THERE is a chilling photograph of the five-day siege at Glasgow's Barlinnie Prison in the eighties which shows two hooded protesters, pictured in stark black and white against a grainy sky, standing on the chimneys high above the prison, arms outstretched, showing their mastery of their world.

The prisoners in B Hall had rioted, claiming they were victims of brutality, before barricading themselves on the top floor with five prison officers as hostages, then taking to the roof to shout at, and throw slates at, the press corps below.

The picture of the hooded men with their arms aloft was used around the world, but as my former colleague, photographer Alastair Devine, told me, the protesters had to be cajoled into the outstretched arm pose.

"We were there for five days and needed some new pictures," recalled Alastair. "So when they stood on the chimneys I stood with my arms outstretched gesturing at them to do the same. Other photographers followed suit so there was about seven or eight of us standing in a crucifixion pose. It must have looked like Calvary hill. Finally the protesters followed suit and we got our picture."

The fondly remembered story of the siege is of the angry woman who arrived with baby in pram to shout up at her man Ronnie to desist his involvement as he was harming his chances of parole. "You come doon oot a rerr Ronnie." she bellowed. A tabloid front-page headline the following day was the jaunty "Come Doon Ron Ron, Come Doon Ron Ron."

The prison siege was remembered on Sunday night when comedy writer Phil Differ staged his short play Who's Afraid of the Big Bar-L at Glasgow's Oran Mor. It was commissioned by Barlinnie Governor Derek McGill and has already been performed at most Scottish prisons.

As actor Bruce Morton said afterwards: "Barlinnie is a mental, terrifying place, with incredible humour." One of the prison officers told Bruce the story, which I'm sure Tom Shields once reiterated in The Herald Diary, of the offender incarcerated for unlawful relations with a dog.

One night an officer pushed a large bone into his cell. "What's that for?" asked the prisoner. "If it's good enough for your girlfriend," the officer replied, "Then it's good enough for you."

Phil Differ said he and the cast were frequently asked in the prisons if any of them had done time themselves, which he took as a compliment that they had made the play authentic. Phil asked one of the inmates if he had tried acting himself and he replied: "Once at the sheriff court - but I wasn't very convincing."

The humour in prison is a survival mechanism. Barlinnie was built in the 1880s on then farmland to the east of Glasgow with the purchase of the Barlinnie Farm Estate for nearly £10,000 to replace the overcrowded prisons within the city. Four blocks, with the hardly inspired names of A, B, C, and D Halls were planned although a fifth, yes you've guessed, E Hall, was added later. The prisoners themselves quarried the stone for the later halls.

Almost from the beginning though it held more prisoners than it was planned for. Nearly 50 years ago The Herald reported that Barlinnie's population had peaked at 1500, nearly double its capacity, with one doctor stating: "It's only by the grace of God that there has not been an epidemic." There were calls then for the prison to be replaced. The authorities are still mulling it over.

The tale was told that when Glasgow Sheriff Court was at its busiest after a rowdy weekend in the city officials were worried they were running out of buses to take the convicted to Barlinnie. Sheriff J Irvine Smith was asked if he could go easy on the custodial sentences because of the bus shortage. "Here," replied Irvine, throwing over the Yellow Pages. "You'll find it under coach hire."

Grimmest memories of all are the hangings - 10 since the end of the war. Perhaps the saddest case was the youngest, and last, person to be hanged there, Tony Miller, who was only 19. His solicitor Len Murray recently visited Barlinnie to try to find the grave of Miller, but the hanged were buried in unmarked graves. Miller's final resting place is now under a wall.

George Shaw, who was hanged in the fifties, came up with the haunting epitaph on the scaffold: "I am as innocent as anybody."

On a cheerier note, internet search engine Google allows you to review businesses on its maps, and someone wrote about Barlinnie: "10/10. Best vacation I've ever had. This place is so exclusive you need to get a judge to recommend you. The employees don't seem to want you to leave."

Former Labour MP for Dumbarton John McFall, who was a teacher in his earlier life, told of an official visit to Barlinnie when he was stopped by an inmate who said: "Hi, Mr McFall. Remember me fae school? You were my guidance teacher."

Fortunately for most of us the nearest we get to Barlinnie is a fleeting glimpse of roofs and walls from the M8 motorway.

Occasionally the right-wing press fulminates about prisoners having a cushy life with "flat-screen TVs". They always seem to emphasise the TVs are "flat screen" as if this was the epitome of luxury, although what other kind of TV is there these days?

But sharing a tiny cell with a "co-pilot" as they are nicknamed with disgusting habits you've never met before? No thanks. I'm happy if the only porridge I do comes out of a microwave.