The last person who told me that was a Conservative Member of Parliament a few days before the last election. He lost.

Jack invites me to visit his cell on the ground floor. I’m surprised to find three beds in a room not much larger than mine. I thought he was about to comment on how lucky I was to have a single cell, but no, he simply indicates a large drawing attached to the wall.

‘What do you think that is, Jeff?’ he demands.

‘No idea,’ I reply. ‘Does it tell you how many days, months or years you still have to go before you’re released?’

‘No,’ Jack responds. He then points below the washbasin where a small army of ants are congregating. I’m a bit slow and still haven’t put two and two together. ‘Each night,’ Jack goes on to explain, ‘the three of us organize ant races, and that’s the track. A sort of ants’ Ascot,’ he adds with a laugh.

‘But what’s the stake?’ I enquire, aware that no one is allowed to have any money inside a prison.

‘On Saturday night, the one who’s won the most races during the week gets to choose which bed they’ll sleep in for the next seven days.’

I stare at the three beds. On one side of the room, up against the wall, is a single bed while on the other side are bunk beds.

‘Which does the winner choose?’

‘You’re fuckin’

‘What do the ants get?’ I ask.

‘If they win, they stay alive until the next race.’

‘And if they lose?’

‘We put them into tomorrow’s soup.’ I think it was a joke.

Another bell sounds and the officers immediately corral us back into our cells and slam the doors shut. They will not be unlocked again until eight tomorrow morning.

A senior officer stops me as I am returning to my cell to tell me that the Governor wants a word. I follow him, but have to halt every few yards as he unlocks and locks countless iron-barred gates before I’m shown into a comfortable room with a sofa, two easy chairs and pictures on the wall.