In studio two at Polmont Young Offenders Institution a young actor is licking his wounds in the corner. A moment earlier, he’d whipped his t-shirt off, enthusiastically preparing for his next scene, brazen and bare chested.

Taps aff, as they say in these parts.

The merest ripple of laughter registered in the prison’s drama studio and a hair-trigger clicked. The scene had been changed, he hadn’t got the memo and demanded to know what’s funny, what they’re laughing at.

The actor stormed off into the wings, hurriedly pulling his t-shirt back on, the difference between his fellow performers laughing at him and laughing at the unintentionally comic impact of his false move momentarily lost to the flare of discomposure.

These are callow boys, not yet men, who are living out their days behind

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