After about five minutes had passed, I went outside and they’d gone. I got a shock though when I checked my hand to see if my knuckles were swelling or had any bruising. There was false tan on my knuckles! I still chuckle about that to this day.
Every Sunday I’d travel to different spiritualist churches. It gave me spiritual enlightenment and I enjoyed getting away from the hustle and bustle of the doors. One night I was told by a medium that I had gypsy blood in me. He could see the horse-drawn trailers of my ancestors going back generations. I didn’t know about my bloodline because I was adopted, so I put it to the back of my mind. I did that for two years. I often wake up during the night and most times I find it hard to go back to sleep. One night when I woke up I saw what I believe to have been the spirit of a young girl, stood at the side of my bed. She looked about eight years old, with long dark hair that went past her shoulders. She was wearing an old school uniform and a white hat, just like that worn at St Trinians, the Catholic school I used to play football against. For a couple of seconds, I was startled. She never spoke to me, but just stared. Strangely enough, I felt a nice, peaceful energy coming from her. I also sensed another spirit in the room, which I couldn’t actually see. They both vanished after ten seconds. I haven’t a clue who they were or what they wanted.
My boxing career may have been over, but that didn’t stop me from going to the odd sparring session. I went back to the Boys Welfare for a few months. By then I was weighing in at fifteen and a half stone. I always liked it at the Welfare. It was always a challenge when I got in the ring because all the young guns I sparred with would give me their best shots. Not long after, I started going to a kick-boxing gym. Every session started with a run and I would always trail in last. I noticed they were brilliant with their kicks, but not that clever with their hands so I’d get in the ring and spar with them just using my hands, in order to bring their punching on. I’d do eight rounds straight off. The younger kids couldn’t understand how they were fitter than me, but couldn’t outlast me in the ring. It was all down to one word: experience. The trainer there was keen for me to have a few fights and then enter the British Championships. He said I had what it takes, but I wasn’t really into all that kicking malarkey, so declined his offer.
CHAPTER 14
IT’S THE WEAK MAN WHO HOLDS BACK HIS TEARS
Things never stand still. After four years of my mother looking after him, Ken had to finally go into a home because of my mam’s ill health. Her elbows were shattered through lifting him and she now had osteoporosis from all the cancer treatment she’d had in 1970, which drained her bones of calcium and made them incredibly brittle. Back then, the kind of treatment she was receiving was fairly new, and the side effects were not yet known. She even had to get an electric tin opener because she broke her wrist in two places while opening a tin with a manual opener! My own family life changed when, finally, Gail and I split up. It had been on the cards for a long time and we only stayed together because of the kids. I’d been prepared for a split for months but it doesn’t matter how much you prepare yourself, when you lose your kids, it hits you harder than any physical blow. It broke my heart. A strong man cries – it’s the weak man who holds back his tears, thinking it a sign of weakness. But when you don’t cry, it all builds up inside you, causing breakdowns that can destroy you. You feel much better if you can cry because it releases a lot of built-up tension. I never got to see the children for about six months. In consequence of the pain of that episode, I became very wary of letting anyone get too close to me. There remains a little distance there with my kids, but I love them more than anything and have a bottomless pit of feelings for them.
I started to become friendly with a girl from Middlesbrough called Heather, a lovely lass. We went to the pictures to see the Kevin Costner film, Dances With Wolves. I went out round Middlesbrough with her a few times, drinking and nightclubbing. One night she came to my pub with her cousin, who I set up on a blind date with my mate Rob. We all went up to Middlesbrough for the night. I was teasing Rob saying, ‘She’s not up to much, but she’ll do for you,’ and things like that, winding him up. But when she turned up Rob was over the moon, as was she. He moved in with her for about five years and had two kids together. My relationship with Heather, though, took a turn for the worse when I passed the crabs onto her from some girl. She came in the pub loudly shouting, ‘Thanks for the dose of fucking crabs.’ I stayed cool and said, ‘It’s OK, you’re quite welcome.’ I never saw her again, I wonder why?
