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Exclusive: Those Lord Archer prison hellhole diaries

Disgraced peer Lord Archer will this week risk a substantial increase in his jail sentence by publishing his account of life in Belmarsh prison while still in jail.

The no-holds-barred account will tell of how Archer contemplated suicide, but rejected the option and chose instead to crusade for prisoners' rights.

Here, in a world exclusive, The Rockall Times publishes extracts from the astounding diaries. Readers must decide whether the public interest is served by their publication. One thing is certain, however — whatever its faults, the British prison system has succeeded in rehabilitating Archer from a perjuring fantasist, prone to bouts of pathological lying, into a useful, selfless member of society who has pledged to dedicate his life to helping those less fortunate than himself. Read on...

Day 1: Belmarsh. I am writing this diary in my own blood on the dried skin flayed from a nonce's back. Words alone cannot describe the horror and despair of this hellish place. Surely not even the jails of Turkey or Kosovo could match Belmarsh for degradation and human suffering. In the cell below me is a 17-year-old charged with shoplifting. This same young man will now be spending at least a fortnight with murderers, rapists, burglars, drug addicts and perjurers. Are these the best tutors he can learn from?

Day 2: They've now supplied me with a Bic razor and I consider cutting my throat. Mercifully, a representative from my publishers, Macmillan, intervenes at the critical moment with an enormous advance cheque. It appears I am to publish an account of my experiences in this Dickensian hellhole for the greater benefit of mankind. As I gently caress the cheque, all thoughts of self-destruction are pushed from my mind. No, I resolve, if I am to suffer, let there be some purpose to it.

Day 5: Disaster. The governor warns me that it is an offence to earn money from writing while being detained at Her Majesty's pleasure. I am, he adds, prohibited from mentioning any other inhabitant of this stygian abyss by name. I feel my world has collapsed around me. And, despite the supportive words of my new chums "Ripper" Dawson and "Legs" Stephenson, I am reduced to abject despair. Spend the night fingering the Bic razor and gently sobbing the name of my beloved wife, the sainted Mary.

Day 6: Triumph. Macmillan have found a solution — if I am not paid for my diary until after my release, I will be deemed to have not been paid for it while incarcerated. Furthermore, if I declare that I am to give some of the proceeds to drug rehabilitation and victim support groups, this will soften the public's heart to the enterprise. Magnificent. I immediately order that Krug and shepherd's pie be sent to my cell. Am joined for this celebratory repast by Legs and Ripper. The governor asks if he might join us, but is told "Piss off, invite only" by a riotous Ripper. I really am warming to my companions, but am saddened by their prospects. Surely even paedophile murderers have the same right to human dignity as peers of the realm? These musings harden my resolve to fight for the rights of all prisoners, starting with myself.

Day 7: The governor has agreed to allow me the use of his office and facilities therein for "as long as you need it your Lordship". I appoint Ripper my secretary and put him to work on my share portfolio. I am amazed how quickly he grasps the fundamentals of insider trading. Surely, with the right encouragement, he might yet prove a useful member of society. The governor is said to be "comfortable" in his temporary quarters in the sex offenders' wing.

Day 8: A filthy lunch. I have the cook dragged before me and promise him another two years without parole unless things improve immediately. I suggest that we adopt the menu of my favourite Italian restaurant in Lincoln, Zucchini's: Fillet steak, barbecue king prawns, Pollo Prosciuto, pizza, spare ribs, vegetable soup, mussels, chocolate pancakes and profiteroles. Oh yes, and shepherd's pie and Krug on Saturdays. He agrees without hesitation — another triumph for prison reform.

Day 13: I have decided to get out more and have taken a part-time job in a theatre. This will necessitate a move to an open prison. I bid a tearful farewell to Ripper and Legs, certain in the knowledge that my guiding influence has contributed considerably to their rehabilitation. I decline the governor's offer of a stretch limousine, preferring instead to drive myself.

Day 19: During a particularly excellent restaurant lunch with two warders, I cannot help but marvel at how far my fight for prisoners' rights has come. Just weeks ago those guilty of a crime — no matter how trivial — were expected to pass their sentence in a locked room, deprived of their freedom and indeed, deprived the most basic dignities which are the birthright of any Englishman. Now, however, even convicted perjurers are encouraged to self-rehabilitation through honest labour and personal responsibility. I decide not to return to prison, but instead drive to the house of old friend Gillian Shephard, who is throwing a party in honour of my crusade. My life has a renewed sense of purpose.

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