Sunday, June 19, 2011
AN ANGEL IN DISGUISE.
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.
'Recuento, 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.
Monday, November 1, 2010
THE ENEMY WITHIN (UK)
Sir John Sawers is 'C', the Chief of MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service. 'C' is the sobriquet (nickname) for Chief. His post is currently the most important in our history because of the situation regarding the development of foreign nuclear weapons and the growing threat of international terrorism, especially the Islamic threat.
Treachery looms large in his life simply because our enemies have been allowed to infiltrate our country with the help of our own spineless politicians and our greedy legal profession.
His staff include very brave people who risk their lives for us - the British people, and the sooner we all get behind him and get tough with traitors who are bent on changing our national identity by making fortunes out of backing foreign terrorists who are determined to change our land to suit their culture, the better we British shall be.
Ministers, politicians and particularly judges should recognise when they are assisting traitors and terrorists and brace themselves to do something positive rather than spinelessly appeasing a crafty, cunning enemy.
The time is approaching when Enoch Powell's epitaph will read, 'I told you so.' Also, the part of his famous speech when he said, 'It is like watching a nation busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre.' He should have changed the word 'nation' to 'government'.
The other ludicrous situation is that a Scouse footballer gets more per week than Sir John's annual salary! Come on, Britain, get a grip!
Treachery looms large in his life simply because our enemies have been allowed to infiltrate our country with the help of our own spineless politicians and our greedy legal profession.
His staff include very brave people who risk their lives for us - the British people, and the sooner we all get behind him and get tough with traitors who are bent on changing our national identity by making fortunes out of backing foreign terrorists who are determined to change our land to suit their culture, the better we British shall be.
Ministers, politicians and particularly judges should recognise when they are assisting traitors and terrorists and brace themselves to do something positive rather than spinelessly appeasing a crafty, cunning enemy.
The time is approaching when Enoch Powell's epitaph will read, 'I told you so.' Also, the part of his famous speech when he said, 'It is like watching a nation busily engaged in heaping up its own funeral pyre.' He should have changed the word 'nation' to 'government'.
The other ludicrous situation is that a Scouse footballer gets more per week than Sir John's annual salary! Come on, Britain, get a grip!
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Kenny Noye - Public Enemy No 1.
Kenny Noye With Me In Prison.
Valdemoro Prison, Madrid, Spain. 1998.
I arrived on wing 9 (the international wing) after being processed through ingreso, the reception wing of Spain's top security prison. I was carrying my bag of personal belongings and a mattress, sheets and blankets. With aching arms and much relief, I dropped the lot at the bottom of the stairs next to the wing office.
A screw (prison officer) told me to search out any Brits here who I might share a cell with, or he will allocate me a cell. Not wanting to be placed with Arabs, Turks or Gypsies, I hurriedly entered the sala (recreation room) and searched for Northern European faces. I spoke to several frogs, clogs and krauts (French, Dutch and Germans) before I hit on an English face who talked out of the side of his mouth.
He very cautiously questioned me about why I was in Valdemoro. I told him I had been transferred from La Moraleja prison in Dueñas, near Palencia to attend my trial in Madrid. He asked if I knew Kenny Noye was in here. I told him I didn't. He asked if I would like to meet him. I said that I prefer to find a place to live before the screw finds one for me. He told me not to worry because there was a bed in his cell. I immediately went back to the screw and told him I am in with the Brit face.
The Brit accompanied me through the noisy sala into another large recreation room lined with bookshelves and men quietly reading and writing at tables dotted about the place. My new cell-mate told me to wait while he approached a lone figure hunched over a writing pad. He whispered something out of the side of his mouth and stepped back so the man could eyeball me. A perceptive little nod and the Brit face beckoned me over. I walked over to the table to look down on the hard face staring back at me. He looked a bit younger than me and looked tanned and fit. He gave me a craft (masonic) handshake, which I responded to and asked if I needed anything. I pulled a chair and joined him and that was the beginning of getting to know each other. I had just met Britain's public enemy number one, Kenneth Noye.