Not long after that I started working at a pub on the seafront, a karaoke bar that was always full to the brim. I was working with a lad called ‘Vulture’. He was a popular bloke whose relations would come to the club, whom we would have some good nights with. One night the manager told us that the owners were getting Lee ‘The Duffer’ Duffy over for protection, in order to look after the club for a few weeks. For those of you not familiar with the Duffer, here’s a quick history of the man:
Name: Lee Paul Duffy
Weight: 245 pounds
Height: 6ft 4in
Age: 26
Job: Taxing drug dealers!
Background: Violence!
Attempts on his life: Numerous! Shot in the knee! Shot in the foot! Petrol attack to set him on fire!
For some reason fate kept us apart, as I never ended up meeting the man, but I heard plenty about him. Lee Duffy was a man apart and someone who only comes around once in a lifetime – a total one-off. There have been a lot of things written about him in the press, but there are two sides to every story and Lee’s family have never fully told us their side. They are very distrustful of the press after Lee was made out to be some kind of monster. I also think that if Lee had been born and bred in London, he would have been an icon. He was Robin Hood, Dick Turpin and Muhammad Ali all rolled into one. A good friend of mine from bouncing, Brian Cockerill, had once fought Lee. He told me that the punch Lee hit him with during a fight was the hardest he’d ever been hit – and Brian’s been hit over the head and legs with hammers, axes and machetes. He said Lee was very fast for a big man and had phenomenal hand speed. He ended up doing four years for GBH – although he only served two – and was sent to no less than eighteen jails. As soon as he arrived at any of them, he would seek out the hardest man in the joint, walk straight over to them and scowl, ‘I’m Lee Duffy.’ Bang! Bang! Bang! They would be clattered into submission. In every jail, he became ‘The Daddy’.
What is frightening is that when he died he had just turned 26 years old and was five or six years away from his prime. This was a man who would go into the local pubs of his enemies alone. He’d put a see-through bag of money on the bar and leave it there and sit in the corner. He had some bottle, or no fear. He must have done it half a dozen times and not once was the money touched, although there was always plenty of interest until they found out who it belonged to! When entering certain nightclubs, it was not uncommon for the DJ to announce to thousands of punters, ‘Lee Duffy has entered the building.’ He had a fierce rivalry with his counterpart on Tyneside, Viv Graham. When Lee went to visit a relation in Durham Jail, Viv was also in there having a visit from friends. Lee walked straight up to Viv’s table and demanded of Viv, ‘Do you know who I am?’ Viv told him to fuck off, and that was the start of it all. I would have put Lee against any man, and I mean any man.
Lee was a formidable-looking giant of a man. His presence was felt before he had even entered a room. He had such a presence about him that it has been said that he could go into a nightclub with 1,000 people in the place and within 10 minutes there would only be 100 people left in the building. He would not need to hit anyone with his fists, but his presence was felt. Someone who knew Duffy described him as a schizophrenic. When he once had petrol thrown over him, he just whacked the geezer and broke his jaw before he had a chance to pull a lighter out. When he had a gun pointed at his belly, he just wrestled his opponent to the floor. He was fearless.
Duffy was supposed
to come in one night to the pub, but sent a couple of naughty lads from Middlesbrough in his place. Another week later the manager said, ‘Lee Duffy is coming tomorrow night.’ But he never turned up because he was entertaining friends in ’Boro. Later that same night he was stabbed to death in a fight. It was 25 August 1991. He was killed at 3.30am outside the Afro-Caribbean Centre in Marton Road, Middlesbrough. Apparently an argument had kicked off in the centre and the other man, fearing Duffy had a gun, swung out with a knife. A great hard man, Lee Duffy has passed into legend since. May he rest in peace.
