Secret Squirrel

by Secret Squirrel

  To fill my games gap, I attended a boys’ club in the evening, which was very famous for its boxing club. Although still just thirteen years of age, I was more than adult size, so I jumped straight into the senior ranks. I spent a lot of time on the heavy bag, the speed bag and learning the rudiments of the game. I didn’t agree with the “you stand like this” and “he stands like this” syndrome, which seemed to me to be too rehearsed. I particularly did not like clinching or any physical touching of other sweaty bodies. I still had my indelibly engrained dislike of germs and dirt and I was going to go to any lengths to avoid all physical contact. This I did by always being further from my opponent than they could reach; I had absolutely no intention of being hit. This seemed to be against all the rules, but to me was the first fundamental rule of any confrontation: attack is the best form of defence. I was intrigued by the speed of snakes and I tried to develop their quick strike by spending time catching flies in an attempt to develop a strike speed quicker than anyone else’s. I saw no point in losing a confrontation and would have never fought again if ever I had lost a fight. In this sport being second is a pointless and painful experience.

  I began to study all forms of fighting including wrestling and all forms of martial arts. I read about fighters thrusting their hardened hands into opponent’s stomachs and pulling out their intestines and scattering them about the arena. I was determined that I would not engage in any fights until I had learned enough and was big and strong enough to win by a huge margin to compensate for physical limitations such as having a cold or flu. I practised hitting hard, immoveable objects, progressing up to punching brick walls with full force; hitting human flesh became a comparatively pleasurable experience. I studied the dynamics of punching and I figured out that there is a direct correlation between the proportion of the length of the upper arm as opposed to the lower arm and also the muscle mass of triceps and biceps. I found out very quickly that weight training and boxing did not mix if you wished to maintain speed and stamina.

  I began attending a local youth club, and one night I was asked by one of the organisers to watch the main entrance door in case of undesirable intruders (my first role as a “bouncer”). Of course, the inevitable happened: a local gang tried to enter. I instinctively grabbed the first entrant, who was known to me. He became aggressive in front of his pals and challenged me to a fight. Just then the organiser returned and dealt with the situation. This was a temporary reprieve, as the gang were waiting for me as I was coming out. With the organiser’s help, I was able to give them the slip and run home. The gang were on the lookout for me now and there was to be no let up.

  By this point, I had started to take an interest in girls and I started hanging out with one particular girl every night. This had the added advantage of keeping me clear of the gang...until one dark night. I was caught in a back lane with this girl by the gang who were looking for me. I was in a dead-end situation in a back lane with no escape. I was again challenged to a fight by the previous challenger and, as I had no real choice, I was forced to oblige. The problem was that all of his friends joined in. I attempted to cover myself up, much like a hedgehog rolls into a ball. This was not entirely successful, although I did remarkably well; my clothes were torn to shreds, much like the Incredible Hulk after one of his mood changes. The gang moved off eventually, promising a return beating every time they saw me. I took this girl home and, on my way back home, I began to think of the trouble I would be in when my parents saw my clothes. The family budget was already stretched. Then I guess I did have an Incredible Hulk moment and I thought: “These bastards are not getting away with this.”

  I now went looking for them and it was not long before I found them. As they were at least twelve in number, I had to develop a quick strategy to separate them. This I did by hurling some house bricks, which were conveniently lying around, at them. Being an accomplished discus thrower and shot putter, I was able to flight the missiles to land right in the middle of their group. This had the desired effect of separating them and I really got their attention. They gave chase but I was a really good runner and quickly put distance between us. I then shot off to the left and backtracked in a circle to place myself behind the chasing mob. Another well placed missile alerted them to my change of position. I then shot off to the right and did a similar tactic, which really got them angry. They fell right into my trap because this latest frustration caused them to split up and give further chase in opposite directions. I was now ready for the next stage of my plan. I would run down a street and turn left or right, and. when out of sight, I hid in a recessed doorway. I would wait for the footsteps to grow louder and their breathing to become audible, then I would step out into their path and let the individuals run straight into a right fist straight into their face. I began to pick them off one by one. I ended up in a graveyard hiding behind headstones and jumped out and was able to deal with more victims, who were easy prey individually.

  When the situation settled down, I then went home in my tattered clothing and was subjected to the Spanish inquisition; after all, I was still only thirteen years of age, albeit of large proportions.

  The household was just about to go bed when there was an almighty crash when our back door was kicked in. Shortly followed by the front door. Then the house became crowded with the vengeful gang members. It was then that I witnessed violence to a degree that I never had imagined. My father snapped and transformed into a one-man gang and he single-handedly made mincemeat out of the invading individuals. They were terrified at the level of violence displayed, as was I. It was one of those defining moments and his intervention was a great relief – what a man to have on your side. The total rumpus attracted the attention of the neighbours and of course the police. My father then continued his violence on the police and literally threw them out of our house like uninvited guests. Sometimes you can tell by the look on a person’s face that they really mean business and it is time to back off. This was one of these moments.

