‘My name’s Ronnie.’ He kept his teeth behind his lips. But I was almost positive, just from the eyes.
‘I know your name is Ronnie. But you say it’s Jon some nights, don’t you, Jon?’
We looked at each other.
‘You’re nuts,’ he said. He turned around but as I walked away his eyes kept darting back towards me.
That was 24 years ago. I’ve thought about that night a lot. I’m not 100 per cent sure that Ronnie was the man who broke into my house looking to do me harm. Maybe 85 per cent.
The other reason I don’t think the incident affected me that much is that I chased him away. He came to my home in the middle of the night with a plan, CS gas, a can of petrol, matches and a lump hammer. But it was him who ran away – not me.
Now you understand why I rolled my eyes whenever internet MMA fans accused me of being ‘afraid’ of any fighter in the UFC. I haven’t been afraid of any man since I was 17 years old.
CHAPTER TWO
LAST CALL
I returned to doing martial arts in the late 1990s. I wanted something a little different, so began to do kickboxing with Allan Clarkin’s Black Knights in Burnley. Over the course of two stints there, I won several national and international titles.
Then I moved on from martial arts entirely. I felt like I needed to focus on ‘real life’. I was enjoying my DJing but, while the money was good, working weekend nights wasn’t going to be a living any time soon. And I now had responsibilities.
I’d first noticed Rebecca when she worked in the office of a factory I was slaving at. She was blonde and Australian and when I spotted her on a night out with her friends I used my best cheesy chat-up lines. She remembers I was very sure of myself and funny. Let’s go with that. Two years later we’d bought a house on Nelson Street and were expecting our first child.
My personal life had never been better, but I felt professionally I could be doing so much more than lurching from one dead-end job to the next. I felt like life hadn’t yet left the station for me – then, on the night of 12 January 2002, it jumped the tracks.
The evening began like any other Saturday night. I was running late to meet my mates in town, my mobile phone was vibrating with ‘WHRE R U?’ messages. Rebecca – who is now my wife – was calling upstairs to see if I needed help.
‘Nah, you rest,’ I shouted down the stairs. ‘I can iron my shirt, babe.’
The shirt was quickly thrown around my back and buttoned up as I thumped down the stairs. The stairwell was narrow and steep, as stairwells tend to be in two-up, two-down terraced houses up North.
Rebecca was flicking through Saturday night TV, waiting for a friend to come over. I kissed her goodnight, told her not to wait up, and then hurried on foot into town to join my mates. It was absolutely freezing out; too cold to turn the drizzle to snow. The newspapers that weekend had stories about sheep freezing to death in farmers’ fields and Manchester airport runways turning into black-ice slides. But Arctic enough to kill farm animals or not – I wasn’t going to commit social suicide and actually wear a coat in public.
We don’t wear coats in the North of England.
Blenky, Benty, Burge, Robbie and Aspy were already two and a half pints into a good time when I arrived, damp and ready for a session, at the Castle pub at about 7:30pm. This was my stress release from the soul-decaying boredom of my Monday to Friday, nine to five life. I was working as a door-to-door double-glazing salesman at the time so, needless to say, I was well up for a pint and overtook my mates’ lager consumption easily enough over the next four hours.
We sloshed our way through beer and rainy streets along our usual Saturday night circuit of Clitheroe’s public houses. A few in the Castle, one or two in the Starkies, then we hit the Swan, the White Lion and the Pit before picking up speed in the Social and the Dog until, at about 11:30pm, we dived out of the heavier rain into the Key Street.
From the outside the Key Street still looked like the stonework cottage it was decades before, but this was no quiet country pub, my friend. It was the closest thing Clitheroe had to a nightclub – drink was served until 1am, there was a dance floor and DJ and, best of all, you didn’t need to spend thirty quid on a cab into Blackburn or Manchester.
