https://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/
Finsbury Park isn’t exactly where you’d go looking for a miracle, but that’s where Prisoners Abroad has been holding the line for years. For me, they were the bridge back to reality. When I finally got out of the General Penitentiary in Jamaica and landed back in London, the air felt thin and the streets felt too fast. When you’ve been locked up overseas, you don't just walk back into your old life; you’re like a ghost in your own town. The team on Fonthill Road were the ones who put a hand out and helped me find my feet while I was still shaking off the heat and the grit of a Jamaican cell.
Real Help Since '78
Prisoners Abroad didn't start in some fancy boardroom with a massive budget. It kicked off in 1978 because a few people realized that Brits locked up in foreign holes were being completely forgotten. By 1980, they were a proper charity, and they’ve been doing the hard graft ever since.
Let’s be honest: it’s not easy raising funds for "unsuccessful drug smugglers." Most people want to give their money to cute animals or kids' sports teams. They don't usually line up to help blokes who’ve sat in a foreign cell for making a bad call. But Prisoners Abroad doesn't judge. They deal in the basics that keep a person from sinking—housing, paperwork, and making sure you don't fall through the cracks of a system that isn't built for people like us.
Me and Mr. Nice
I’d known Howard Marks for twenty years. To the rest of the world, he was the big-time smuggler from the "Mr. Nice" posters, but to me, he was a proper mate and an absolute gentleman. He even came out to visit me while I was stuck in the General Penitentiary in Jamaica. Sitting there in that heat, we didn't just talk about the past; we planned for the future. We cooked up a plan right there in the prison for a gig as soon as I got out.
True to his word, we did exactly that. In 2005, not long after I was released, we put on a show at the Inn on the Green in Notting Hill. It was a massive night—raw, honest, and exactly what was needed to kickstart the fundraising. Howard had done a long stretch in the States, so he knew the score. He knew that bone-deep loneliness of being a Brit in a foreign prison, wondering if anyone back home actually gave a toss.
The Gigs and the Graft
Our fundraisers weren't posh affairs. They were gritty nights in clubs and backrooms. We weren't looking for sympathy; we were looking for survival money for the ones still stuck inside.
The Shows: We’d travel around, doing these talks, sharing the raw truth about what happens behind those foreign gates.
The Mission: Every penny went back to Finsbury Park to pay for things like "Coming Home" kits—the stuff you need when you land with nothing but the clothes on your back.
Howard helped me out in plenty of ways over the years before he passed away. He’d check in, give me some straight-talking advice, or just sit and have a chat when things felt heavy. He had a lot of heart for a man who’d seen the sharp end of life.
Keeping the Memory Alive
Howard isn't around anymore, and the world feels a bit quieter without him. He was a diamond who never looked down on anyone. But the charity is still there in Finsbury Park, doing the same work they’ve been doing since the late seventies.
I’m proud of the time we spent raising those funds. We took our history—the good, the bad, and the Jamaica sun—and turned it into something that helped the next person coming off that plane with a heavy heart and empty pockets. Howard would’ve been glad to see the work carrying on.
If you want to see the work they do or lend a hand to the people nobody else wants to help, check them out .https://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/
