Secret Squirrel

by Secret Squirrel

  Life was good until an undesirable from my past turned up. You may recall the idiot from my early teens who used to fight me at speedway events. He had developed into a well-known thug who had just been released from prison after an armed robbery. He had his gang with him and we denied them entry. When he saw me, he tried to convince me that we were old pals and I should let him in. A great argument ensued. They would not go away. Then I made the mistake of suggesting that he and I should go into a back alley to see if his pugilistic skills had improved any. They hadn’t, but mine had considerably. He emerged from the back alley in a sorry state and his friends gasped when they saw him. I was then threatened with a gun and the police had to be called. I was now a marked man and I had to resign my lucrative post and keep a very low profile and keep out of town.

  I met my wife to be at this time, who was a C.I.D. detective in the police. The early days of our relationship were quite embarrassing for her as I introduced her to the who’s who of the criminal world. I began to see a lot of her and we were married a few months later. She was responsible for keeping me on the straight and narrow because I was at the crossroads of which pathway I should take. Her influence kept me on the correct side of the law.

  Chapter Five

  The Training Years

  So, began a period of intense study to fill in my new-found time. I visited my local university and attempted to join the medical school. However, I needed to gain more qualifications, such as A-level chemistry and physics and also to complete a foundation course. I set about this challenge with gusto. All of this studying and snacking was causing me to put on quite a few pounds and I wanted to steer clear of boxing venues, so I opted to take up weight training. On visiting the university gym, I found a couple of hammer throwers and a shot putter who were entering the Olympic games and who were pushing up weights far in excess of my capability. I did not like that so I embarked on pushing my strength capability. I was introduced to a local bodybuilders’ gym and they were all talking about who was entering the next Mr. Universe Competition. I thought that they were joking – they were not; the gym owner had won the title on about seven occasions. The gym manager, with whom I was to become very friendly with, suggested that I should attend the next morning for a surprise. This I did the next morning and the surprise was that the current well known Mr. Universe was attending for a workout. He was staying with the gym owner for a week or two and they would be training most mornings. I recognised him instantly, although he was not as big as I thought he would be. He certainly struggled to keep up with the other guys in the gym. Bodybuilders, you see, train for vanity more than strength; how they look is paramount. They tend to exercise their muscles individually, rather than in groups, so that certain muscles become out of balance with others that they should be working with. That’s my theory anyway as to why bodybuilders were not anything like as strong as weightlifters or other sportsmen who train with weights. This has changed somewhat with the advent of World’s Strongest Man competitions.

  The gym had a list on a wall of all gym members who managed to bench press 400lbs (slightly over 180kgs). Our guest managed to avoid this weight on the bench press. I have seen the gym owner press 560 lbs (over 250kgs). I was determined to get my name on that list, which I did after about twelve months.

  I struck up an immediate friendship with our guest as I spoke German, his native tongue. I had taken German rather than French at school and I was amazed at how much I had actually taken in and remembered. My German speaking skills were to improve more in the next week than the whole of the five years that I had studied the language in a classroom environment. We went out and about and I showed him all the local sites and pubs and nightclubs. I have got to say that I have always found bodybuilders, in general, to be placid individuals who were always keen to avoid trouble. Like every group, there are exceptions to the rule, most notably those with ‘steroid rage’. These guys that I was with were most certainly not in that category, unlike my normal associates.

  The next evening, I found myself accompanying members of the gym, the owner and our new friend to a nightclub in the Midlands. The gym owner did a cabaret act demonstrating feats of strength such as blowing up and bursting hot water bottles and asking for the heaviest person in the audience to come onto the stage and sit in a chair with four chains attached to it. Then by standing on top of a trestle, the volunteer was lifted clear off the ground by our colleague with a mouthpiece attached to the chains. Unfortunately, on this occasion the volunteer happened to be a well-known Midlands comedian—all 24 stones of him—and although the task was achieved, it did leave a bit of slackness in the denture department of our friend. After the act was completed we were all sat in the audience watching the rest of the show when this drunken individual came over and stood in front of us, looked at us all very slowly and noticing that we were all much bigger than the individual introduced as Mr. Universe, he nervously asked the question, “If he is Mr. Universe and we have seen what he can do, then who the fuck are you lot?”

  I was telling my fellow firemen about my latest acquaintance and I could see that they did not believe me. So, the next morning I took one of them along with me to the gym and it was well worth it; I have never seen a jaw drop so low.

  After our famous friend left us to travel on to America, one of the elderly cleaners at the gym found a t-shirt that he had left behind and she asked everyone who it belonged to. After a negative response, she exclaimed, “It must belong to that Fartsen-shagger bloke that’s just left.”

