by Nigel Benn
As a child, my father only lost his cool with me once and, boy, did I get it! I’d planned to go to a local fair with some of my mates but needed some readies. The only money available to me at home was the 50p pieces Dad would absent-mindedly leave in his trouser or coat pockets, through which I would furtively search in the hope of scoring some loot. This time his pockets were empty but, next door, at a neighbour’s we called Auntie Shirley, a bulging purse was summoning me over. Stealthily, I sneaked into her adjoining house and, after a quick recce, saw the purse stuffed full of pound notes on the table. ‘Help me, help me,’ it cried out. I could never turn down invitations of this nature and wasted no time in relieving the purse of its contents. I then threw the empty bag into another neighbour’s garden and trotted off to the fair, happy as a sandboy. To me, the £15 I had stolen represented a small fortune but it wasn’t long before I was discovered on the fair rides, flush with tickets and loaded with sweets and ice-cream. Questioned about my newly-acquired wealth, I lied that I had earned loads of money washing cars.
Judgement day came only a few hours after the theft and it was as theatrical as it was swift. I was scared. So scared that, had it been anybody other than my father judging me, I would have won an Oscar for a top-class performance. A jury would certainly have believed me. Not Dad. I was so fearful of being clobbered that I threw myself on the ground in front of him. To emphasise this humble act of supplication, I then raised myself to my hands and knees with my head and eyes upturned. From my grovelling position I begged him, using a broad Barbadian accent, to bring a stack of Holy Bibles on which I would swear my innocence.
I may as well have implored a block of concrete. The punishment that followed was swift and brutal, far worse than the hurt I would suffer in the ring. I should never have insulted Dad’s intelligence because it probably made it worse for me. He got hold of a huge wooden stick wrapped in plastic. It was a million times harder than a truncheon and he smashed it against my leg. He hit me so many times on my left that I cried out for him to hit me on the right. I screamed at him to stop. I couldn’t believe the pain. Afterwards he felt bad, almost as bad as I was bruised. He told Mum, ‘I nearly broke his leg. I think I went a bit too hard but if I have to keep our son out of trouble, then I will do everything I possibly can.’
My ordeal was not yet over. With his customary honesty, Dad got out his own money and I was made to go next door, confess my crime and pay back all of Auntie Shirley’s money. Beaten and bowed, I limped away with Dad’s words ringing in my ears: ‘If you can’t hear, then you must FEEL.’
Apart from trying to restrain me from wandering too far from the path of righteousness, Dad can be credited with saving my life a month after my twelfth birthday. It was February 1975 and there was no central heating in my room, which I shared with three of my brothers. All we had to keep us warm was a paraffin heater. I was in the top bunk, John was below me and my other brothers, Danny and Mark, were in the next bunk.
In the early hours of the morning, the heater began smouldering and soon clouds of smoke had blackened the ceiling. We were all sound asleep while this drama was unfolding. It would only have been a short time before the lethal effects of oxygen starvation would have snuffed out our lives. Not one of us boys was aware of how close to disaster we were and, to this day, Dad swears it was the hand of God that saved us.
For some inexplicable reason, Dad woke up and was aware of an unusual calm in the house. He felt something was not quite right and lay in his bed for a while, wondering whether he should check the house. After some minutes, he smelt fumes. He sprang out of bed and raced to our room but couldn’t see inside. The smoke had become a heavy fog shrouding everything. Desperately, he felt his way to the bunks and heaved us out of the room. Assured that there was no fire, he then checked that we were breathing properly. Happily, we had not been too badly affected by the smoke but had his rescue attempt been delayed by two minutes, there is little doubt that four of his boys would have perished.
Although it became a standing joke that most of Mum’s time was spent bailing me out of trouble at school or in the courts, I was not into crime in a big way. Occasionally, I would shoplift or steal from a street market, but I was never into mugging or burglary. My main preoccupation was having a good time with my friends, listening to music and meeting girls.
