Some of these scrapes would revisit me in later life. After all, what goes around comes around. Many years later I was bouncing in a pub when a bully back from the old days turned up with a few of his pals. I was buzzing and hoping there would be trouble, because I’d waited a lot of years to put this ginger bastard on his arse. My blood ran cold as I watched his every move like a hawk – if he so much as raised his voice I would be over in a shot to tear the limbs from him. I was getting high thinking of all the brutal acts I would carry out on him. Sadly though, there was no trouble that night. I followed him and his pals out of the pub and said a few nasty things to see if he would fire up and take the bait, but his bottle went and he pissed off. He must have seen the fire in my eyes. I got a little satisfaction out of it, but I still wish I could have chinned him.
I started getting back into football too. My Uncle Jimmy went to Wembley in 1976 to watch Newcastle against Manchester City in the Football League Cup Final. Newcastle had a brilliant time, even though they lost 2-1. I was brought a few souvenirs back. There was a big Newcastle flag that I put on my bedroom wall, a Cup Final programme and ticket. I was hooked and have followed Newcastle ever since. Most of the lads round our area supported Manchester United. It gave me great pleasure to laugh like fuck at them and tease them when underdogs Southampton beat them 1-0 in the FA Cup final in 1976 … but then again, it’s only a game. Losing my dad had certainly changed me, and had put things into perspective. But I was gradually coming out of my shell with the passing of time.
CHAPTER 7
CROMBIE COATS AND HAPPY DAYS
Family life changed once again when my mam married a man called Ken. She had been seeing Ken for about a year when he proposed. Mam asked me what I thought about it. Well, I had seen that Ken had put a bit of stability and security back into her life, and as long as she was happy, so was I. I did, however, make it clear to Ken that, even though he would be my mother’s husband, he could never be a father to me. He understood my strong loyalty to my dad, and was happy with that. They married in May 1977, on a lovely day. Plenty of friends and family turned out. Photos are another great record of the past, and in the wedding pictures you can see quite clearly that the 1970s were in full swing. I’ve got shoulder-length hair and am wearing a white ‘Fred Perry’ jumper with a pair of blue bell-bottoms. My mate Tommy is featured, as is Jill Coser, who I had been going out with for about a year. I don’t really know what happened between us, I suppose we just drifted about, as you do. Things were also changing at the older end of the family. I went to see Granny Horsley after the wedding for what turned out to be the last time. She had gone senile and died a year later.
In many ways I was revisiting the past even back then, as the Teddy Boy movement, which had been a 1950s phenomenon, came back with a vengeance around this time. I got well into the old rock ’n’ roll records, my favourite of which was one by Danny and the Juniors called ‘At The Hop’. I even had a Teddy Boy coat, but I only wore it in the caravan, and ended up giving it to my mate Dean, who was proper over the moon with it. Much of the Teddy Boy revival was down to the American teatime soap Happy Days. Everyone wanted to be The Fonz. People were selling their karate gear, relics from the Bruce Lee days, to buy new leather jackets and hair gel. There was a café near the town centre that used to be frequented by all the Teds. They’d play all the old tunes on the Juke box, ‘Shakin’ All Over’, etc. The Teds wanted the owners of the place to change its name to ‘Al’s’, which was the name of the diner in Happy Days, but they weren’t successful. I reckon the owners knew it was just another fad that would pass, no different from the Bruce Lee phenomenon a few years before.
Being The Fonz was one thing, but in my heart there was only one King: Elvis Presley. Around this time the news broke that he had died. I was no different from the millions of other fans, and was devastated by his death. I went to my bedroom to mourn and shed a tear for him. It began to seem like all those I held dear were popping their clogs! The media frenzy was relentless: it was all over the newspapers, television and radio. Everyone was talking about it. Then again, some people think he is still with us. I suppose you could say, The King is dead, long live the King!
As everything was changing around me, I started developing new habits too. One day in the caravan, my mother noticed a square box in my pocket, and enquired, ‘Are those cigarettes in your pocket?’ I didn’t answer, but she made me get them out. She grinned and told me to light one up. You probably know what tactic she was employing. But I was a dab hand at smoking. My lungs might as well have been fitted with vacuum pumps … I was that good. As I lit up and puffed away, she immediately realised that I wasn’t a virgin smoker. In fact, I had started smoking about a year earlier. I used to light her nippers up from out of the ashtray; they were the non-tipped ones called Woodbines. I couldn’t have picked a more suitable brand for getting used to tobacco – they were fucking strong, burned the back of your throat like hell and tasted like shit! I think Mam knew she couldn’t stop me from smoking, but at least she never allowed me to do it in front of her. Thankfully, I gave up the dreaded weed seven years ago and will never smoke again.
While I could kick the smoking habit, no scientist could ever invent a patch strong enough to stop me from my greatest addiction: fighting. It didn’t take long for my family to discover this little habit either. I can still remember the horrified look on one of my aunty’s faces when she happened to walk by one of my early victories. I was knocking the fuck out of a lad called Vic. Her face went whiter with every punch I landed. My hands were covered in blood by the time it was over.