  I continued training at this gym as I was determined to be the strongest, although I would have had to enlist the aid of drugs (anabolic steroids), which were freely available, to achieve that goal. I had more than enough medical knowledge to know of the dangers and I revised my ambition to include the avoidance of drugs. This I managed, although it probably took me longer to achieve my aim of being nearly the strongest in the gym, but drug free. At least two members died at a very early age, and I am convinced it was through taking these drugs. One of them was to become a very good friend of mine until he died aged 34. He was one of life’s great characters. He was even bigger than me, and when he walked through a door, there was an eclipse of all light. Everyone stared at him because of his shoulder width. He was not the brightest person that I have known, but he was certainly the funniest. His exploits with women were legendary. He was the original loveable rogue, was hung like a donkey and had more women than anyone I have ever known, plus with almost as many juniors running around. An old lady who knew of his reputation, especially with his contribution to the population figures, was once scolding him and said, “You ought to be damn well hung.” To which my friend replied, “I am madam, I am”.

  He had sweet-talked a barmaid into bed and her husband found out that she had been unfaithful with one of her customers. He resolved that he would go to the Pub one night and teach the perpetrator a lesson by giving him a good hiding. We learned of this event and a few of us stationed ourselves by each exit, in case the angered husband brought some help. He did not. He walked up to the bar and asked for my friend by name. His face was a treat when his call was answered. He gulped extremely loudly and then completely froze with mouth open. My friend then thought that he would head-butt him for having the audacity to call him out. Firstly, he removed his glasses and then thrust his head forward to carry out the deed, but missed the fellow by about three feet. That is when I discovered that his vision was so poor. However, this miss was so hilarious that we were all helpless with laughter. The barmaid’s husband was just in a daze without being head-butted and was so relieved that he sunk down some ready poured whisky and said, “Don’t do it again,” and hurried out. The laughter went on for some time. Now, this annoyed my friend and he was determined to come with me to the boxing gym next time I went.

  He brought his girlfriend along presumably to impress her. He got gloved up and he was very keen to show me what he could do. All of his punches were missing by a country mi
le and he was falling over his own feet. It reminded me of the old Indian saying: mad man fight like fool. He was becoming tired and made one last great lunge to stand on my feet and trap me on the ropes. By natural instinct I gave him a straight left to discourage this manoeuvre which brought blood gushing from his nose (again). That was the end of his adventures into boxing. He hadn’t realised how hard it was. He was not happy about his injury and I enquired whether he thought it acceptable for me to receive a bloody nose, but not for him. His girlfriend said that if this was what I did to my friends, she would hate to see what I would do to my enemies.

  I often thought that I had some sort of guardian angel looking after me because at this boxing gym we used to rent the ring out between six and eight in the evening to a group of professional wrestlers who were rehearsing their bouts. We used to do road work during this period and return to the gym before eight to take over use of the ring. This one particular evening, the wrestlers were having a real scrap in the ring and when time was called, they carried on. One of our number jumped into the ring and started pushing them around. This escalated into a big fight and we boxers all jumped into the ring. I did not do much and just kept out of harm’s way, while, one by one, the fighters were eliminated. The event had developed into a ‘last man standing’ situation. Without any real effort, I was that man and I began to think that someone was watching over me. I developed an unhealthy attitude that I was going to prevail one way or another. I was told by a trainer that I should not be allowed to box because I was too darned dangerous and that I was going to kill someone. This really got to me because I had recently visited two opponents that had ended up in hospital. One of them was really badly hurt and had a broken upper arm from taking punches and a lot of internal bleeding. On visiting this poor chap, I was attacked by his wife and mother brandishing their handbags. This was upsetting as it was not a deliberate act on my part – or maybe I suppose it was. There he was with a wife and two children and unable to work. This visit really affected me and I began to tone down my punching power – except for those that deserved it and encounters outside of the ring.

  I used to like to stay hidden before a fight, step into the ring at the last possible moment, do the business and then hurry out. No glorification after the fight. A quick shower and out. I did not want to be recognised. How was I going to be world champ and stay anonymous? I never did figure that one out. Many twists and turns and changes of direction ensured that the problem never arose.

  I continued training at the bodybuilders’ gym and bulked up considerably (56-inch chest and over seventeen stone). I was very aware that I maintained proportion and that my arms did not bulk up too much which would affect my punching power and speed; my fighting skills were always paramount to me. The intention was to become stronger than anyone else, fitter and faster, to never get hit, but to be able to catch anyone from any angle. Some prominent businessmen used to use the gym and I quickly became noticed by them. This resulted in many offers of minding jobs and debt collection services. I was also asked to take charge of door security and staff at a prominent new nightclub. This turned out to be a very lucrative and an enjoyable experience, especially when ‘road testing’ the extremely attractive hand-picked females. Later that evening during a period of contemplation, I began to think about where every venture so far had gone wrong. Beginning from my time at school, things had been going so well, then there was the Games Master incident. On leaving school I got a good potential career which someone else fucked up. Then I get a great opportunity in America which went pear shaped. Then I was making a great deal of money in night clubs and how that had fucked up. I began thinking that if I fell into a swimming pool full of ladies’ nipples, I would come up sucking my thumb. I also was thinking of all of the individuals that I had met so far: gangsters, bodybuilders, bouncers and boxers. People tend to judge people by their facial shape and expressions and also by their perceived physique, but mostly people tend to judge on how ‘rough’ an individual looks. This is a big mistake. It’s not the face that will hit you, or even the physique, but rather more, how this physical form can be used. Someone once said to me that it is not the scars on a face that you should be wary of, it’s the person who gave them that you should worry about. As I did not fall into the category of ‘rough-looking’, I considered this to be an advantage which I would go on to exploit. People would challenge me and then get the shock of their life. Also, being tough-looking frightened off the women and I considered success to be how many women you could attract and bed. After a period of re-evaluation, I decided that now I must stick to my Fire Service career and keep undercover filling in my time studying and staying out of trouble.

