Soon after that first fight, my old man once again drifted out of my life. He was up to his usual tricks, ducking and diving, and I soon heard on the grapevine he’d hotfooted it to Cyprus. So Uncle Pete became even more of a father figure. Sometimes I wondered how two brothers could be so different. Pete had always looked after my dad and now he was looking after me.
I had four more prize fights in quick succession at clubs near where I was living with Uncle Pete in Croydon. One opponent head-butted me as we tapped gloves to start the fight. He was like a madman on amphetamines but luckily he didn’t manage a full head butt so I quickly recovered and gave him a thrashing.
The second fight went the full distance but I was never in any real danger. My opponent was like a human punch-bag, soaking up punishment and walking right back at me for more and more punches. I won on the verdict from the ref. Afterwards, when I bought my opponent a couple of beers, I realised he was so brainless he just didn’t feel pain like other normal human beings.
But it was in the dark depths of Brixton that I came closest to a few problems. I was fighting in the back of a notorious boozer called The Crooked Billet, taking on a local boy who made George Foreman look like Twiggy. I eventually knocked this big bruiser out with a hammer left but the crowd were far from happy on account of the fact I wasn’t a local, so me and Uncle Pete made a run for it before the crowd could rip us to shreds. We were just pushing our way out of the boozer through a sea of nasty, unfriendly faces, when an older fellow called Bill came up and introduced himself to us. He complemented me on my fighting skills and blagged a ride with us in Uncle Pete’s motor. I’ll never know to this day if he and Pete had planned that meeting all along but at the time I thought he seemed a decent enough fellow.
Bill was silver-haired with a broken boxer’s nose. He was about 5ft 6in tall, tubby but not fat, and immaculately dressed in a single-breasted Krays-style black suit with brogues and a yellow tie. He must have been in his late fifties. He barked out in an East End cockney twang while sucking on a fat cigar; which annoyed me because I hated the smell. He made lots of hand movements as he spoke, and he boasted that his wallet was always filled with cash. I was intrigued by the big signet ring on his left hand and a watch that must have been worth a couple of grand.
Me, Bill, Uncle Pete and another of Pete’s doorman mates stopped for a pint once we’d got out off the manor that night in Brixton. Bill and Pete seemed to have a lot to talk about so I played a few rounds of pool with the other doorman. Every now and again, I’d look up from the game and spot both of them looking in my direction. I got the distinct feeling they were talking about me but I was too shy, and young, to go over and ask them what it was all about.
Eventually we left the boozer and dropped Bill off at a cab rank in Streatham. That night, back at Uncle Pete’s place, he told me that Bill had asked him if I’d be interested in earning ‘a lot more money’ in a ‘different class’ of fighting. Pete made it clear that he wasn’t over keen on it as he felt he was responsible for me. ‘It’s heavy stuff. It’s full monty bare-knuckle and it can end up costin’ you more than just a few bruises.’
I took Pete’s advice on board. Bare-knuckle wasn’t really what I was after and I’d heard some horror stories about the injuries inflicted during bouts. What I really wanted was to go back to proper boxing or stick to the prize fighting with the big gloves. It seemed more respectable. But all I’d earned up to then was a maximum of £100 a fight. No more was said about the subject that night and I went to bed without really giving it a second thought.
A couple of weeks later I decided it was time to head back to East London and stay with my mum. Terry had finally abandoned the manor so the coast was now clear. I’d missed mum a lot and I knew she’d been worried about me while I’d been away in Croydon. I’d enjoyed it in South London but I wanted to get home and pick up where I’d left off. I didn’t want to run away from my responsibilities. I didn’t know what sort of job I’d do, but was fed up of my mum asking when I was going to come home!
* * *
It soon felt good to be back amongst my old mates in Forest Gate. I quickly got myself fixed up working two days a week as a hod-carrier for a bricklayer. Some mornings I also did the bottling up at a pub where my mum worked, which meant stacking the shelves. And most weekends I was out pubbing and clubbing.
One Sunday afternoon me and two of my mates called Jimmy and Terry – both very skilful ex-amateur boxers – went down the Prince of Wales boozer, in High Street, Seven Kings, near Forest Gate. They reckoned there was a prize-fighting contest every weekend and I couldn’t resist having a look at the standard of fighters on display. The Prince of Wales was a massive pub/club similar to some of the places back in Croydon but on a bigger scale. I’d been very careful not to tell a soul about what I’d been up to in South London. Not even my mum knew. Uncle Pete had said that was the best way to keep things.
