” and “I read on a website . . .” There follows a brief recap for those enraptured with government promises and especially for those who truly believe in the promised land.

Recently, the Dholakia inquiry gave the ROA a good airing. Many proposals were put forward – this was to be THE rehabilitation revolution. Good things were proposed, Kenneth Clarke was all for it and even Lord McNally for the government agreed and said in the Lords; “ . . . so that when we bring forward proposals they will very much reflect the content and the spirit of the legislation that he, [Dholakia], has put before the House today”.

Meanwhile, waiting with bated breath stood the believers. Unknown to all, in the background Clarke was removed and we got LASPO instead. A rather, or extremely diluted, version of what had been suggested and agreed, focusing on cost cutting and a reduction in legal aid as the main points. Never mind, some previous offences could now be legally hidden, (the operative word being hidden); nothing had been stepped down or deleted but . . . better than nothing, for some.

The one point that nobody addressed is the ease with which companies, employers and privately set up companies for this very purpose could still access people’s previous convictions. Employers still requiring SARs or even illegally demanding CRB, (DBS) checks. Roll on spring 2013 thought the believers . . . and nothing happened.

Meanwhile, it was decided, (after the government had been dragged to the European court, kicking and screaming), that those with only one previous conviction might be allowed to have it deleted after many years, but again . . . well, some time in the future, maybe? A little like the prisoner voting issue where Cameron said it made him “physically ill” and echoed the majority views of Parliament that the government would do the minimum to comply with the ECHR?

Feverishly, our believers waded through countless websites, wrote to their MPs and debated on the forum . . . anything for a glimmer of hope. Posts were also made suggesting that because a company website said they don’t discriminate, then that meant one could find employment there; forgetting that companies are not allowed to discriminate by law and so they would say that, wouldn’t they? Hope and belief turned to, well, stupidity? The buzz words, ‘equality’, and ‘non- discrimination’ had, I envisage, a hollow ring to those who tried to gain employment from information supplied on these company websites and again, the lows and despair followed. The naivety and backlash I received when stating this on a previous occasion shocked me.

‘We must obey’ shout the herd, ‘You must declare’ argue the unemployed, ‘it says so on a website’ say the believers . . . After all your dealings with the State and the CJS, do you still really believe that the government are acting in your best interests? Are you still awaiting help and hoping for change because you read it somewhere, or some politician said something that you interpret as hope?

The change will come; it will come slowly and it will be opposed at every stage not only by the government, but also by the public. Fifty years ago the UK still had the death penalty and rehabilitation itself is still a new concept in historical terms. The way forward is to ditch the sheep mentality, learn to think for yourselves, not rely on others . . . or continue to believe and face the highs and lows of a self-inflicted idealism.