We didn't become big pals or anything like, but we dined together three times a day, we trained in the gym and we marched around the yard day after day chewing the fat about all kinds of things. There is a lot more to say, but that and what I think about Kenny Noye can wait till my next blog.
Valdemoro Prison, Madrid, Spain. 1998.
I arrived on wing 9 (the international wing) after being processed through ingreso, the reception wing of Spain's top security prison. I was carrying my bag of personal belongings and a mattress, sheets and blankets. With aching arms and much relief, I dropped the lot at the bottom of the stairs next to the wing office.
A screw (prison officer) told me to search out any Brits here who I might share a cell with, or he will allocate me a cell. Not wanting to be placed with Arabs, Turks or Gypsies, I hurriedly entered the sala (recreation room) and searched for Northern European faces. I spoke to several frogs, clogs and krauts (French, Dutch and Germans) before I hit on an English face who talked out of the side of his mouth.
He very cautiously questioned me about why I was in Valdemoro. I told him I had been transferred from La Moraleja prison in Dueñas, near Palencia to attend my trial in Madrid. He asked if I knew Kenny Noye was in here. I told him I didn't. He asked if I would like to meet him. I said that I prefer to find a place to live before the screw finds one for me. He told me not to worry because there was a bed in his cell. I immediately went back to the screw and told him I am in with the Brit face.
The Brit accompanied me through the noisy sala into another large recreation room lined with bookshelves and men quietly reading and writing at tables dotted about the place. My new cell-mate told me to wait while he approached a lone figure hunched over a writing pad. He whispered something out of the side of his mouth and stepped back so the man could eyeball me. A perceptive little nod and the Brit face beckoned me over. I walked over to the table to look down on the hard face staring back at me. He looked a bit younger than me and looked tanned and fit. He gave me a craft (masonic) handshake, which I responded to and asked if I needed anything. I pulled a chair and joined him and that was the beginning of getting to know each other. I had just met Britain's public enemy number one, Kenneth Noye.
We didn't become big pals or anything like, but we dined together three times a day, we trained in the gym and we marched around the yard day after day chewing the fat about all kinds of things. There is a lot more to say, but that and what I think about Kenny Noye can wait till my next blog.
Friday, October 8, 2010
CHRISTOPHER CHANCE - AUTHOR.: THE ASSASSIN'S CODE 1. (Synopsis).
CHRISTOPHER CHANCE - AUTHOR.: THE ASSASSIN'S CODE 1. (Synopsis).: "THE ASSASSIN’S CODE 1. Synopsis by Christopher Chance of his novel of 88,277 words. This synopsis contains 1,150 words. A British Secret Se..."
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Execute Paedophiles.
Execute Paedophiles.
During the years I spent behind bars in foreign prisons I met many child sex killers. They were all without remorse except for their own self-pity. Some, not all are mentioned in my books ‘Carabanchel’ and ‘The Lone Brit on 13’.
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 proved 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 get their heads around 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 vision for the victim’s loved ones is 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 a victim’s 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 the victim’s family can get some closure and grieve without visualising 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.’
Chris. www.chrischance.co.uk
During the years I spent behind bars in foreign prisons I met many child sex killers. They were all without remorse except for their own self-pity. Some, not all are mentioned in my books ‘Carabanchel’ and ‘The Lone Brit on 13’.
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 proved 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 get their heads around 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 vision for the victim’s loved ones is 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 a victim’s 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 the victim’s family can get some closure and grieve without visualising 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.’
Chris. www.chrischance.co.uk
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Book Signing Joy.
My First Book Signing Event.
The sun shone brightly as the cowboy cast his long shadow through the doorway of the book store. The shadow broadened as the sun was blocked by his enormous pardner. The Clint Eastwood style hats shaded the hard faces of the big men who strode meaningfully toward me.
I eased out of my chair in readiness for … what? I wondered.
