I sheepishly said, ‘Yes.’
I may have spoken like a sheep, but I fought like a lion and won on points.
This victory impressed the three coaches at the gym, Duncan, Norman and Ernie. Sometimes an old bloke called Frank Pybus would turn up and I would love listening to his stories about the old-time fighters. He was a former boxer and later became a referee. The old veteran had a vast amount of knowledge and a good memory. I bet he could have written a brilliant book of his memoirs but, sadly, he died a while back and all his stories went to the grave with him.
If boxing teaches you anything, it is to be humble about your abilities. I remember one time when an army boy came to our gym to train for about a week. He was jollying himself up something rotten. I watched him spar and he’d go at it hard, trying to be the guv’nor, always trying to prove a point. I got in with him one session and he came at me like a steam train. Bang, bang, bang. He didn’t pull his punches, he would really let fly with them. Then I noticed if I jabbed him to the body he would parry it, which left his jaw exposed. I backed him into a corner and feigned a couple of jabs into the body. His left hand came down to block my jab and in, the blink of an eye, I threw a pile driver of a right hand, which exploded off his jaw. His eyes rolled back as he went sprawling to the canvas, knocked out in the corner of the ring. He took a little time to bring round to the land of the living. Norman gave me a bit of a telling-off in private and said he could see what was going to happen. But it did teach the kid an important lesson.
My boxing successes continued when I reached the quarter-finals of the National (NABC) Championships. I was drawn with a finalist from the year before. I had the upper hand until a clash of heads in the last round. I looked down on the canvas, thinking someone had thrown water in the ring, but it was my blood. I had got cut. The ref took one look at me and stopped the fight. The lad went on to win the title. I, however, went to hospital to have six stitches put in my left eyebrow. I still trained but didn’t spar because my eyebrow needed time to heal.
The night before my big quarter final fight, I should have been tucked up in bed early but, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, I wasn’t. Far from it, actually. Instead, I went to the engagement party of a lad I worked with called Skiddy, at a club called the Wagga. I’d known Skiddy since I was about seven and all of the lads from work were going, so I thought I’d only have a couple of sharp ones and then go home. I was full of good intentions, but once I’d got a few pints down my neck and got into the party spirit, all thoughts of the big fight the following day were put on the back burner. I ended up having a skinful and the rest, as they say, is history.
I eventually returned to the ring after having my eyebrow tested in a hard fight with a lad from Newton Aycliffe. I won a unanimous decision and had a beautiful black eye the next day.
After a couple more wins, I made the North East Counties Final (Junior ABAs). I was up against the best junior light heavyweight in the country and the previous year’s champion, Gary Crawford, who’d won five national titles already. Crawford was very tall at 6ft 3in and a very big puncher. He backed me on to the ropes and hit me with a big right, following it with a left and right combination of power-packed punches, which all landed flush on my chin. He put everything into them. He gave me a very strange look when I was still stood in front of him, saying, ‘why haven’t you gone down?’ He forced me back on the ropes and caught me in the throat with a big right; the ref jumped in and stopped the fight. I couldn’t swallow for days after. I later found out that I was the only person who had boxed him in the championships that year, as everyone else had pulled out and refused steadfastly to box him. Eventually, he turned pro and boxed under the name Crawford Ashley. He won the British and Commonwealth titles, a Lonsdale Belt outright, and a European title. Another tall lad I fought was from Darlington, who was 6ft 4in. He had very long arms, making it hard to get past his reach.
One of the lads in our gym, called Duane, later went on to become a well-known street fighter, who was feared and respected. We also had a young lad called Andy Tucker who later won the Junior ABA title at middleweight and captained Young England against the USA. Philly B and I used to have some proper brain-damaging wars with every punch aiming to be the last; plenty of claret was always guaranteed. I turned up one Monday and Duncan asked me, ‘Will you fight Glenn McCrory on Thursday?’ McCrory’s people had been on the dog and bone to Duncan the night before and asked if I was available for Thursday. I’d boxed on the same show as Glenn a couple of times in the Junior ABAs. One of the lads from the gym thought I had the beating of him but I said, ‘No.’ For a start I hadn’t trained for months. The fight was also to take place on McCrory’s own club show. At the end of the day, boxing is a sport and, no matter how hard you are, it’s not worth doing if the conditions aren’t right.