I had a number of new bouncing partners after Vul got nine months for assault: Dickie, Andy, and then Lee – not Lee Duffy. It was usually a merry night and the only trouble was from drunken families. One time when there was a big row, with plenty of fighting between the family members. One geezer faked a heart attack. The ambulance came and he was wheeled out with an oxygen mask on his face. Andy said to me that he didn’t think the bloke was for real and sure enough, we found out later that he’d faked it. When I wasn’t working, I was out drinking with the lads. For some reason I picked up this bewer – a lass – who I had known for a few years. She had a face a bit like a bulldog chewing a wasp. She’d also had the coil fitted, due to the size of her fanny – she could have had wall-to-wall carpets fitted in there! The next morning, our Tank picked me up and was shocked. He’d known her years as well and gasped, ‘What the fuck are you doing with her? She’s a whore. I’m surprised at you. She’s had more cock-ends than weekends.’ I knew that already but when you are out every night, you just go with the flow. I was single and if there was any loose skirt at the end of the night that looked half decent you don’t turn your nose up at it, know what I mean.?
This lass worked at a nightclub, so I would always be in there getting loads of free drink with the lads. It was a place where I had lots and lots of fights. On one occasion, I was talking to a woman when I noticed, over the other side of the room, a bloke throwing his arms about like a windmill in a threatening manner. He was shouting something but I couldn’t make it out because of the noise. He was with another bloke. I realised he was shouting at me, and excused myself to the woman and made my way over to the two men. I stopped to ask my friend Buller to watch my back. The thing is, people like this can’t be talked to. I wasn’t going to mess around with this crazed windmill and his sidekick, Don Quixote.
I hit the mouthy crazed windmill with a thumping right, a left, and a final right, all smack on the chin. He fell apart and was out for the count before he hit the deck. I turned to Don Quixote and he went off like the Disney cartoon character Speedy Gonzales. I eventually caught him and whacked him with a right, which didn’t connect properly with its target, but was still severe enough to put him down. Fear kept this loon going, and he started scrambling under the tables in this packed club to get away from me – it was like a Carry On film! As the bouncers arrived, I was putting the boot into the plonker without much success. He was like a bumblebee on speed!
The doormen couldn’t revive the other one and after about ten minutes, the ambulance rolled up. We were on the top floor of the club and the doormen had to carry him down the stairs while he was still unconscious. They wired his jaw up at the hospital. He drank through a straw for a couple of months. He later told someone that the punch he was hit with was like being hit with a sledgehammer. It turned out he had a reputation as a fighter, and was known as the hardest man in Wingate, a tough colliery village in County Durham. I had been talking to the smaller lad’s ex-girlfriend, which had started the whole thing off. Buller quipped to me afterwards, ‘What did you want me to watch your back for? You were having a fucking laugh.’
What is it with boyfriends and their ex-girlfriends? Another night, I was talking to two sisters who I hadn’t seen for a few years. One of their ex-boyfriends was hovering around looking for trouble. He thought I was trying to tap one of them up. He wanted a fight but, as I was enjoying my chat, I pretended to be scared of him and said, ‘No.’ He grew another foot taller and his chest plumed out another six inches like a rooster. I finished my drink and said my goodbyes to the sisters before going up to him. His head collided with my fist; he was dropped down a peg or two and looked no more dangerous than a spring chicken. He was destroyed, but I couldn’t resist putting the boot leather in as well because he was a cheeky cunt. The bouncers came over and picked him up and threw him out of the club.
I had so many fights in this club that it started to become my own territory. Another fight that sticks out happened not long after the jaw-breaking incident. I was at the bar getting a drink when some geezer points his finger in my face and drawls, ‘Don’t I know you?’ He was looking snake eyed at me like a typical big-screen gangster. He had a ciggie in his mouth, and thought he looked rock hard. Getting well into the scene, I drawled back, ‘I don’t know, but they call me Richy Horsley.’ Clint Eastwood would have been proud as I then battered him with a left hook that landed with a strange dull thud. Mr Movie Gangster was stood there leaning against the bar and staring out into space – he was knocked out, but still standing up. ‘Hello, is there anyone in there?’ I spoke again but never got a response so I walked away and left the drink. When he came round, he went to the hospital, and I was told afterwards that his jaw was broken in two places.