  When the house cleared, the inevitable happened and my father turned his attention to me. My mother had to intervene and plead for him to calm down. Another period of grounding then took place, which I was happy to accept on this occasion. The gang members and myself gave each other a wide berth, never wanting to experience a repeat incident. My father was happy for me to continue with my boxing training and I re-affirmed my philosophy of never taking on any fight that I was not going to win by a huge margin. I continued to study wrestlers and all forms of martial arts and wondered who would come off best in a fight. (I was to find out the answer to this question some years later.) A combination, I thought. I also began weight training to develop size and strength. As my father used to say “a good big-un always beats a good little-un” – except in his case, I thought, where dogged determination and a will never to stop, could prevail. I learned over the years to develop this attitude – almost like the Terminator who only has a little finger left, but still never gives up coming for you.

  This was one attribute that I obviously inherited from my father’s DNA. Unfortunately, my father never received the love and respect that he deserved from me and I have suffered a sentence of lifetime regret over this; I wish I could have him back just to tell him a few things and treat him differently.

  A short time after the uninvited gang incident to our home, my confidence was returning and I was passing through our living room where my father was pressing his trousers. I can’t remember the exact words exchanged by us, but I made a cheeky remark to my father which incensed him and he hurled the hot electric iron which he was holding at me. Fortunately for me, the iron was just about to make contact with my head when the momentum was arrested by the flex plug still fixed into the wall socket which took some of the sting out of the impact. It still managed to make a permanent crease in my forehead.

  Our relationship was damaged further as I never used to tell him about my arranged fights or I would deliberately tell him the wrong venue. The only fight
that he did witness was when I visited a social club where he was working as security guard. I was about to enter into this skirmish when my father began taking bets with the other guy’s supporters. This was not expected behaviour from a security guard (I guess it was public support for me) and this incident, plus the fact that he had lost a pocket book containing details of the club’s security codes, resulted in him parting company with his employer. My father was trying to build bridges with me by demonstrating public support. We were not as close as we should have been, and this action cost him his job.

  Chapter Three

  Out Into the Big Bad World

  I had lost interest at school because of the incident with the Games Master and the loss of any sports involvement. I just wanted to leave and get on with adulthood. I began visiting a nearby pub during my school lunch hour, as, by the age of fourteen, I had become an accomplished drinker. One day, one of my teachers also paid a visit to the same pub. This could have been further trouble for me, except the teacher was accompanied by the school secretary. An agreement was made between us that I would not say anything about the affair, nor was I to visit the pub again and he would not mention the chance encounter. I continued to tread water at school and left with less qualifications than my potential.

  I continued with my boxing training and did a lot of running along a beach whilst wearing wellingtons and carrying weights in my hand making it a bit more challenging by running up and down the deeper sand of the dunes. Along with a group of local boys, I began attending a local motorcycle speedway event on a weekly basis. We enjoyed the roar of the bikes and supporting our local team, but what we enjoyed more were the regular fights that we had with a neighbouring local gang. One week there was a very poor attendance by this gang membership which would have made our regular encounter too easy. One of them had a bright idea and suggested that we should each nominate a representative who would carry out our usual skirmish on our behalf. Guess who was nominated for our gang? My opponent was a well-known nasty piece of work who was also quite mad. He was extremely aggressive and out to kill and I was able to practise new tactics, as street fighting is a different game altogether from boxing. I used his aggression against him, and as he rushed forward I stepped to my left, hooked my right foot under his right shin and back elbowed his head as he somersaulted past me. Before he could get up, I put my foot on his neck, preventing him from moving at all. He had no choice but to submit. This brought great delight to all my friends and my defeated opponent shouted: “Same time next week.” This then became a regular event. He would jump on me from behind at unexpected times, but always with the same outcome. After the last encounter that we had, he told me that he would continue fighting with me until he got me on the ground and he promised that I would never get up. You would have to kill this individual to stop him.

  As a young boy, myself and the local gang used to attend a very large travelling fair, which was certainly the largest in Europe. It had all of the usual attractions: tame rides, scary rides, bingo stalls, food stalls and a great range of side shows including a Ghost Train, Helter Skelter, pony rides, and the one that always attracted me was the boxing booth. As I grew year by year, I was intrigued as to how genuine these fights were. By the time that I reached the mid-teen years, I had the confidence to make a challenge. The crowd and the booth boxers all recognised a genuine challenge and you could sense the atmosphere change to become a lot more serious as the boxers never knew what they were going to encounter.