I did, however, have to start training hard for the championships (NABC), which were only two weeks away. I was in at light heavyweight. All the boys rallied around each other for their fights. We had one lad called Carl, who fought at light welterweight, and was the best gym fighter I had ever seen. He was mixed race with great boxing ability and silky smooth skills. Because he wore white shorts with a black stripe he looked like Muhammad. I thought he would go on to bigger and better things, but he never turned pro. He could hit you three times before you landed a punch. He fought twice that day in the championships and his hands came up like puddings. The second fight was a carbon copy of the first; both fights were wars and he dropped both fighters in the last round to win each by decisions. My head was pounding from shouting for him.
The lad I fought, Eddie Ellwood, went on to become a professional bodybuilder, who made history by winning the ‘Mr Universe’ title five times in a row. As we started trading punches, I got caught with a couple of slicing uppercuts, delivered with accuracy to my head. The ref gave me a standing count. We carried on trading blows, until I changed tack and got him in a clinch. He was in trouble and blowing like a whale, trying to catch his breath. He’d nearly shot his bolt and I was sure I would stop him. I just missed with an inaccurate left hook, which would have taken his head off. He rallied off another volley of punches, but I overcame the challenges. Then for some bizarre reason the ref shouted, ‘Stop boxing,’ and stopped the fight. I told him that I wasn’t hurt, but he waved me away, giving no explanation for his decision. When I told Duncan I’d had enough, he said, ‘Don’t get disheartened, I’ll get you a return on a club show.’ I was going to fight Eddie again, but when he arrived he said he wasn’t fighting. This was an anti-climax for me, and I decided to finish boxing for good. Eddie and I did become good friends though.
As my interest in boxing began to wane, I began to go out more and more socially. Mod culture was on its way back in – there were Vesper scooters flying about all over, everyone was wearing parkas with union jacks on, and the group Madness were getting big, supported by other bands like Ska, The Specials, The Selector and Bad Manners. I didn’t get into this scene as much as with punk: the only mod thing I ever wore was a pair of two-tone trousers. I preferred to wear a donkey jacket or an Arrington, jeans and Doctor Marten boots, and kept my skinhead hairdo. We had some great fun at discos and house parties. There was always someone who couldn’t handle their drink who would end up spewing their guts up. I have a long list of mates from back then: Johnny, Decker, Peo, Piggy, Gaffo, Anth, Pod, Taller, Richie, Tesh, Finn, Micky Peart, Trav and loads more.
I hung around especially with Micky Peart. We had some good laughs. He was loud, whereas I was quiet. We’d go drinking in this rough place called the Cobble Bar. You had to go down a set of steps because it was in a basement. The regulars would eye us up with suspicion. They all smoked dope, which was provided by a big, scary-looking dealer. He would pull out a big bag with different-sized and different-prised lumps of dope in full view of everyone. People would be in and out of the pub all night buying dope from him. No one said anything as they were scared of him, but years later it so happened
that I had a fight with him. I done the cunt no problem. It turned out that the dirty rat was a police informer. So much for criminal justice, eh?
We started getting up to new and more daring escapades. One night me and two mates, Gaffo and Kev, went into a local kebab shop after a long night on the piss. After ordering three doner kebabs we realised that none of us had any money left to pay for them. As soon as they put the kebabs on the counter, we grabbed them and ran like fuck. As we were running, we heard shouting behind us. It was a geezer from the kebab shop chasing after us with a big machete in his hand! Luckily, we got away. Talk about Ali Baba and the three thieves.