I was 11 when Susan Marsh, an Anglo-Indian girl with smouldering looks, olive skin and a Venus figure, waltzed into my life. She was the best thing since sliced bread. She was also my first love at school and, as far as I was concerned, she was breathtakingly beautiful. She was the most sought-after girl in Ilford. I was proud to have her as my girlfriend. For the next three or four years, we had a close but volatile relationship. How I loved her. Then, as now, I was unable to control my emotions. If our friendship became strained, I would be depressed and unhappy and nothing could shake me from my gloom. She knew she had me eating from her hand because whenever she threatened to dump me, I would weep rivers. I had also become quite obsessive about keeping her to myself, even to the point of going into battle to make sure nobody else competed for her love.
As a teenager, my best weapon was my ability to fight with my fists, but occasionally I would carry a baton down my trouser leg. It was like a truncheon and came in very handy, particularly when one of the lads in our circle (I think it was George Small) became too fresh with Susan. Enraged with jealousy, I cracked him in the face with my fist and then hit him with the baton. That put a stop to his flirtation, although a good-looking mate of his, Steve Parker, also fancied her. That caused further problems which I had to sort out using some muscle.
Susan Marsh was too attractive for her own good. In fact, she was so gorgeous that everyone in Ilford fancied her. I genuinely loved her. I still lusted after other girls but I loved her. Towards the end, though, she didn’t want to be with me and, eventually, I lost her to a nice, clean-cut black boy who was my opposite. Women have much more power than men and age has got nothing to do with their ability to do your brain in. That, at least, is my experience.
From the age of 12, my best friend was Colin. We hit it off instantly after meeting at the Caribbean Club in Ilford. I think we saw a bit of ourselves in each other and that reflected image made us fight on the very day we met. Nobody won the fight and, as each of us considered ourselves to be Number One, honour was spared. We became close friends from then on. Blood brothers. Colin went to a different school and, while he was the same size as me, he was two years older. We shared the same birthday and, like twins, became inseparable. Colin lived in Ilford. His house has since been knocked down. We were mates almost up to the time I joined the Army and we did absolutely everything together. If one of us couldn’t get home, we even slept in the same bed. I was much closer to him than I was to my own brothers.
Colin was the natural leader of our close-knit inner circle, which was completed with Paul and Kevin. When it came to thieving, Paul was the don of all dons. He was the offspring of a hard family and was always trying to make a few quid. He must have served his apprenticeship well because he never went short. Paul was a natural cat burglar, a real professional. We never called him a burglar, though. He was a ‘creeper’, because he so successfully crept into houses.
He had more bottle than Express Dairies. I could never have done what he did. It made no difference to Paul if the house he had targeted was occupied. In fact, he would welcome the challenge if people were inside. How he got away with it as often as he did is a remarkable feat. He was totally fearless. He was also a good friend and would do anything for you. If you were short of money, having him around was like having your own cash dispenser. Press the right button and he’d provide funds in no time at all.
I remember one particular night when we all wanted to go to a new club near Ilford town centre. As was usually the case, none of us had any money, so Paul crept into a house to get some cash. He was about to steal a handbag from a table when he spotted a guard dog — a massive Great Dane, wi
th long, slimy, yellow fangs that would bring terror to the bravest heart and a gaping hole in your backside. Anybody else, faced with a savage, salivating monster of this beast’s proportions, would have given up there and then and tried another house. Not Paul.
Instead of legging it as I would have done, he told us he was going off to find a cat and to wait for him. With that he disappeared into an adjoining garden and minutes later, magician-like, he reappeared holding a struggling ginger tom. The possibility that he might be clawed to pieces made little impact on Paul. He simply announced that this bit of fur was going to be his decoy and serve as bait for the dog.
Paul took it back to the house and waited for the dog to attack him. That guy was so cool. Before the animal could eat him, Paul tossed the ginger cat into its path. That was too much temptation for the Great Dane. It forgot all about Paul and turned its attention to the cat which raced for the nearest fence. It might have been cruel but it was funny to watch. The poor cat looked as though it had been connected to a live cable. Its hair stood on end. It was frozen with fear. Then its instinct for survival brought it back to life and somehow it escaped the frothy jaws of the Great Dane.