‘You Christopher Chance?’ asked the grizzled face of the big man.
‘Yes,’ I replied as his big hand thrust toward me for a vigorous handshake.
His partner grabbed my hand when it was released from his friend’s great sausage fingers. ‘My name’s Jeff,’ he growled, ‘and I stayed up half the night listening to you on the Roy Basnett Show.’
‘So did I,’ said his big friend, grinning all across his stubble haired face. I half expected him to strike a match across his cheek to light the cheroot hanging from his mouth.
Thus began the warm inner glow of realising that I have at least one fan in this great wonderful world of writing. Everything was suddenly worth it. The day proved to be full of warm feelings as men and women from all walks of life asked me to sign their books.
Prior to the event I was quite nervous because I feared a low turnout and feeling like a fool with a stack of unsigned books at the end of the day. I decided to create some interest for my work by sending out many press releases.
The effort was worth it because I was invited to a popular late night radio show in Liverpool. Also, I was mentioned in local newspapers around the north-west of England.
The event was at Borders book store near the John Lennon airport in Liverpool. I liaised with the events manager, Kerry, who set up a display and posters prior to my arrival and featured my signing on the Borders events page on their website.
During the two day event, Sam, the store manager had various staff members announce my presence in the store every twenty minutes on their PA system. They also gave a meaningful description of my books, which helped to drive sales.
Borders staff members were enthusiastic and helpful during the two days and they brought my wife and I coffee and tea from their Starbucks coffee bar several times. Their smiles were for everyone, not just for us.
During the time I was there, I signed forty books, so that equates to one book every ten minutes approximately. The time flew by because I was talking to people most of the time about the hardships of foreign prisons. Surprisingly, most of them were women. One of the conclusions I drew from this was that people in hospitals lie awake at night listening to late night talk shows because a lot of my books were being bought for people in hospital.
A Mediterranean type man appeared by my side, seemingly out of nowhere. He was tall and smartly dressed in a Crombie overcoat and polished black shoes, more like Arthur Daley than an elegant Mafioso don. He spoke out the side of his mouth.
‘Hello Mr. Chance,’ he stage whispered, crouching by my side so his head was level with mine. ‘I’ve read your books but I want two signed for the family.’
He is a member of a notorious Greek family operating in Liverpool and the north-west of England. I signed his books and he was gone, lost from view in the crowds of shoppers in the Mersey Retail Park. I hope you enjoy my books George.
Several of my books were bought by people purchasing a beach read before going to John Lennon airport to start their holidays. Amazingly, I have had some feedback on my website already and that warm glow is still there.
I felt particularly good when members of staff bought my books. That in itself made me feel good and confident regarding my future. Writing really has turned my life around.
The sun shone brightly as the cowboy cast his long shadow through the doorway of the book store. The shadow broadened as the sun was blocked by his enormous pardner. The Clint Eastwood style hats shaded the hard faces of the big men who strode meaningfully toward me.
I eased out of my chair in readiness for … what? I wondered.
‘You Christopher Chance?’ asked the grizzled face of the big man.
‘Yes,’ I replied as his big hand thrust toward me for a vigorous handshake.
His partner grabbed my hand when it was released from his friend’s great sausage fingers. ‘My name’s Jeff,’ he growled, ‘and I stayed up half the night listening to you on the Roy Basnett Show.’
‘So did I,’ said his big friend, grinning all across his stubble haired face. I half expected him to strike a match across his cheek to light the cheroot hanging from his mouth.
Thus began the warm inner glow of realising that I have at least one fan in this great wonderful world of writing. Everything was suddenly worth it. The day proved to be full of warm feelings as men and women from all walks of life asked me to sign their books.
Prior to the event I was quite nervous because I feared a low turnout and feeling like a fool with a stack of unsigned books at the end of the day. I decided to create some interest for my work by sending out many press releases.
The effort was worth it because I was invited to a popular late night radio show in Liverpool. Also, I was mentioned in local newspapers around the north-west of England.