It wasn’t long before I started making the local papers. One night I had been drinking down the town with Mickey and some other lads, when some coppers came up to the car we were in and start looking at my jacket. I had forgotten that I was tooled up that night, and that people could see something sticking through my coat – someone must have called the police thinking I was carrying a gun or something. I was charged with carrying an offensive weapon – a truncheon – and received a fine of £50. The following appeared in the local paper:
TRUNCHEON YOUTH IS FINED £50
A youth carried a home-made truncheon in case of attack but it proved an unwise precaution for it led to him being fined £50 for possessing an offensive weapon when he appeared before Hartlepool magistrates yesterday. Richard Stephen Horsley (17) of Dalton Street, Hartlepool, admitted possessing an offensive weapon in Mulgrave Road, Hartlepool, on November 21, 1981.
Sergeant John Ness, prosecuting, said that at 11.30 pm on Nov. 21, police officers acting on a tip-off saw a Hillman car with four youths inside parked outside a takeaway. As they approached, the defendant, who was sitting in the back seat, ducked out of sight. The officers asked them to get out of the car and discovered a black wooden home-made truncheon concealed beneath the rear seat. The defendant initially denied the truncheon belonged to him, but later said he carried it for his own protection and would use it if there was trouble. Mr Michael White, defending, said the truncheon had been made by Horsley’s grandfather when Kung Fu first became popular in Britain. It had not been made for a ‘Sinister Purpose’. Horsley could not justify carrying the truncheon and had not been in any danger. There was no risk of him using it aggressively.
This little episode failed to temper my wild side. One Saturday afternoon, I was back in the Cobble Bar with Mickey P, just having a few pints. As I was in the toilet, I started hearing a commotion coming from the bar. When I went back in it was all smashed to bits. It only took five minutes and the bar, the optics, the jukebox, the table and chairs and all the glasses were smashed to bits. Hartlepool were playing Sheffield United and the Sheffield fans had charged into the boozer and wrecked it. No one got a kicking – they were just intent on smashing the place up and left.
The following Monday I was back in court for an assault that had happened four months earlier. Yet again, I made another appearance in the local rag:
EXCHANGE OF WORDS LED TO ASSAULT BY YOUTH
An exchange of words between two sets of youths quickly developed into a case of assault, Hartlepool magistrates heard yesterday. Richard Stephen Horsley (17) of Dalton Street, Hartlepool, admitted a charge of assault occasioning actual bodily harm when he appeared before the court. The magistrates heard that the offence related to November 26 last year. Horsley and two friends were walking along Grange Road when they passed two youths walking in the opposite direction. Words were exchanged between the two groups, which eventually spilled over to violence. Horsley punched one of the youths who was left with a cut lip and bruised face. Mr Barry Gray, defending, said it was a ‘most unfortunate and disgusting episode’. He said Horsley thought the youth he assaulted had wanted to fight him. ‘The words “come on” were spoken by the unfortunate victim and I do not know whether he wanted a fight, but it was taken that way. This wasn’t a mugging or unprovoked attack, it was something which came out of words exchanged,” said Mr Gray. The Magistrates remanded Horsley to Low Newton for a week while social enquiry reports were drawn up.
This time I didn’t have boxing to put a stop to my antics. I just wasn’t interested any more, as I was busy having a good time out on the piss. I still had to serve my week in prison though. While I was in Low Newton, I spotted Collo, the lad who had stuck up for me back in the day at primary school, but he never recognised me, so I didn’t say anything to him. When I told the fellow prisoners that I was from Hartlepool, they would immediately think that I was in for football violence, as there had been a lot of fighting at Hartlepool games around that time. Even though it was only a small town, with a population of about 90,000, it had more than its fair share of hard men.
I had recently been dating a lass called Joanne for a couple of months. I got on well with her dad, Jim, and we’d talk until the early hours before I made my way home. He was a really nice bloke and we got on great. I’d get invited round for Sunday dinner and there’d be a load of us sitting around the table: Joanne’s dad Jim, Mam, Pat, brothers Paul and Graham, Joanne and her sister Ursula, and me. They welcomed me with open arms and made me feel a part of their family. My mam and our Sandra (the daughter of me stepsister Helen) came to see me in prison, bringing cakes and sweets, as you did at that time. One time they brought Joanne with them. As they were leaving, Joanne whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve missed my period.’ I still remember that moment vividly, when it dawned on me that there was a chance I could soon be a father.