In the meantime, having effectively diverted attention away from himself, Paul crept into the house and snatched the handbag. He was about to give us a victory salute from a side door when the dog twigged what was going on and came bounding back. By this time, Paul’s body was so full of adrenalin that he sailed over the fence like an Olympic athlete. The dog was left biting air.
Back on the street, Paul was the hero of the moment. His daredevil display had excited and impressed us. We heaped mountains of praise on him before going off to celebrate with his dangerously acquired spoils.
The fourth member of our group was Kevin. At 12, he was already an accomplished pickpocket. Kevin had a way with ladies’ handbags, even if they were still attached to the owner. Nature had blessed him with an innocent face. He had the cherubic expression of a choir boy and the manual dexterity of a surgeon. His fingers had become expert in separating valuable items from a secure holding and transferring the same to his back pocket.
While beaming innocently, he would unclip a victim’s handbag and enrich himself by ten pounds or more in the process. We’d watch him work the market in Green Lanes, Ilford, where his cover would be to stand in a queue pretending to buy apples or other goods. Even if he was caught red-handed, his innocent looks would get him off the hook. All he would suffer was a stern warning and, providing he bit his bottom lip and hung his head in shame, they’d let him go.
Beyond our small group, we had a host of mates and acquaintances, some close and others more distant. All were part of a brotherhood who belonged and fought together on the streets of east London. Of our close friends, Paul was the most charismatic. He was also smart, tough and handsome. Together, we made a formidable team, whether at play in girls’ bedrooms or doing damage to other gangs. Colin was the one I would look up to. He could make difficult things look easy. He got whatever he wanted and he was intelligent as well as smart. On top of all that, he had style and, at that age, he was probably more successful as a stud than I was.
Because we enjoyed each other’s company so much, we would generally meet girls in pairs so that we could be together all the time. Throughout our friendship, we always tried dating together. If our girlfriends were mates like we were, that was a dream ticket. Colin and I seemed to keep out of trouble with the law for most of the time. Occasionally, we’d be chased down the street for shoplifting but that came low on our list of priorities. We were really more into girls and having a good time. We were just kids enjoying life.
I made love when I was 12. She was a year older and had been resisting my clumsy offer of ‘going all the way’ for some months, but I couldn’t wait for the rest of my life. I had reached puberty early. There were my new mates to think of, too. The older guys I had been getting friendly with were young men who were up to ten years older than me and had been going with women for years.
This group pressure, particularly as far as the older boys were concerned, had made me all the more determined that it was time I followed their example and lost my virginity. Conveniently, her friend had fallen for Colin and he had been putting similar pressure on her. The girls had kept us dangling on the line for a long time — around six months. We must have finally worn them down because they finally agreed to full sexual intercourse. I could never figure out, though, why it should have been all right after six months. To my mind, it would have been fine on the first day! But still, better late than never.
The big event took place at Colin’s home while his parents were out. Colin and I used to wear the same clothes — flared jeans, T-shirts and 50p trainers that looked good when new but were generally worn out by the next day. For this special occasion, we wore our regulation denims which had been nicely washed and ironed, and we’d soaked ourselves in cheap aftershave which you could smell half a mile away. It didn’t matter. I was only 12 and was about to embark on a new adventure, an initiation into a new way of life. A real world where grown-up boys made love to grown-up girls.
We never bothered to find out if the girls thought about it in this way, or if they thought about it at all. You don’t normally discuss your thoughts and feelings when you are 12 or 13 years old. And you certainly don’t ask those questions of girls who are not entirely certain of what they are doing, but are prepared to go with the flow.
Until that moment, no amount of chat had made them change their mind. I would say to Lee, ‘I can’t wait any more. My dick isn’t going to get any harder than it is and if we go on like this much longer, I’m going to fall down. My nuts are getting heavier by the day and I’m going to have to cart them around in a wheelbarrow.’