Not long after this, rumours started circulating about a lad at school who reckoned he could do me. Soon enough I spotted him down the Burn Valley – a place quickly becoming my fighting homeland. He was with six of his followers. I walked straight up to him and yelled, ‘I heard you’ve been calling me names and want to fight me.’
I still remember it as clear as if it were yesterday. There was snow lying on the ground. He was wearing what was called a Crombie coat and a pair of Doctor Marten boots. He loved himself. Before he could answer, I put the head straight on him. BANG!!
He was shook up and dazed, and slipped when trying to stand up in the snow. I waited until he steadied himself before unleashing a right hand, putting him flat on his arse, following it up with a smack that almost took his head off. It was all over in two shakes of a dog’s tail. News of the victory went around the school, focusing on the ease with which I dealt out the beating. Without even seeking it, I was now the ‘hardest in the year’.
Not that it was all plain sailing. I still had to learn to control my aggression – if you can’t do that as a fighter, you’re nothing. One incident that I am particularly ashamed of involved a family of sisters from Norway who were staying on our caravan site. I did have some good laughs with them, but one day one of them pushed me too far. I hit her. As soon as I lashed out I regretted it. It’s a lesson well learned. Even though the girl recognised it was her fault, I should never have hit her. She laughed about it years later when I bumped into her in a nightclub, and pointed out the crooked teeth from where I had hit her. Still, I don’t see it as a laughing matter, but it happened, and you can only put it down to experience.
The same thing happened with a mate of mine called Jimmy, who also lived on the caravan site. He was a few months older than me. Jimmy and I had some good times together. His mother had a broad Scottish accent that was hard to understand. I can remember the time he chinned a lass as if it were yesterday. She was a tall bird, about 6ft 2in, with long ginger hair. They were having an argument and then smack! Jimmy clanged her right on the button. She went down like a baby giraffe trying to find its legs. We kept in touch after we had moved from the site down to the town. A few years later, he was riding a motorbike and hit a patch of oil on the road. He skidded and went straight into a lamp post. He died a couple of days later in hospital. I was gutted. I went to his funeral but it took ages for it to si
nk in. Despite the incident with the Welsh girl, I have some very fond memories of Jimmy. Rest in peace, my friend.
Gradually I was realising that there was a world of fighting outside of the Burn Valley when I started getting into boxing after watching a fighter called Dave ‘Boy’ Green on TV’s Sports Night. I think it was 1976. He hailed from the Fens, and was a true warrior. I loved Dave’s all-action, non-stop style. Every fight he had was exciting to watch. He was a real crowd pleaser and he made a big impression on me. I used to listen to all his fights on the radio and then watch the recording on the television, as back then you didn’t have ‘Pay to View’ TV. He was my first real boxing idol. A couple of years later, I plucked up the courage to write to him and received a reply, along with a signed photo. I was over the moon – I still have the picture in a frame.
Unfortunately I lived miles away from any of the local amateur boxing gyms, so couldn’t go as regularly as I would have liked. This wasn’t a major problem, as there were plenty of sparring partners to be had, such as Tank’s cousin, Buller. We had a little trouble over something and he threw a boot at me, hitting me in the head. That meant game on. As we squared up, I threw an accurately painful left hook straight into his gut, taking the wind out of his sails. I hammered a right on to his chin, and it was game over – the flowers were in the post!
Other people’s fights offered another opportunity to learn my trade. A friend of mine called Corbo was once having a scrap with a lad who, I thought, had a bit too much for him. A fair-sized crowd had gathered. Corbo was doing OK and was giving as good as he got, until the lad started scraping his face off the wall. The crowd cringed – Corbo’s face was getting really messed up. Now that wasn’t right, so I lashed out at him with a pair of Dublin boots. I almost took his fucking head off. Needless to say the fight was over, but Corbo’s face was a disaster. He looked like an advert for acid peeler. I’m sure it would have been a different story if the other lad hadn’t cheated.
Looking back on all these incidents, I guess you can only say that boys will be boys. I suppose the art to success is knowing what you can and can’t get away with. I was certainly pushing my luck at school. One incident in particular sticks out. It was during a science lesson, when a few of us were larking around with the Bunsen burners. We had found that you could use then as water guns if you put the tube over the tap. Well, for some trivial reason the science teacher had come down the room to tick one of us off. As he started walking back up the classroom, one of the lads put the tube over the tap and another turned it on full. Water started squirting out and, at the exact same time, I picked up the Bunsen burner and directed it towards the science teacher, splashing the water all over his bald head. I tried unsuccessfully to hide the makeshift water gun before he turned around, but the sight of him with rivulets of water cascading down his face had us all in hysterics – it was just too funny.
He stormed down the classroom, looking straight at me. Gulp! He grabbed a hold of me, and started shouting and wagging his finger in my face. I managed to extract myself from his iron grip by pushing him away. But he went to grab me a second time. This time I pushed him away harder and told him loud and clear to ‘FUCK OFF!’
