I am not a psychologist, nor am I qualified in any ‘shrink’ capacity, but having met these awful men and being a father myself, my conclusions are that they should be put to death immediately after being proven guilty.
I understand people who think execution is the easy way out for the child sex killer, but we need to consider the loved ones of the victim and the mental anguish they endure daily as they think about what goes on behind bars.
I will now tell you about things the media seems not to want to reveal or besmirch their pages with.

Nonce (paedophiles) lifers accept their sentences more easily than other prisoners. The life sentence is assimilated and made more acceptable mentally because they are frightened of the consequences of being released back into a hostile society. This fear is a buffer and helps them to endure their long sentence.

Their lifestyle in prison is much better than, let’s say, a homeless individual who lives rough on the streets of London. They have many home comforts like television and radio, and at least three good meals a day. They have a comfortable room which they can arrange to their liking and they furnish it with familiar items from visiting relatives.

The unpalatable visions for the victim’s loved ones are the homosexual partnerships they form with their ilk. Child sex killers performing anal sex and oral sex with each other whilst visualising their bestial acts on the children they killed to achieve sexual gratification.
How would you feel if you had recently buried the sad remains of your child after he or she had been mutilated and slaughtered by a nonce that is now living his life in surroundings they accept and enjoy? I know how I would feel.

I have had to endure the company of these evil men because in foreign prisons they are not segregated like they are in the UK. I have witnessed them enjoying themselves and making the best of their lot in prison. They have wanted to talk to me because I am different, I am an Englishman and they have never met an Englishman before.

I have looked into their evil eyes and I am proud to say that I have blackened a few of them. I have beaten some of them to within an inch of their lives and for the life of me; I couldn’t find any remorse, even though they have never harmed my children. So how must victims loved ones feel?
If you are a prison psychologist you probably disagree with me because if they started executing these creatures, you wouldn’t have so many nutters to play with. Also, you may like to remember this: they do not say the things to you what they say to the likes of me.

They will never reveal to you what makes them tick, but I know… the relentless pursuit of brutal, ripping, child sex makes them tick, and if ever they get out of prison they will strike again.
If you read my prison writing you will discover that I am in no way politically correct, but I do know what is right when it comes to child sex killers: put them to death so that victims’ families can get some closure and grieve without thinking about masturbating and humping nonce queers behind prison walls.

It is my opinion that nonces are not frightened of the consequences of getting caught. It is time to change that lack of fear and I say, ‘Put them to death.’

During my incarceration I had the misfortune to share a cell with a killer; a nutter with no conscience whatsoever, a real psychopath. This creature should never be allowed out of prison because he will kill and kill again. His name is David Baxendale, a name I’ll never forget because he bragged about the innocent lives he took. His glib tongue soon wore thin the superficial charm he tried on me before he started bragging about his crazy parasitic life.

Whilst high on heroin and all manner of pills he could find, he would relax on his bed in my cell and talk about how he stabbed this bloke and that bloke and how he liked the popping sound of lungs being punctured and especially the heart of the young man he killed in Fuengirola.

He is something of a Mummy’s boy. The only female he ever spoke about was her. One day he pleaded with me to call his mother because the duty prison officer wouldn’t allow him to use the phone. He knew I had privileges so he asked would I call his mother and pass him the phone. The duty prison officer was ‘Mad Jack’, a particularly nasty man who hated Baxendale. I called his mother and handed him the phone. That favour cost me dearly with Mad Jack.

Because I was the only Englishman on my wing, they put him in my cell with me, but I could only tolerate his company for a short time; I had to get rid of him. Luckily for me, he made many enemies in a very short time and was soon spending time in the infirmary nursing his wounds.

One of the quirky things about him was that he wrote poetry. Not that I could make neither head nor tail of it because it was quite strange and mainly about states of mind in a psychedelic way; he was often hallucinating because of the drugs he took.

At first he seemed to thrive in prison and was ducking and diving as though he knew his way around. He lived for the present and couldn’t hold a conversation about the past for very long, unless it was about stabbing somebody. He had no friends that he could speak of, not even past inmates from other prisons: a sure sign of the sociopath.