  Chapter Six

  The Fire Brigade Experience:

  Early Days

  Back to the day job. By now I had progressed to driving fire engines. The younger firemen were always excited when I was driving as I really made these engines roar, a sort of kamikaze driving experience. One nightshift, as was my custom, I went to go to a fish and chip shop over the road from the fire station where I would buy all of the fish and chips that were left un-sold. I used to get a very good deal. This one particular night, I hit the jackpot as there were five fish and a bucket full of chips left (no it’s not a biblical tale). I liberally applied salt and vinegar, had them wrapped in copious newspaper and headed back to the fire station. I had just got them unwrapped when the bells went. There were no microwaves in those days and who wants to eat cold fish and chips, so they had to come with me. Sliding down the pole was very tricky. I crammed as much into my mouth as possible and climbed into the driver’s seat. I had no place to put the remaining package so it had to go on my lap. I drove as usual, as fast as the machine would go, pushing in mouthfuls of fish and chips en-route. My hands were becoming increasingly greasy, and when I turned the wheel to corner, my hands were slipping badly, so I had to apply the brakes. However, the turning movement had caused my fish and chips to slip from my lap and a fish had strategically landed on the brake pedal. This caused my foot to slip off the pedal momentarily which very nearly caused us to crash. It was only standing very firmly on the brakes which prevented this from happening. Thankfully, as they were air brakes, we stopped very quickly. I turned my head to see if the crew had survived the violent manoeuvre and they were all huddled in a bunch in a corner. Imagine the newspaper reports: “Fire Engine Crashes Due to Fish and Chips” – writing the accident reports would have been very challenging indeed and not much fun.

  We once received a call to a ship building dock where an extremely large ship that was under construction had caught fire. Workers would deliberately start fires in the bowels of ships in order to get a break from working and to allow a practice known as ‘going over the wall’. Hundreds would escape to a working men’s club by literally climbing over a high wall and crossing over a road and they would sink a few pints in this establishment. The remaining few thousand workers would take up a vantage point to watch the display of fire engine activity negotiating their way to the ship. This must have been great entertainment for them and, of course, was a rest from working. The particular fire engine that I was driving was a single chassis hydraulic platform over ten metres long and I could not negotiate a bend because of a badly parked car. I got out of the cab and shouted for the car owner to come forward and move it. Maybe he was in the pub as nobody came forward. This was holding up all access to the particular dock. The workers were jeering and making all sorts of comments. I got angry and went to the rear of the car, wrapped my arms around the rear corner of the car and proceeded to lift and bounce the car out of the way to a rapturous applause from the crowd. This event and others such as demolishing walls and walking through them earned me the nick-name of ‘Honey Monster’, which related to a well-known TV advert for a breakfast cereal.

  One late evening, myself and a couple of other firemen were standing at the front of the fire station watching the ladies of the night making their way home. Our car
park was across the road from where we were standing and we saw these two drunken youths releasing the petrol cap on my car and commence to urinate into my petrol tank. I immediately sprinted over to them and I grabbed the main offender by the scruff of his neck and I duly stoked his head against my door handles. I then kneed him in the face which knocked him clean out. I was so angry. His accomplice ran over to the adjoining police station and reported the matter and an ambulance was called. I was still standing at the front door watching events, when these two coppers invited me to attend the police station. I went next door and explained the situation. I was informed that I could not take the law into my own hands and was taken down to the cells and locked up. I did not resist because of the close relationship that we had with our police neighbours; they used to use our canteen and buy meals from us at lunch times.

  A short while passed and I summoned one of the policemen to my cell and informed him that if there was a fire call the fire engine would be unable to turn out as I was the driver of the first turnout. I asked him to relay this to my station officer. A few minutes later I was visited by my boss who was not best pleased. After a heated conversation with the desk sergeant, I was released. Fortunately, the matter went no further. They obviously valued their lunch arrangements.

  My popularity, however, increased with my shift-mates when I provided them with lucrative car delivery driving jobs. Some of my acquaintances were dubious car dealers and they liked the cash in hand system that we agreed. Rather than involving bona-fide delivery services, this involved five of us bombing up to Scotland and returning with another four cars. You never knew what you would be driving back. It could be a Jaguar, Mercedes or a Ford Anglia only running on three cylinders. We used to race back; it was every man for himself. It was cash in hand on delivering the car, although there were often disputes over un-accounted for damage. This team became known as the Northern Bandits because of the abuse given to the cars during delivery.