The Devil

In spite of my determination to go straight, I was well and truly on the slippery slope. To make matters worse, I still couldn’t resist hanging around with my underworld crew. We called ourselves the Herd. At full strength, our gang comprised 30 of the biggest, toughest geezers you have ever seen. The mentality of the Herd was that we did what we wanted, and if you tried to stop us we’d trample you.

It was great to go on a night out with the Herd. We’d go to a club and watch the whole place disperse in fear, leaving just us standing there. It appealed to my dark sense of humour.

Undisputed king of the Herd was the Rock Star – the Bengali tiger leading a herd of rhinos. But instead of trying to eat them, he was running alongside them. The Herd boardroom consisted of me and Franny Bennett, a fearless individual who could knock a man out with a single jab. The other main players were Paul Munro, an unbelievable street fighter and number-one jockey; two brothers called Chris and Russell; Quincy Sumner, a massive drug runner; and bringing up the rear were the Stevyns family, three brothers who ran a large security firm.

The firm was broken up into subdivisions. One subdivision might deal in weed, another in coke or heroin, and there was a little subdivision that did nothing except go out for a good time and the occasional fight. When the Herd was in a club, the doormen and club owners would send over free champagne and all that carry-on. I’d always bought into the underworld concept of respect.

One night, Chris and I went to a place called Bar Nine for a business meeting. The doorman, a gangster called Wally, knocked me back because he didn’t recognise me. From then on, it became a personal challenge for me to get into the club by any means necessary. Bang! I whacked him with a right hand, and he fell to the floor. Suddenly, there were eight doormen around us. At that point, Chris turned the colour of boiled shite. I was bouncing round, not going anywhere. The rest of the doormen started to come towards me. I took my right hand and slapped it on my right-hand arse pocket as though I had a gun hidden there. Still bouncing around, I said, ‘First one in is getting what I’ve got for them here. You know who my fucking crew are. I’ll have the fucking lot of yous.’ I then stormed inside.

In the toilets, I was surrounded by Wally, another doorman and Wally’s brother Jake, a big hitter with huge muscles. I warned them, ‘I might be here by myself now, but I ain’t by myself.’ That was the beauty of the Herd – you were never on your own for long. I could see Wally had never been hit as quick and as hard as I had hit him, and his whole confidence was shaken. ‘Anyway,’ I said. ‘There’s three of yous. It’s the best fucking odds you’re ever going to have, so you better fill me in now.’ I was outnumbered, so I was playing a game of poker and bluffing them – this was when I always came into my own. If you want to be a king, act like a king. I said, ‘I’m going to the fucking bar to have a drink.’ Jake just looked at me helplessly, like a chicken with its head chopped off.

I went to the bar, ordered a beer and drank it in a nanosecond, because I didn’t want to give them time to get their courage back. Then Chris and I left the club. No sooner were we outside than someone pelted a bottle at me. It should have been all on. However, I had proved that I was no coward by getting one drink, so the mob knew not to make a serious attack.

I consider myself a warrior. I’ve answered the call to arms every time the horn’s been sounded. When things get heavy, you’ll find me suiting up my armour. You won’t find me lagging at the back. I’m always at the front, mate. And I have the scars to prove it.

Not long after this, the Herd decided to stampede over to Las Vegas to see a Frank Bruno fight. I did a little shopping and forked out the equivalent of £200 on a pair of shades. One night, we were at a nightclub in downtown Las Vegas when I spotted John and Casey, two drug dealers from Liverpool who ran a security firm. Franny had never met them, so I took him over to introduce him. On the way over, I bumped into a lad called Philip Mackendrick, a professional boxer from Liverpool. Phil asked if he could have a look at my new shades, so I gave them to him. Before I could stop him, he had crumpled up my new glasses. He was Charlied to death and was just trying to show off and be the big man.

He was standing to my left, and my right hand was furthest away from him. I switched my hips, threw back my left hip, came across with my right hand and cracked him with my Sunday punch. He rolled, hit a table and then came back up. It wasn’t until later on that I realised he had been high on cocaine, which gave him the ability to take a tremendous amount of punishment. He rushed at me and grabbed me around the waist. One of his allies then spun an arm around my neck, choking me. Franny Bennett pulled that lad off me and quickly rendered him unconscious.

I ran across some tables and drop-kicked Phil. Down he went again. Then, just before I could finish him off, the Las Vegas security arrived – one Hawaiian and one Samoan. These seven-feet giants picked me up like I was a rag doll and carted me to the exit. On my way out, I grabbed a pillar, because I didn’t want to be thrown out of the club, but these guys just picked me up again and turfed me out.

I was livid, like a crazy man. I found out that Phil and his crew were staying at the Las Vegas Hilton, so I rounded up the Herd and headed over there to get my revenge. As soon as we arrived at the hotel bar, one of their crew launched a bottle of whiskey at me, but I ducked just in time. Unfortunately, one of the Herd got the full force of the bottle, and it knocked him out. I went for Phil, but he legged it. Before we knew it, the police arrived, so we had to flee the scene.

When I got back to England, I sent word to Phil that he owed me a grand for destroying my shades and my suit. In fairness, he paid the debt, but I knew there was still bad blood between us. Two weeks later, my brother Shaun, the Pugilist, who was now my pal again, and I all headed over to Everton Park Sports Centre to watch a boxing match. I knew that Phil and his Park Road crew would be there, so I took an equaliser with me as a precaution – an eastern European 6.7-calibre handgun.

Once we were in the loos, he started moaning, and I could see he was waiting for an opportunity to put his famous left hook on me. I pulled the gun out and stuck it in his fucking throat. I said, ‘I’ll fucking kill you, lad, I’ll kill you. You’re not in my fucking league. Stop fucking around and acting the goat.’ Once I was back outside, I said to his Park Road crew, ‘Before he tells you any shit, he’s just swallowed big time in the toilets.’ By this I meant that his arse had gone and that he had deferred to my greater power.

The Pugilist, Shaun and I then left. When you’ve done something like that – humiliated someone – you don’t just sit there and give them the chance to get themselves back together. You get off.