Stepping past the bouncers and through the double front door, we found ourselves in the middle of our natural habitat. The ceiling was low and the air wet with sweat. It was sweaty in the Key Street no matter the weather outside because it was always ram-packed with drinkers. To the right was the ever-busy bar. It was six deep with customers on the near side that night and on the other side of the draught handles and overflowing beer trays a small army of bartenders were grabbing twenties and handing over pints, wine and shots.
To the side of the bar was an archway into a dance-floor area. It wasn’t much of a space, maybe 12 metres or so surrounded by high chairs and a few tables ordered from Argos. That’s where the DJ was set up and to the side of him – for use during warmer weather – there was a door to a decent outside courtyard with wooden tables. Completing our tour of this fine establishment, I’ll tell you that to the far left of the front door was a short series of narrow hallways which led to the toilets.
We managed to get served in record time and took up one of our usual positions around a high table near the archway.
‘I’M GOING TO TAKE A PISS,’ Benty proudly announced after a couple of pints. The music and noise of the place made every conversation a shouting match. ‘YOUR ROUND, MIKE. GET ME A VODKA AND COKE!’
With that, Benty crabbed his way sideways and disappeared in the direction of the toilets. After getting in the round (vodkas plus a pint for all of us … we got there late, remember?) I also needed a piss. I turned and began picking my way through the crowd, retracing Benty’s route through a haze of aftershave, perfume and wine breath.
This is where it stopped being like any other boozy Saturday night.
Having reached the end of the first corridor, I pushed open the door on the left, which stood under a big sign that read ‘MEN’. The sounds of the bar and dance floor were muffled to almost nothing as the door shut behind me. I made my way down the short corridor towards a second door. That door opened into the bogs.
There were two guys between me and that second door. They looked about late twenties and were dressed in shirts and smart jeans. The bigger of the two spoke: ‘You can’t go in there.’
‘I need a piss, mate,’ I said. Although I’d seen their faces before I didn’t really know these two. Why couldn’t I go in? Was there broken glass, puke – maybe both – on the other side of that door?
Now the other one pushed his palms against my shoulders and said, ‘You’re not fucking going in!’
The way he said it, I just knew. Shit! Where’s Benty?
‘Out of my fucking way!’ I said, shoving the pair of them aside and pushing through the door.
Shit!
My mate Benty was on the floor near the urine trough. Two lads were kicking the crap out of him. Benty had crawled under the twin sinks to get some protection for his head and was lying on his side, covering his balls and guts with his knees. His face was bloody. He was clearly done in – and they were still kicking him.
I jumped in between them – arms extended – to get them to stop. I began dragging Benty to his feet …
BANG!
The top of the back of my head exploded in pain and a ringing started in my left ear. The two dickheads who had tried to stop me from discovering what was going on had followed me in. Obviously.
Now it was on. I punched one of them, then another. Benty was swinging, too, and then I was grabbed from behind and we fell into a mess of flailing arms and ripping shirts. Our two-on-four brawl in the bogs was cut short, though, as a platoon of bouncers appeared out of nowhere. The scrap was broken up before it could begin. It wasn’t the first time these bouncers had earned their money in that place, and we were quickly escorted outside. I was the last one to be pushed out into the night
air. Even though it was still cold and drizzling, there were 25 or 30 people milling about waiting for taxis just across the narrow street by the big car park.
Benty was sat down on the wall across the road. He was alone; our mates were still inside, wondering where we’d got to. I went over to Benty to see how bad his cuts were. He looked alright. He was telling me what happened when I laid eyes on one of the two guys who’d been sticking the boots to him.
Clitheroe is a small place, so I knew the guy’s name. He was an ex-military type who fancied himself as the ’ardest man in our little town. It is a slightly embarrassing thing to brag about, being the toughest guy out of such a small population. (It must have been what Brian Stann felt like when he was the WEC ‘world’ light heavyweight champion!)
Every town in Britain has a self-appointed ’Ardest Man. This was Clitheroe’s. He saw me, too, and we moved towards each other, near the middle of the road.
