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I won't be him singing anymore, I'll be rapping about him, commenting on the story. In April , Plan B stated that the project never came to fruition because he got bored of the Strickland Banks character:. I'd shot Ill Manors and the label wasn't taking the film seriously.

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I'd written most of it before I put out Strickland Banks. I was living at RAK Studios and done the whole American thing where I've got different people working in different rooms. It was bollocks. It felt like I was only doing it to capitalise on the success of Strickland Banks and at that point I was sick of Strickland Banks.

Fuck him.


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By that point, I hated the sight of Strickland Banks. I'm sure a lot of other people did too. I was plastered everywhere. That would've got on my nerves.

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It did get on my nerves! I was sick of the sight of my own face. Adapted from iTunes. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Plan B. Atlantic Drew Alexander Shuckburgh Kwabena Adjepong. Drew Betmead Taylor Wright-Goss. Drew Appapoulay Taylor Gibson.

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Drew Betmead K. My mind is curiously blank as I try to take in what has happened and what will happen next. He places them in a plastic bag. They are obviously not anticipating any trouble. She is wearing the official uniform of the prison service: a white shirt, black tie, black trousers, black shoes and black socks. She accompanies me out of the building and on to an elongated white van, not unlike a single-decker bus, except that the windows are blacked out.


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Cameras flash pointlessly in front of each window as we wait to move off. It looks as if it was printed some time before the verdict. I am well acquainted with the journey the van is taking through London, as Mary and I follow the same route home to Cambridge on Friday evenings. Except on this occasion we suddenly turn right off the main road and into a little backstreet, to be greeted by another bevy of pressmen.

But like their colleagues at the Old Bailey, all they can get is a photograph of a large white van with ten small black windows. Some wag has put a line through the B and replaced it with an H. Not the most propitious of welcomes.

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We drive through two high-barred gates that are electronically operated before the van comes to a halt in a courtyard surrounded by a thirty-foot red-brick wall, with razor wire looped along the top. I once read that this is the only top-security prison in Britain from which no one has ever escaped.

I look up at the wall and recall that the world record for the pole vault is 20ft 2in. The door of the van is opened and we are let out one by one before being led off to a reception area, and then herded into a large glass cell that holds about twenty people. This will often be the first time co-defendants have a chance to speak to each other since they were sentenced.

I sit on a bench on the far side of the wall, and am joined by a tall, well-dressed, good-looking young Pakistani, who explains that he is not a prisoner, but on remand.

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I leave the glass cell and return to reception where I am told to fill out another form. One standing, one sitting behind a desk. The one behind the desk asks me to stand under an arc light and strip. The two officers try to carry out the entire exercise as humanely as possible. First, I take off my jacket, then my tie, followed by my shirt. The first officer then asks me to raise my arms above my head and turn a complete circle, while a video camera attached to the wall whirrs away in the background.


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My shirt is returned, but they hold on to my House of Commons cufflinks. They hand back my jacket, but not my tie.

Belmarsh Bangup

I am then asked to slip off my shoes, socks, trousers and pants. I complete another circle, and this time the officer asks me to lift the soles of my feet for inspection. He explains that drugs are sometimes concealed under plasters. He shows no interest. They return my pants, trousers, socks and shoes but not my leather belt. He checks the label. The washbag is immediately confiscated while the rest of the clothes are placed in a line on the counter. The officer then hands me a large plastic bag with HMP Belmarsh printed in dark blue letters, supported by a crown.

Everything has a logo nowadays. I thank him. He looks surprised. Another officer escorts me back to the glass cell, while I cling onto my plastic bag. He ticks every box. We shake hands, and I go back to the glass cell. I only have to wait for a few more moments before a young lady in prison uniform asks me to accompany her to the medical wing. I grab my plastic bag and follow her. We climb three floors of green iron steps before we reach our destination.