The court day arrived and I was in the cells at the police station. As usual they were full and they put me in with this big fucker called Jimmy, a proper Jack the lad. A few years after that, I bumped into him at a nightclub, just after I knocked out one of his mates. He came up to me and stared cockily at me. I stuck the nut on him and set about him with my widow makers – my hands – laying him out cold. He was a mess and the ambulance came and took him to hospital where he stayed for about a week. As soon as I walked into the courtroom, I looked around and saw friendly faces: my mam, our Sandra, Joanne and her dad Jim, Gibbo and a few others. The jury went out to reach their verdict. It felt like ages till they came back. I had a brilliant Social Inquiry report that swayed it for me. The judge said that before my report was read, I was getting six months but because I had such a good report I deserved another chance. I was ordered to do 180 hours of community work. I was relieved.
By this time, Joanne found out that she was definitely pregnant. I was quite chuffed that I was going to be a dad. I started doing my community service. The office where everyone from the area had to meet was through in Middlesbrough. I’d get on at the town centre and used to see Eddie Ellwood on the bus going to work at Head Wrightsons. I’d sit next to him and we’d chat for ten minutes before he got off. At community service, everyone was split into groups with different supervisors. One week you’d be chopping trees at Helmsley Forest, the next week you would be painting the windows of a community centre or digging gardens over at Eston, a wide range of things.
Things at home started going badly. Mam’s husband Ken had old-fashioned views, and didn’t like me staying out all night. One night when my mate Coto stayed round we accidentally left all the lights on all night – it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. When he got home from work the next day, Ken went mad, and we had a big argument in the kitchen. I ripped off my shirt and threw it down, wanting to fight him. My mam jumped in to stop me because she knew I’d have ripped his head off and torn the limbs from him. He told me to get out of his house, so I started shouting, ‘Stick your fucking house up your fucking arse! I’ll never set foot in this fucking house ever again,’ and all that.
I left and went to live with Joanne’s parents, Pat and Jim. I felt a bit homesick for a couple of weeks but settled in nicely. I slept in the bedroom with Paul and Graham. They had bunk beds and put a camp bed in for me. Paul would take turns with me and sleep in the camp bed and I’d get in the bunk. Joanne and Ursula were in another bedroom and P
at and Jim in the other. They had a video on which we would watch the latest films at night – it was like being at the pictures. I had some great times there and felt more like a son than a prospective son-in-law. Paul and Graham were more like brothers.
Funnily enough it was a film that got me back into boxing. One night, Paul and I went up our Roy’s to watch a boxing film that had been pirated; it was a great copy and an excellent film. After, Paul chuffed, ‘That’s the best boxing film I’ve ever seen.’ The film was Rocky 3, laughable now, but back then it was the best thing since sliced bread. We went back up a couple of nights later and watched it again. I went to the pro gym to see if I could do a bit of training there and got the OK. I went back to the amateur gym the next day, just around the time of my 18th birthday.
I was as rusty as hell. I only just managed to win my first fight back against a 34-year-old bloke. I upped the pace in the last round to catch the eye. I got a taste of snot in my mouth and I felt like spewing because it was my opponent’s. That spurred me on and I hit him with a roundhouse right hand over the top, and then landed cleanly with few good short and snappy shots, turning his legs into elastic. He went down. He was one punch away from being stopped when the bell rang. I got the decision but I knew that my reactions were not fully there. I was arranged to fight a lad from the same club in a couple of weeks. He was a good fighter, in his mid-twenties, strong and fit with shoulders like a hod carrier. I knew he would cause me some problems so I went to the pro gym and sparred with Phil Gibson, who had helped George Feeney prepare for his epic title win. George had stopped Ray Cattouse in the 14th round in the 1982 fight of the year. I’d known Phil a few years. He was out of the Jake LaMotta mould and was never stopped as a pro. He was in my face all the time, making me fight every second of every round, and never took a backward step. I was made to work out angles and to be mentally on my guard; it was just the preparation I needed.
Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley Page 7