(Note to reader: I’m not going to name him or anyone else involved here. I’m telling this story to show how a series of stupid mistakes I made when I was 22 followed me around for years and, several times, almost wrecked the life I wanted to give my family. It would be hypocritical of me to bring any embarrassment to the other lads all these years later. For all I know – and I really do hope it’s the case – everyone involved in this petty brawl has long since grown the hell up.)
But back to the brawl outside the pub: ’Ardest Man started yelling insults. I was drunk. My mate had been bashed up. My ear was swollen fat from a sneak-attack punch. He didn’t need to goad me – I’d already made the decision he was gonna pay for what he’d done to my mate.
He sensed that was the case and grabbed a young girl – 19, tops – in a full-nelson hold and literally hid behind her. He’d taken a hostage! She was yelling and trying to get away as he kept on talking shit to me. ‘I just kicked the shit outta your mate – I’m about to do the same to you.’ That sort of stuff.
Then, out the corner of my eye, I noticed his mate. It was the other one who’d been kicking Benty. He was keeping to my left and behind me, edging closer and closer to me. He was wearing his right fist on the side of his face.
Got it, I thought, the idea is to hit me from behind again and, no doubt, ’Ardest will then throw the girl aside and join his sneaky mate in their second double-team of the night.
Well, no. No, you fucking won’t!
If this prick takes one step closer to me I’ll …
WHAM!
My left shin baseball-batted off the guy’s head. Regrettably, after years of martial arts, a head kick was what my mind selected to defend myself with. It was a total overreaction. I knew that and I regretted it. I wasn’t fending off knife-wielding muggers here, this was a continuation of a stupid scrap that had begun in a toilet.
The sight of Sneaky getting dropped like a stone was enough for the ’Ardest Man. He threw his captive towards me and took off in the other direction. I remember how funny he looked, legging it down the road in tight trousers and sliding here and there in dress shoes. Then I noticed Sneaky was slowly getting to his feet, at least, and that was when the whole street blazed up blue.
VOOP! VOOP! VOOP!
A vanful of coppers had responded to a call from the Key Street. The side doors whipped open and four policemen wearing padded coats and waterproof hats rushed towards me. They had handcuffs and pepper sprays clipped onto big black belts.
I fucking legged it.
I didn’t think – I set off sprinting towards the stone steps on the far side of the cark park. The steps would take me into the darker back alleys, where I thought I’d be able to put in enough distance for the police to lose interest. I was positive they had seen who the real aggressor was and would be more interested in having a word with ’Ardest Man.
A large shape jumped out of a parked car and blocked my way to the steps. Then another flipped out the other side. ‘Don’t bother running,’ the first one shouted towards me. ‘We know where you live, Michael!’
Michael?
Now this side of the car park lit up with that same swirling blue. Blue/white/blue/white was reflecting off the wet houses and tarmacked puddles. The vehicle I’d been sprinting towards was an unmarked police car. I stopped – and within seconds I was surrounded. My head got shoved across the bonnet of the police car. The front of my recently ironed shirt and one side of my face soaked up the rainwater while two bobbies snapped handcuffs around my wrists.
‘You are under arrest,’ I was told, but I’d already figured that part out.
I was thrown in the back of the van. One officer got in with me, the door slammed and the van began driving to Blackburn police station.
As you would when you’d gone about the last few years believing a bit of a scrap didn’t necessarily have to ruin a great night out, I didn’t understand why I was under arrest. There were scuffs and scraps every Friday and Saturday night. No big deal. The police usually dealt with it with the obligatory indifference of a supply teacher. (‘Break it up, lads. You walk that way – and you go that way. I’d better not see either of you two again the rest of the night!’)
