Carol Tobin bravely went undercover into a women’s prison to bring us another instalment of Samantha Fox’s diary. Here’s the first entry if you missed it.
So I finally got myself a nickname in here, Chip Pan Sam they call me. It’s catchy, I’ll give them that. And apt seeing as I murdered my husband with a chip pan. I learnt the word “Apt” the hard way during a lunchtime scuffle. I won’t go into details as I don’t remember many because rage makes me forgetful. Not that they call me Chip Pan Sam to my face. Because a nickname like that instils fear. And I know I’m the scariest bitch in here. It’s better than Samantha the Fox, which people used to call me on the outside. That name unnerved me, especially when my eight year old son Tijuana’s school friends used to call me it. I wonder how littleTijuanais doing. Does he miss me? Although we never really had a chance to bond, what with him in school five days a week.
MY CHIP PAN WAS MORE MODERN
Some of the other nicknames in here: Knifey Niamh, Stealey Ann, Somalia Tits Theresa, Butchface Barbara – that name always makes me laugh because how does a woman called Barbara end up in prison? I bet you my life would have panned out (pardon the pun) differently if I was called Barbara. I’d probably be in a stable somewhere talking to horses I’ve just fed about how lonely I am because my husband’s gone clay pigeon shooting again for the sixth time that week.
I’m not ready to make friends yet in here. I know I should but it adds to my hard image. I never had much of a shoulder to cry on and you need them in here. Even though my shoulders seem to have doubled in size and I could perch a woman on each comfortably. Thing is I’ve plenty of time to make friends, too much time. And they’ll all be getting out before me and there’ll be a patronising “Bye Chip Pan Sam, we promise to keep in touch and send you in our old Now magazines”. But they will forget about me. And I’ll just have to settle with looking at Now magazine online.
SHOULDERS TO CRY OVER, NOT ON
Something that’s been bothering me lately is, you know the way you hear of women who live together and all their menstrual cycles synch, does that happen in a woman’s prison? Horrible question that I don’t really want to hear the answer to. It’s weird when I’m writing this diary, the voice in my head is that gentle black guy from Shawshank Redemption. I watched that so many times before I came in here. I would have never have watched a film like that had I not killed my husband, not my cup of tea all that deep shit, life lessons, escapism. My sister got me the DVD for me thinking it would help me “get into character”. She never said which character I should be getting into. Hope she didn’t mean that old guy Brooks, cute but miserable little old thing.
I miss alcohol. I miss it more than freedom. I miss stealing money out of my husband’s wallet when he’s asleep, spending it all on booze then drinking every last drop. I miss when he noticed his money gone and then convincing him he’s crazy and that he may have a drug problem he’s completely unaware of. If there was a mini bar in my cell stocked up on a daily basis then I’d be one happy murderer. I hear some of the women in here make their own booze but I don’t trust women making booze, sandwiches maybe but not moonshine. There’s always the option to sleep with a prison officer for drink but I’d need to be drunk in the first place. Maybe they’d let me have the drink first before the sex, might be more enjoyable for them too. Must check that out tomorrow. God, I’d kill for a glass of cold blue wicked. Yeah I’d kill again.