I got on well with most of my fellow bouncers, except an Irish bloke, who came to the town after doing six years behind bars for a stabbing. He was about 6ft 3in. For some reason, he wanted to build himself a reputation and started playing up to me. Obviously not the brightest kid in the class. I had a quiet word with him and told him to get in the toilets if he wanted to fight me. He had a good look into my intensely piercing eyes and realised I was serious and croaked, ‘No.’ I found out he’d only been out of prison a couple of weeks when he carved someone else up in Carlisle. He was currently waiting to go to the Crown Court. He had quickly married a girl he had just met to make himself look more respectable. But the judge saw through him, and added five years behind bars to his marriage sentence. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer fella.
I started to work at a huge place in the town centre, which was split into two parts. There was a bar and a DJ downstairs, and another bar and disco upstairs. We looked after the whole shebang. I knew before I started to work there that I would be fighting all the time, as this place was an arena full of dude spark plugs. In my 18 months there I saw plenty of doormen come and go. On my first night, they told me about this bloke who comes in every week who wouldn’t see his drinks off at closing time. And sure enough, on my first night he refused to leave. Every time he was asked to see his drink off he’d pick it up and wave ‘bye-bye’ to his drink to ‘see it off’. Obviously a comedian. I walked up and told him to finish his drink, ‘… or I’m taking it away from you.’ I don’t like people taking the piss or liberties, so you have to be firm with them. So when the prick just sat there smirking at me, I reached over and grabbed his pint and poured it over his piss-pot sized head. Before he could move, I followed it up with a straight right that flattened the prick out of sight. His mates shouted that they didn’t want any trouble and left immediately, taking Mr Piss Pot to the hospital, where they found out I’d broken his nose, not to mention shattering his ego. Suffice to say, he never tried his little tricks again. The man did consider pressing charges but then thought better of it.
I had a fight one time with a lad on the stairs. The lad knew me from when I was young and thought he could take me. We started going hammer and tongs at it. I was trying to get my footing so I could get some leverage, but it was awkward. You see, the problem with being tall is that your centre of gravity is that much higher, so you can be easily put down if your equilibrium is compromised. But once I landed one on him, he went down. As he was laid across the stairs I cracked a couple more into him. The doormen at the top of the stairs were shouting, ‘Richy, he’s had enough,’ but I knew that already. You see, you had to have control as a bouncer, as there were so many cry-bab
y customers who would rat to the police if you so much as spilled their drink.
CHAPTER 15
CRAZY HORSE
This world is full of lunatics. I remember one New Year’s Eve, when I’d been working since noon and had a few drinks and a few fights throughout the day. I was still with the lass from the nightclub. I was somewhat pissed by the time we got to her brother’s house, where the lass’s 13-year-old daughter was sleeping. As I was going to the bog there was a commotion on the landing. Some cockney lad was trying to get into the bedroom where the young girl was. I went out and clipped him about the ear before staggering back to the toilet while he was escorted downstairs. Then all hell broke loose when the lad’s pal, Big Bri Suckling, one of our locals, started screaming that he wanted me in the garden. Now I didn’t want to fight him as I was properly pissed, but what can you do? Big Bri was a first-class lunatic who had the strength of an ox. People were frightened to death of him. His nickname was ‘The Caveman’ because he is the closest thing you’ll see to a caveman in the 21st Century – a man with no fear and unnatural strength!
As soon as I got in the garden, BANG! He rocked me with a cracking right. My drunken legs turned to jelly and I went down. I didn’t know where the fuck I was. He jumped on top of me and started letting the punches go. They were smashing into my face with sickening thuds, but I couldn’t feel any pain as I was so pissed. Everybody was watching, but nobody dared say anything or intervene. While I was being beaten to within an inch of my life, the cockney lad booted me in the head about five times. I remember thinking, I wish I were sober. I thought Big Bri was going to kill me because he kept smashing away. I was telling myself to stay with it. After what seemed an eternity, he got off and it ended.
Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley Page 11