I’d been arrested for scrapping before – and all it’d cost me was a bit of embarrassment and a taxi fare home. I’m offering an explanation rather than any excuse here. To be blunt, what had happened outside the Key Street was nothing compared to some of the incidents I had managed to get myself involved in previously. When my brother Konrad and me were cornered in Blackpool by a whole gang armed with broken bottles and baseball bats wrapped in barbed wire (years before The Walking Dead made it cool) – well, that was a big deal. That was worth calling the police for.
Sparking out some arsehole who was trying to sneak-attack me? And so obviously in self-defence? I couldn’t understand why the cops had even wasted the petrol to drive me to the station.
Naturally, I told them as much in the interview room. I wasted no time in laying out what I thought was a pretty devastating case for my immediate release and – quite probably – a cup of tea and a lift home:
It was just a bit of a ruck … That guy was going to blindside me … they started it … he grabbed a girl in a full-nelson – you must have seen that, surely? … Well, I had to protect myself, didn’t I? There was two more inside the pub, as well. They kicked fuck out of my mate. Those guys are well known for causing fights, ask anyone. No, really, you should ask anyone …
It was still raining when I started the walk to Blackburn bus station at eight o’clock the next morning. Becky was having toast in the kitchen when I got home. I was ashamed to I tell her I’d got arrested, again.
I hired a solicitor from Clitheroe town centre when I got word I might actually face charges. In early March I was on the phone with him for an update. The good news, he began, was the guy I’d kicked was declining to press charges, but …
But?
‘But the local authorities are on a “zero tolerance of antisocial behaviour” drive. And they have filed charges.’
I couldn’t believe it, ‘Pressing charges? It’s going to court?’
‘Yes, Mr Bisping.’
I managed to keep listening as my lawyer laid out why the Crown Prosecution Service (CPS) was so sure of a conviction. Essentially, it boiled down to: ‘Six police officers saw you commit an assault – and then you resisted arrest by attempting to flee the scene.’
Given these facts, my solicitor convinced me it was in my best interest to plead guilty to a lesser ‘public order’ charge and avoid antagonising the authorities into considering more serious charges.
‘Plead guilty to the Public Order charge,’ my legal rep recommended. ‘Give the CPS an easy win and the local authority something to add to their statistics showing they are doing something about the binge-drinking culture.’
Pleading guilty was a hard thing to agree to, even as a strategy to eliminate any possibility of going to prison, which was a crazy thought to consider. Why did I need a strategy to not go to prison?
‘You don’t have to think it is fair,’ answered my solicitor. ‘But you do have to think about the expense and likely return on taking this to trial, especially given the testimonial evidence the CPS will be able to bring to the court.’
Crap.
‘Alright, then, let’s plead guilty.’
I’d like to tell you that the night before the court date was some long, lonely night of my soul. That I lay there in bed and reflected on my behaviour, contrasting it with my ambitions to be a good father to my soon-to-arrive son.
But I’m not going to bullshit you – I was way more focused on the promotion I’d be getting as a double-glazing salesman; that was scheduled four hours after what I assumed would be a ten-minute appearance before the magistrate.
Me and Rebecca arrived at Blackburn Magistrates’ Court at 9am. I was dressed as a double-glazing salesman which – luckily enough – meant black shoes, black trousers and a white shirt. I signed the paperwork at the front desk, got padded down by the surprisingly small security guard and walked through the X-ray machine. Being pregnant, Rebecca didn’t have to go through the machine.
My solicitor showed up about the same time. In the end, we had 40 minutes to kill in the waiting room before my name was called. I can’t remember feeling worried for one second of those 40 minutes.
We filed into the courtroom. It was an old-school-looking court exactly like you’ve seen on TV: lots of wood, lots of gold paint and a coat of arms hanging above the raised bench where the magistrate was sitting. There was a clerk hurrying about with files but there was no one else in the courtroom except the five of us.
I didn’t blame Rebecca for taking a seat near the back of the court. I took my place next to my solicitor and the proceedings began. After hearing my plea and apology, the magistrate said a few words before standing up and leaving through the door behind his bench.
Quitters Never Win Page 3