Thinking back on it, I can picture her exactly as she looked. She was every man’s fantasy. She wore tight-fitting jeans, her prettiness enhanced by bright red lipstick, and her breasts were firm and swollen with excitement. What’s more, she should have been in a school uniform and a gym slip rather than dressed like a teenage temptress. She was 13 but had the body of a young woman. Sadly, the finer points of this sexuality were probably lost on me as a 12-year-old. But she was as eager as me was to find out about love, even if it meant losing her virginity.
Style usually only comes with money and the usual way of getting about in those days was either by walking or using public transport. The girls rode to womanhood on the number 25 bus. They came around to the house giggling nervously, excited by the prospective guilt and adventure of the occasion. Colin took his girl’s hand and led her upstairs. I stayed downstairs in the living room with mine, waiting for their door to slam shut. As soon as we were alone, I nervously took hold of her and kissed her.
This was it. The big moment. I started undoing the buttons of her jeans. Unable to contain myself, I lost patience with the unbuttoning and yanked off her trousers. I was too excited to care if I tore them or any other item of clothing she wore. Timidly she helped me off with my trousers and then we raced each other to see who would be the first to be fully naked. We lost our virginity in about two seconds flat. Thinking back on it now, I would give myself a sexual rating of nought out of ten.
Over the years, I would like to think that I have improved 100 per cent in my love-making. I no longer just try to please myself, but am far more intent on pleasing my partner. On that first occasion, however, I was a selfish boy. There was no romance. It had been a purely sexual experience. But the explosion I felt when making love was out of this world. It was like ‘Hey, the world’s just blown up and I enjoyed it.’ I wanted more. Much more. And I wanted it regularly.
I didn’t ask her if she wanted to do it again after I had regained my composure and the dust had settled from the atomic explosion. After my shamefully fast performance — I admit to having been a premature ejaculator when I lost my virginity — we just did it again as if it was the natural thing to do. The second time left me drained but happy. The experi
ence had been phenomenal and the mental high I’d experienced was something new to me. I was convinced a chemical reaction had taken place in my brain. It had. I was hooked on sex!
3
THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY
Most of the teachers at Loxford School were unanimous about my future; they reckoned I had none. They predicted I would end up collecting handouts in a dole office. Understandably, we held each other in contempt. But there were two exceptions: the maths mistress Miss Dorothy Baker, and the PE teacher John Salisbury. Both of them liked me and recognised that I had some kind of potential to be developed.
I liked school only because it meant being with friends and having some fun. My attendance was acceptable, my attitude questionable. Among my best mates at school were Barry Hayden, Garry Clarke, Leon Jackson, Michael Hedley, Derek Miller and Paul Augustin, whom we called Bethel. Since school, we have gone our separate ways.
Although it would have been simple for me to bunk classes, I preferred going because it was more fun being with my buddies. My physical and mental development virtually decreed that I become the school bully and I was also the most disruptive boy in class. At one point, I was virtually expelled but given a second chance on condition that I attended a support unit for disturbed or difficult kids.
I spent six months there as a cooling-off period. The hours were great. A late start in the mornings, around ten, and you got off by three in the afternoon. The disadvantages were that it was separate from the main school and further to travel to and I was away from my classmates. Another negative factor was the attitude of a few of the teachers. They would treat you as if you were mentally deranged. I couldn’t believe it. They talked to me as if I was some kind of nutter. Worse still, I realised there actually were quite a number of genuine head-cases there.
One of the pupils was certifiably mad. He had a vacant, twisted face, the type you would imagine belonged to the village idiot in medieval Britain. He’d do stupid things to amuse himself and get away with it because he was nuts. During one tea break, he sneaked up behind me, lifted a solid oak chair high above his head and nearly brought it crashing down on me. He was an idiot, completely and utterly loopy. If I hadn’t stopped him, the blow would have broken my back.