The event was at Borders book store near the John Lennon airport in Liverpool. I liaised with the events manager, Kerry, who set up a display and posters prior to my arrival and featured my signing on the Borders events page on their website.
During the two day event, Sam, the store manager had various staff members announce my presence in the store every twenty minutes on their PA system. They also gave a meaningful description of my books, which helped to drive sales.
Borders staff members were enthusiastic and helpful during the two days and they brought my wife and I coffee and tea from their Starbucks coffee bar several times. Their smiles were for everyone, not just for us.
During the time I was there, I signed forty books, so that equates to one book every ten minutes approximately. The time flew by because I was talking to people most of the time about the hardships of foreign prisons. Surprisingly, most of them were women. One of the conclusions I drew from this was that people in hospitals lie awake at night listening to late night talk shows because a lot of my books were being bought for people in hospital.
A Mediterranean type man appeared by my side, seemingly out of nowhere. He was tall and smartly dressed in a Crombie overcoat and polished black shoes, more like Arthur Daley than an elegant Mafioso don. He spoke out the side of his mouth.
‘Hello Mr. Chance,’ he stage whispered, crouching by my side so his head was level with mine. ‘I’ve read your books but I want two signed for the family.’
He is a member of a notorious Greek family operating in Liverpool and the north-west of England. I signed his books and he was gone, lost from view in the crowds of shoppers in the Mersey Retail Park. I hope you enjoy my books George.
Several of my books were bought by people purchasing a beach read before going to John Lennon airport to start their holidays. Amazingly, I have had some feedback on my website already and that warm glow is still there.
I felt particularly good when members of staff bought my books. That in itself made me feel good and confident regarding my future. Writing really has turned my life around.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Guantanamo Bay Holiday Camp.
Guantanamo Bay does not compare with some European prisons today.
Guantanamo Bay is a holiday camp compared to European prisons. Christopher Chance was arrested and thrown into the Douai Dungeon in France last year.
He was arrested and held for extradition to Spain to complete a prison sentence he started in 2001. He was released from Malaga prison after serving twenty months of a three year sentence for hashish smuggling between Spain and Morocco.
His slick lawyer wangled his release on an appeal scam and Chance was released on Christmas Eve 2002. A subsequent hearing decided he should return to prison to complete the sentence, but Chance had returned to England for medical reasons and was having surgery in St. Albans City Hospital when these decisions were made.
Chance travelled around the world oblivious to the European Arrest Warrant issued by the Spanish. In 2005 Chance went to Cyprus for eighteen months to write another book. He returned to England by driving through Greece; Italy, France and then by car ferry across to Dover.
After a short Christmas break he decided to move to France to start another book. On 3rd January last year he drove off the ferry at Calais into the arms of the waiting French police to start a nightmare journey through French and Spanish prisons.
He was separated from his wife who was ordered out of the Calais port and advised to continue her journey alone because Chance was going to Spain.
Chance was then taken to holding cells near Bologne-Sur-Mer, where he was stripped naked for an orifice search. He was then put in a cold, filthy cell where he remained on the concrete floor with a dirty blanket for 36 hours.
On 5th January 07 he was taken to the Douai Dungeon, a 17th century prison famous for its busy guillotine, where he was again stripped naked for another orifice search. For the next 15 days he was fed bread and water every morning for breakfast. In all this time he was allowed only three showers.
Chance was put in a cell with the infamous French surgeon, Doctor Jean Beclet who sliced his wife to death with a meat cleaver in her chemist shop in Douai as customers ran screaming in terror. Chance slept badly in this cell with the homicidal doctor lying in the bunk opposite him.
On 10th January he was taken in leg-irons and manacles to the Douai courts where he was paraded in front of shoppers across the square and into the courts. Papers for extradition were signed and he was returned to the Douai Dungeon where he again was stripped naked and searched by his escorts who had never left his side throughout the day.
