I have to admit, the first few days at Heathrow Penitentiary were not the most easygoing of my life. I had a very bad, weird feeling about it. I mean, it’s a maximum security prison, with the angriest and sweatiest thieves in the world, and any place adequate enough to hold them, let alone me, must be abnormal. Yet there’s something else about it that gives me shivers. Which I was smart enough not to show to anyone. You have to look tough in prison to avoid getting picked on, and thankfully with the right snarl and uptight posture, even a mouse will be seen as serious business.

It’s funny. I pictured myself escaping by replicating keys or deciphering codes after disabling cameras. I didn’t think I’d be crashing a blimp through it, in the evening while everyone has rec time before bed.

I guess in the end, if you escape prison, whatever way you do so, whether it’s sneaking past a hundred guards and lights, or setting the work on fire after your deliberate riot, or escaping through the sewer and feeling freedom while not looking the most radiant, the bragging rights are equal. And the guards are going to be feeling the same type of humiliation and zap to their pride in the next few days. I was only in that dollhouse of a max prison for a few weeks. No jail can hold me.