  I raised my hand as a challenger and instantly thought, “Oh, what have I done?” My heart began pounding as I climbed the steps up onto the platform. Challengers and boxers were paired by size and sometimes age, nothing very scientific about it. The objective of the challenger was to last three rounds of dubious duration to win either a five or ten-pound prize plus the “noggins” which were the monies given by the crowd by placing cash into a bucket or throwing into the ring. The more entertaining the fight, the greater the rewards. During my challenge I managed to spend most of the fight running around the ring or covering up to prevent receiving any punches. This was very easy with the huge, well-worn, sweaty, sixteen-ounce boxing gloves. The booth boxer was becoming very frustrated in not being able to land a telling blow and he was becoming very tired as he tried harder and harder. My intention was to survive, which I did, and I received a handsome amount of money, although I found the noggin collection to be most embarrassing. My mother was particularly horrified when she learned of my degrading, as she described it, experience.

  Prior to the following year’s fair, I mentioned to my Boxing Club my previous experience and a few of us decided that we would attend and give it a go. We “organised” arguments and skirmishes while standing in the crowd. We had a great and profitable night. The highlight was when our trainer was challenged. Now he was fifty-two years of age and only had one eye, however, he had once been a heavyweight champion of Wales. He was persuaded to take on the challenge and he was matched with a very fat drunken mouthpiece. On entering the ring, our trainer was head-butted by the challenger, which made him semi-conscious and the fight became a messy brawl. Our trainer was against the very slack ring ropes when he explained that he saw this huge midriff coming towards him and he drew back his right arm and unleashed a punch into this blubber right up to his elbow. The result was that the drunken challenger was sick all over him. It was as though he had been in a shower of vegetable soup. With no shower facilities, it was no wonder that no-one would give him a lift home.

  Soon came a period of contemplation: was I going to risk what could be a very short career in boxing or was I going to get back on track with some other plans?

  I did have enormous natural ability at art and I produced an impressive portfolio of sketches and paintings. This attracted attention from the Ford Motor Company and also a local advertising agency that I had the forceful cheek to visit. This agency was run by two partners and they were undoubtedly impressed by my work. Apparently, one liked me and one didn’t. They said they “would let me know”, and, sure enough, two weeks later a letter arrived inviting me for a formal interview. The two partners had agreed to take me on in a general dogsbody role with the promise of further opportunities to come. My parents were really pleased and so was I.

  I continued to attend a well-known boxing club and I had three senior amateur fights, which were no challenge at all to me. I was spotted by a boxing promoter and he wanted to sign me up. My mother was very much against this, but the promoter would not give up. I was invited by this promoter to one of his boxing tournaments. On the bill was a heavyweight fighter that everyone was raving about. He had been in the recent Olympics representing England at judo, but he was also a karate expert. His previous professional fights had all been won by knockout within the first round. I expected this guy to have really fast hands, but I was really shocked at his physical condition; he was only about five foot eight and eighteen and a half stone, most of it round his middle. He also threw punches like a windmill. He was very aggressive and I think that he had beaten all of his opponents mentally before they got into the ring, much like Sonny Liston used to. Again, his opponent was beaten in the first round by punches that should have never landed. The promoter leaned over towards me and spoke softly into my ear, “I know what you are thinking – you can take this guy.”

  A fight between us was quickly arranged and I was extremely nervous. I remember eating bananas just before the fight just to absorb the acid that was being generated in my stomach. When the bell sounded, I rushed over to his corner and gave him a ram-rod, straight left which appeared to explode his nose and dropped him to the canvas. On getting up all bloody and mad, I gave him a hard right which sent him back to the canvas. He did well to get up and I played around with him for a few seconds before I floored him again. He was not going to get up this time and the fight was stopped before he made any attempt. After this fight his image was blown and everyone began beating him and his career ended soon after.
The promoter was keener than ever to sign me up, however, I decided to give the art career a go.

  The role involved mostly printing, on which I was not too keen and one day a week at art college which I did not enjoy. Never mind, the money was good and it was a start. One day a client came in and I began talking to him before the partners were aware of his arrival. He was from a well-known brewery. He told me what he was after and I did some immediate sketches which were just what he was looking for. The partners appeared and were not impressed with my interference, but the client was and I was duly called into the office to discuss his requirements. Although my work was a great success and good for the company, I did not get the credit that I deserved and I was considered more of a threat that an asset. The reason soon became known: one of the partners had a nephew who wished to join the company and this partner was trying to engineer a position for him. I was an obstacle. This partner began to make things uncomfortable for me. One day he complained about the way I made coffee. This was enough for me. So, I gave him a Byker teacake (a head-butt, similar to a Glasgow kiss). I walked out of course, prior to the inevitable. That evening I made a career changing decision: I decided to seek my fortune in the ring as I had been approached by another syndicate of local businessmen. I arrived home late at night and shocked my mother with the news.