HMP Frankland is a category A men’s prison, which is the British prison system’s way of saying, “This place is serious—bring your own Kevlar pajamas.” It’s where you’ll find other headline-makers like serial killer Peter Sutcliffe (RIP) and the Manchester Arena bomber. Think of it as a grim retirement home for the country’s most unwanted celebrities.
Huntley lives in a special wing called the “Close Supervision Centre.” That’s prison-speak for “the naughty corner on steroids.” He’s under 23-hour lock-up, which means he gets one hour of fresh air in a concrete yard that probably smells like regret and stale tea. It’s not exactly a spa day at Harrods.
If Frankland were a pub, it would be the one where the bouncer checks your soul at the door. And Huntley is the guy in the back booth, forever nursing a flat coke, never ordering a second round.
The Day-to-Day: Not Your Average Commute
You wake up, grumble about traffic, and grab a coffee. Huntley wakes up, grumbles about the same four walls, and probably kicks his plastic slipper at the door. His routine is so boring it would make a monk pack his bags. He reads, he writes letters (mostly to his mum, according to reports), and he stares at the ceiling.
There’s no gym session with a personal trainer, unless you count flexing your fingers on a legal pad. He has a TV in his cell, but imagine trying to watch Love Island when you’ve got the whole country wishing you were on a different island. It’s a lonely existence—one that most people would absolutely hate, which is kind of the point.
I once got annoyed because my Wi-Fi went down for an hour. Huntley hasn’t seen the internet since dial-up was cool. Perspective, right?
Life at Ashworth Hospital and its most notorious patients as child