He started trading heroin, which meant treading on the toes of established gangsters who run the busy drugs trade in prison. But, more importantly for me, it meant storing

the drugs in my cell. I could not allow this to happen. I wasn’t without influence in there so I had him removed to another cell; better for me, better for him.

After several fights with other drug dealers and the self inflicted abuse with all manner of drugs, it soon became apparent he was physically and mentally on a steep downhill slope. Following a particularly vicious beating from the chief gypsy on the

wing, he was removed from my wing and fortunately from then on, I only saw him in passing in various places in the prison.

I read in the news he stabbed and killed a mother of three in Surrey on 10th May 2010 after being released from Rye Hill prison in Warwickshire 11 months earlier. He had been transferred from Malaga prison the year before to continue his sentence in the UK, but was released early to finish his sentence in the community.

Who is the incompetent prick who sanctioned the release of this sociopath back on the streets of Britain? I am in no way qualified as a shrink, but five minutes in the company of Baxendale is enough to realise I am sharing space with a nutter.

He is now serving a Whole Life Term sentence… too late for mother of three, Sarah Thomas, she’s dead.

Production Journal Extract.

I discovered the Production Journal written by Tim Riding, one of the producers at Raw TV,London. It is very interesting reading and provides an insight into the hectic day to day lives of movie makers. This journal can be seen on the National Geographic web page of ‘Locked up Abroad’ the episode titled: The Daredevil Drug Runner.

The reason I picked this piece of the journal is because I have just viewed the DVD sent me by the American digital team to enable a live tweet between me and the American audience this week.

On viewing the DVD, I find that the scenes involving my escapades at sea have been omitted. What a shame! Especially after all the hard work put in by the production team and actors and more so for me because the most exciting parts of my story happened at sea. And it would have shown the audience something new and added another deterrent to high seas smuggling.

Nevertheless, I will be forever grateful to Mark Wingett for his excellent portrayal of ‘yours truly’ and all the other actors who made this episode such a brilliant exposé of the dangers of being a smuggler.

The production team of Srik Narayanan and Tim Riding show their excellent skills in producing such a gripping and intense episode for a demanding world-wide audience who will appreciate the efforts of the camera crew and all concerned. I am thrilled to be the protagonist in such an outstanding production. Thank you, very much.

The Extract.

SUNDAY, 17 April 2011

We have a late call today as we’re shooting into the night. This is welcome news after all the driving from yesterday. The meat of today’s filming takes place at a marina in Boca Chica, beach resort about one hour to the east ofSanto Domingo. Here we will film all of the boat scenes, where in the story Chris transports large quantities of hashish from Morocco to Spain in a RIB (rigid inflatable boat). Luckily for us, Mark our actor is an experienced boat handler, so we don’t need to use a double for these scenes. We begin shooting as the sun is setting, it’s a glorious location but one where you’d rather be relaxing not working. Still, as Chris Chance would say – move on! There’s a debrief about safety and protocol, then Gary (DOP) and Srik (Director) head off to shoot boat to boat footage of Mark in transit. By the time they get back it’s well and truly dark. One of the reasons we chose this location is because there’s a large breakwater separating the waters of the marina and beach from the main sea, making the water much calmer. The open sea along this stretch of coast is very choppy, so much that we decided it would be a bit too difficult to film in.

We film drugs being loaded onto the RIB on a small island nearby, Gary shoots this with a nightvision camera. At this marina are quite a lot of large, expensive boats, one of which is moored near to the island. It had the most enormous TV screen on it, a huge sound system, and an array of underwater lights that turned the waters a luminous blue. We all wondered whether the owners were real ‘drug barons’.

We wrapped shortly after midnight, and were back at our hotel before 1. Looking forward to a bit of a lie in tomorrow, it’s our day off.

PS: I can tell you that the posh yachts probably did belong to the drug barons because I visited Boca Chica some time ago and witnessed lots of traficante activity.

It was winter, 2007 when I was extradited from France to Spain. After first being incarcerated in the Douai dungeon, I was transferred to Fresnes prison near Paris. Fresnes is notorious for being the harshest prison in France but I was soon to find myself in a much darker place.