On 16th January he was again trussed in leg-irons and manacles for the journey to Fresnes prison, France’s harshest prison where he was again stripped naked and searched. He was fed bread and water every morning and locked in solitary confinement for three days and nights in a cold, dirty cell.
During his time in French prisons Chance was verbally abused constantly by his jailers and each time he was moved, even from cell to cell he was stripped naked and intimately searched by prison officers with a penchant for rolling back foreskins and gawping up arseholes.
On 19th January Chance was heavily manacled and taken to Orly airport with four armed guards, who on arrival at Orly were joined by two legionnaires armed with machine-guns. Chance was escorted through the busy airport concourse with weapons trained on him as shocked tourists moved out of the way, some taking pictures probably thinking he was bin Laden in disguise.
Chance was handed over to his Spanish escorts for the flight to Madrid.
He had never committed a crime in France, he was held merely for extradition.
A report on how he was treated by the Spanish follows soon.
Guantanamo Bay is a holiday camp compared to European prisons. Christopher Chance was arrested and thrown into the Douai Dungeon in France last year.
He was arrested and held for extradition to Spain to complete a prison sentence he started in 2001. He was released from Malaga prison after serving twenty months of a three year sentence for hashish smuggling between Spain and Morocco.
His slick lawyer wangled his release on an appeal scam and Chance was released on Christmas Eve 2002. A subsequent hearing decided he should return to prison to complete the sentence, but Chance had returned to England for medical reasons and was having surgery in St. Albans City Hospital when these decisions were made.
Chance travelled around the world oblivious to the European Arrest Warrant issued by the Spanish. In 2005 Chance went to Cyprus for eighteen months to write another book. He returned to England by driving through Greece; Italy, France and then by car ferry across to Dover.
After a short Christmas break he decided to move to France to start another book. On 3rd January last year he drove off the ferry at Calais into the arms of the waiting French police to start a nightmare journey through French and Spanish prisons.
He was separated from his wife who was ordered out of the Calais port and advised to continue her journey alone because Chance was going to Spain.
Chance was then taken to holding cells near Bologne-Sur-Mer, where he was stripped naked for an orifice search. He was then put in a cold, filthy cell where he remained on the concrete floor with a dirty blanket for 36 hours.
On 5th January 07 he was taken to the Douai Dungeon, a 17th century prison famous for its busy guillotine, where he was again stripped naked for another orifice search. For the next 15 days he was fed bread and water every morning for breakfast. In all this time he was allowed only three showers.
Chance was put in a cell with the infamous French surgeon, Doctor Jean Beclet who sliced his wife to death with a meat cleaver in her chemist shop in Douai as customers ran screaming in terror. Chance slept badly in this cell with the homicidal doctor lying in the bunk opposite him.
On 10th January he was taken in leg-irons and manacles to the Douai courts where he was paraded in front of shoppers across the square and into the courts. Papers for extradition were signed and he was returned to the Douai Dungeon where he again was stripped naked and searched by his escorts who had never left his side throughout the day.
On 16th January he was again trussed in leg-irons and manacles for the journey to Fresnes prison, France’s harshest prison where he was again stripped naked and searched. He was fed bread and water every morning and locked in solitary confinement for three days and nights in a cold, dirty cell.
During his time in French prisons Chance was verbally abused constantly by his jailers and each time he was moved, even from cell to cell he was stripped naked and intimately searched by prison officers with a penchant for rolling back foreskins and gawping up arseholes.
On 19th January Chance was heavily manacled and taken to Orly airport with four armed guards, who on arrival at Orly were joined by two legionnaires armed with machine-guns. Chance was escorted through the busy airport concourse with weapons trained on him as shocked tourists moved out of the way, some taking pictures probably thinking he was bin Laden in disguise.
Chance was handed over to his Spanish escorts for the flight to Madrid.
He had never committed a crime in France, he was held merely for extradition.
A report on how he was treated by the Spanish follows soon.
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