Tonight, in the first of a six-part serialisation of his brand new autobiography, the Ewood legend talks openly about the time he spent in prison after he was sentenced to nine months for contempt of court in November 1996.

"Please stand, Mr Garner."

The judge looked up.

"On the evidence presented, I find you in contempt of court. I am, therefore, sentencing you to nine months in prison."

Those words echoed around my head. I felt dizzy and sick. My knees went weak. The judge walked out of the room. I lost all sense of time and space. The room was hazy. I needed a fag!

I had absolutely no idea it was coming. As far as I knew, I'd done nothing wrong. I'd never missed any maintenance payments, I'd always arrived at court on time.

But whatever the whys and wherefores, I now found myself in big, big trouble. My head wouldn't stop spinning. I was going to jail.

"Are you ready?" said a voice.

"What for?" I replied.

"We are going now."

"Going where?"

"To Preston prison."

It really hadn't sunk in. Having a pair of handcuffs clamped around my wrists soon sorted that out. But it was still difficult to comprehend. I'd never been in trouble with the police before, never broken the law.

I didn't have some Swiss bank account where I'd stashed my millions from football. I wasn't exactly what you'd call a rich man. Never have been. Never will be.

But I doubt if that's the way people were viewing footballers at the time.

Blackburn Rovers had recently won the championship with a team including two British record signings -- Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton -- who were earning a fortune.

By association, and as a former fans' favourite, people probably thought I earned a fortune too and that I was up to something devious.

I know some thought I was being done for not looking after the kids properly or evading tax - but it was much simpler than that.

I had made a mistake and I didn't even know I'd made it.

And my sentence was harsher than for most burglars. That's justice for you.

Before I knew it, I was in the back of a Volvo heading for Preston nick, where I faced the prospect of spending Christmas in prison.

The fact I had been a famous footballer made no difference - certainly as far as the warders were concerned.

I was given a set of prison issue overalls to wear and my room was the same as everyone else's.

How the hell I am going to survive nine months in here?

The next day, I got the message I was going to be transferred to Kirkham open prison.

There was eight or 10 rooms to a hut -- cells would be the wrong word because you are not locked in -- a television room, showers, and a bath.

"You're in B2, Garner. Find a bed."

If I'm being honest, the prison routine wasn't as bad as I'd imagined. There was a lot of freedom of movement and the food was ok.

I know there are many who believe a prison regime should be tough, aggressive even, that prisoners deserve punishment in the bluntest possible terms.

But can you imagine not having easy access to your loved ones, not being able to meet your mates, not being able to go to the match on Saturday or work on Monday?

That's the punishment: being, as lawyers like to say, deprived of one's liberty.

I was lucky because, as the days passed by, it quickly transpired that I had people in there who were looking out for me -- fellow inmates I mean, not the warders.

In a way it was weird because I'd never experienced anything like that level of celebrity in football.

"Hi Simon, I'm Keith - Dave's ill - so I'll be your minder in the gym today."

Bloody Hell. I was a real star at last. All I needed now was a pair of shades and a stretched limo!

Joking aside, there were times when it was miserable, boring and I missed my family and friends, but I made the best of it and it helped to have people watching out for me, people who'd bring me something back from the canteen while I was standing in the phone queue.

And, of course, I got to play for the prison football team, too.

I forget who the opposition was, but we once played a local team who fancied getting stuck into the lags.

We murdered them and I got a double hat-trick, but this central defender just kept taking lumps out of me - partly because I was in prison and with some added venom because of my Blackburn connections.

I asked him as nicely as possible to stop kicking me. No. I threatened him. And it worked to a point.

A minute later he flattened one of my team-mates who, not having had the benefit of my grammar school education, took a more direct course of action to prevent further hassle and punched him square in the face.

This was not handbags at ten paces, it was ugly and a few more got involved.

At right-back, we had one of three warders in the team. He came running across and I thought there might be trouble. There was. He belted the opposition defender who started it!

My professional income might have dried up, but I got an ounce of baccy for being man-of-the-match which, in prison, is more useful than a substantial win-bonus on the outside.

As things turned out, that was the one and only time I ever played for the prison team.

I appealed against my sentence and the judge later set me free after serving four weeks of a nine month sentence. But I'll never forget my spell on the inside.

Adapted by ANDY NEILD

There's Only One Simon Garner...available to buy now.