When I swore at him all the class went ‘EEEEEEEEEEE’ in unison. I barged out of the classroom with the teacher in hot pursuit, and started wrestling with him as he tried to drag me to the headmaster’s office. As we got to the stairs I made a break for it, pushing him down them before sprinting off. I ran out of the school and into the Burn Valley. I staged it so I didn’t get home too early, but with each step to the front door my butterflies got stronger. I was certain I was going to get busted.
As it happens, though, nothing was said. Luckily we didn’t have a telephone, and the school never sent a letter. I stayed away from school for about six weeks because I thought that I would have been expelled anyway. When I went back my form tutor informed me that the headmaster wanted to see me in his office. He asked me for my version of the Bunsen-burner fiasco, but as I started telling him he began interrupting me, giving the version that he had been told by the teacher. He fumed, ‘So then you told Mr so and so (I’ll keep his name anonymous) to “fuck off”.’ As soon as he said fuck off, I started laughing, as it sounded so funny coming from him. This was not a good idea as he went ape shit. Fortunately though he resisted suspending or expelling me, and offered me another chance. I can only think that the teacher had kept his mouth shut about being pushed down the stairs as then the Head would have had no option but to kick me out. I guess the old baldy was too embarrassed to talk about it! After all, it didn’t take much to get a suspension. For instance, Corbo was suspended just for shouting at a teacher during a cricket match. It was Teachers v Prefects. A teacher called Nutall went into bat, and Corbo belted out, ‘Nutall, go and fuck off and play with your nuts.’ Pretty fucking hilarious. If you have ever read the 1970s Skinhead series of books, well … Corbo was the absolute double of the lad on the front cover of Skinhead Escapes.
Even though I avoided suspension, I still got six of the best with the cane from the headmaster. I got three on each hand. But you couldn’t let out any emotion, no matter how much it hurt; you just had to be brave and keep it all inside. This was repeated when I went back for my first science lesson, to make an example to the other kids. I became a bit of a celebrity, so to speak. Even so, given the choice between the cane and suspension, I would have taken the suspension any day. I had the misfortune of being caned in every year in senior school: first, second, third, fourth and fifth. No wonder I got to prefer giving beatings to receiving them.
CHAPTER 8
THE SMELL OF BLOOD, SWEAT & GREASED LIGHTNING
I first appeared in court at the age of 13. Also featured in the dock were four of my mates: Gam, Corbo, Coto and Vaughnie. It had all started from the best intentions, as we had initially decided to earn some extra money by going potato picking. We walked a good few miles to get to the farmer’s field, but couldn’t find any ‘tatty’ pickers. The place was deserted, except for a great big haystack, which in our adolescent imaginations began to resemble a bouncy castle. We jumped on top, bouncing around for about an hour, leaving the stack a wreck. One of the lads then set the haystack on fire and all the smoke from it alerted the farmer and god knows who else and all of a sudden, both he and his farm hands turned up from nowhere. We made a run for it but got caught. Well, we got taken to the local police station and were subjected to a round of interviews. We got bailed – no pun intended – and had to go back the following week to see if we were going to be charged. As it turned out, the farmer was a local magistrate and wouldn’t settle out of court. Just our fucking luck! We were charged with criminal damage. We started laughing like madmen when they called out our middle names in court, provoking the judge to give us a proper roasting – verbal, that is, not the sort of roasting that footballers give to their groupies! We had to pay damages of £6 each and were given a conditional discharge for a year.
Some people say the best place for little scallywags is the boxing gym. Well, there were no gyms near us, but we improvised and started our own in an old school building. The rat-a-tat of bags, skipping ropes spinning around at blinding speeds, the smell of blood, sweat and liniment oil … I don’t know how the others used to feel, but I just loved it. We all used to get stuck in. The lads had a different impression of me after we’d traded punches because there was always blood spilt – there are no hiding places in the ring, after all. And we were intently trying to knock each other out! We were never taught how to do this and do that, we just used to fight and pick things up naturally. I had instinctive ability, and think I would have gone a long way in the legitimate boxing game if someone had grabbed me then and taught me some ring craft. You certainly couldn’t fault our dedication, as we were there three nights a week for about six months.
I was a glutton for punishment, and started going to a proper boxing gym. I ended up going alone as none of the other lads were up for it. There
were some good boxers there who I used to spar with. Admittedly I took some pastings, but it’s all part of the learning process – as they say, no pain, no gain. I tried to learn a lot from guys like the Foreman twins, who were both southpaws and smooth operators. Ken had the best jab I’ve ever seen – he could snap it into your face quicker than an elastic band. It banged off my nose quite a few times. Other fighters relied more on power, like Big Ronnie, who was as tough as they come. Every time I got out of the ring after a session with him, I’d be banged up with a busted nose or a black eye, but I loved it. He was a good middleweight, and ended up fighting the likes of Herol ‘Bomber’ Graham in the amateur game. The main thing I learned was how to soak up the punches. An excellent junior there called Mickey M once caught me with a peach of a left hook, right on the bell at the end of the first. Everything drained out of my legs. I had to go another couple of rounds, but I got to the end. Some so-called tough guys think they can just turn up and start pasting all the boxers, but as soon as they get a beating in the ring, they change their minds. You don’t see them turn up again.
Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley Page 5