I stood on tiptoe to see through my cell window, the falling snow, wispily settling on the coils of razor wire mounted around the high walls of Daroca prison. The night was coming in fast so it was disheartening to see the shadows across the bleak countryside through the coils of wire as my spirits fell to a new low.

Even the name of the place sounds ominous; Daroca, say it to yourself, it is not a nice word is it? It goes well with the bleak landscape and approaching storm.

I climbed into my bed as the night enveloped the prison and the volume of the rumbling thunder increased. Pulling my blanket around me I listened to the sounds of the night in this evil place and thought about my day and the people I share my space with in this dark corner of the world.

A face looms into my thoughts, a calm face with bushy eyebrows over ice-blue eyes. He looks at me across the dining table in the comedor (canteen), his eyes look right through me as though he is elsewhere. I am sharing my space and the air I breathe with a man who has eaten his wife – a cannibal, and here he is within touching distance chewing on a piece of meat and looking at me!

To my right is a young man who chopped off his uncle’s head with a Samurai sword. He chats amiably to the man next to him who raped and mutilated his thirteen year old niece, thirteen was unlucky for her, and especially considering the length of time it took for her to die. I could go on describing the creatures around me but it would become unbelievable for you and you will doubt my word.

The storm is now a tempest and the thunder is reminiscent of ice cracking across a pond, but a million times louder. The lightning is alarming and illuminates my dank cell like a disco strobe light giving me the awful feeling that it is heralding the arrival of something evil and malevolent.

I can hear the cockroaches scratching the floor under my bed as they search for food and beneath that I hear the susurrations of the sleet and rain as it runs in rivulets down my cell window. The muffled sounds of the screams of madmen are barely audible through the thick walls, but they are there; the storm taking its toll on the warped minds of my fellow prisoners.

I feel sleep is near so I curl into my foetal position before taking a last look at the window and falling into sleep.

I could see condensation on the glass, fogging my view of the night sky through the bars of the cell window. The pale glow of the sodium security lights shone through the rivulets of rain on the cracked glass creating a ghostly shimmer.

My heightened sense of imagination played havoc with my mind’s eye as I peered through the sparkling glass to see two shimmering points of light which slowly changed colour to that of red glowing coals. Pinpointed in the centre of each red glow is a glittering diamond which formed the eyes of Satan. He is here, hovering over Daroca prison, sinister and threatening.

His murky features taking shape and form with the movement of cloud and the upward glow of prison lights, El Diablo is here, spreading his evil shadow over the netherworld of Daroca.

A numbing sensation sweeps over me, paralysing me with a feeling of total helplessness as the fetid face looms near.

His fangs move as though gnashing his teeth and every sinew of his monstrous form drips with evil as I realise he has come for me. In the silence of the moment I freaked out internally and choked on the scream that didn’t come out.

It was as though I was lying face down on a water bed and it was suddenly flipped over so the water bed was suffocating me with its weight. The terrifying emotion of stress and panic created feelings of intense heat across my back followed by ice under the hot skin. My arms and legs felt like they were covered with raspberries because of the size of the goose bumps.

I was frozen with fear as I felt his force searching my soul. ‘My God and His son Jesus Christ are in there; so get ye behind me Satan.’ The prayers spilled out of me as the fear intensified and the terror gnawed into my heart as the evil loomed over me, trying to consume me.

My heart was racing as the monster’s face descended towards me. My chest felt crushed and my stomach started to liquefy as the brilliant white light hit my face.

‘Recunto, recuento!’ Shouted the duty prison officer, as he performed the final head count of the day, his voice and bright light dissipating the evil red eyes of Satan.

In his accented English, Don Gabriel, the duty screw said, ‘Good night, Christopher, the storm has gone. Sleep well, Englishman.’

He slammed the big steel door and noisily crashed the massive bolt home and was gone to chase the demons from the minds of his charges.

I got out of bed and knelt in seizan, the martial arts meditating posture and meditated on my mind cleansing waterfall method of dissipating stress. I then said The Lord’s prayer and jumped into bed, never again to be disturbed by Satan, thanks to Gabriel, the angel in prison officers’ uniform.