That first Sunday I went down to the Prince of Wales, they had a residential champ from the previous week who’d taken on all comers and won every contest. The locals rated him as a tasty fighter. The moment I saw the makeshift ring, my heart jumped a few beats as I thought back to my previous prize-fighting bouts. I missed fighting and I was itching to get back in the ring, but I was there at the Prince of Wales with my mates and I didn’t want them to see me in action. My older brother John also joined us and I certainly didn’t want him blabbering to Mum about what I’d been up to.
I can’t deny that fighting had been in the back of my mind ever since I’d got back on my manor. But I’d also started enjoying a bevvy and the company of girls, and I was still only a youngster. Also, I wasn’t as fit as I’d been in Croydon, although hod-carrying did keep me in reasonable nick. I was having a right laugh with my mates for the first time in my life. I had enough money to get out and have a good time. What more could a sixteen-year-old want? I didn’t say a word to anyone that day at the Prince of Wales and just watched the bouts with my fists clenched tightly, thinking about how I could so easily have gone in that ring and made mincemeat of every fighter I saw.
I stayed strong and resisted the temptation. I was trying to carve out a new life for myself. But seeing those fights did persuade me to get another job working a club door. This time I started minding at a place called Lords, in Ilford. At least being a doorman meant I could have the occasional dust-up without getting myself into trouble or disclosing my past involvement in the fight game.
At Lords, I was part of a well-established doorman firm and was paid £50 a night, which was good money in those days; thirty quid a night had been the going rate down in South London. It only took a couple of weeks before trouble flared up when Lords hosted an over-25s night. There was a fight between some Essex boys who’d turned up and some of the door firm keeping an eye on the dancefloor. Two bouncers called Bob and Ted ended up with torn jackets and bloody noses, and the club manager did a midnight runner because he thought someone was about to rob him. I ended up taking out a couple of older punters with a flurry of useful lefthanders, which helped calm it all down real quick. The cozzers turned up after this little barney was finished so we all went through the motions with them to convince them nothing serious had happened. As the suspicious cozzers finally left, one of the older doormen came up to me.
‘You’re a bit useful, son. You were pickin’ that lot off like wooden tops.’
‘Thanks,’ I answered, trying to sound professional and a lot older than sixteen.
This fella then pointed out I was the only doorman not armed with a cosh. Some even had rubber bike grips packed with lead, which were called ‘Co-Joes’ – don’t ask me why. Others had rubber mallets and one or two used something I thought was a bloody outrage: squirty lemon juice containers filled with ammonia.
‘I prefer using my bare fists, a bit of fancy footwork and the occasional head butt,’ I told the other doorman. And that was the way I wanted to keep it.
Not long after the fight, my firm of doormen decided we should mount a takeover bid for security at the nearby Ilford Palais. We had a five-on-five tear-up with the existing firm in the club car park. It ended up evens so the takeover never materialised, although I did manage to take out two of their blokes, which got me even more rave notices on the manor.
Around that time I started also working at private parties as word of my ‘security skills’ spread. Some of these functions were held in private halls while others hired me to mind the door to their giant; fuck-off mansions in places like Chingford and Loughton. I copped £50-£80 a night so it was very useful extra dough at the time.
Then I moved to working the doors at the Charleston Club, in Leytonstone High Road. It was a busy place and the work was non-stop. I was also doing daytimes on building sites as a hod-carrier. To be honest about it, I was feeling like a slave to my wages. I didn’t seem to have any spare time and no personal life. Trying to date girls anywhere apart from in the club was virtually impossible.
Then, out of the blue, I got a call from Uncle Pete. He asked me to a party back down in Croydon because he was off to live in New Zealand. He’d had enough of the ratrace. I had a real soft spot for Uncle Pete. He’d been like a father to me in many ways, so the least I could do was go down to South London. All the old faces were at Pete’s house for his party. Most of them still worked as doormen. It was a great night. A lot of beer was drunk and everyone got very merry.
A whole bunch of us stayed on at Uncle Pete’s house that night and we all ended up playing ping-pong in his garage between pints. Pete pulled me aside at one stage and started asking me all about my life back in east London. I think he’d missed my company since I’d moved out of Croydon and he was genuinely interested in my future. Then another voice butted in. ‘You still fighting …?’
I turned round to find myself face to face with the old bloke, Bill, who’d hitched a ride with us after that hairy contest in Brixton. I didn’t hesitate to answer. ‘Only when I’m workin’ the door.’
‘You and me should have a chat,’ said Bill.
Just then Pete interrupted. ‘Don’t start on all that.’ He seemed irritated at Bill for even talking to me.
Bill went a bit quiet after that and backed right off. But just as he was leaving Pete’s house about an hour later, he slipped me his phone number. ‘Might be able to earn you some extra cash,’ he muttered, well out of Uncle Pete’s earshot.
The next morning I drove back to East London with Bill’s number burning a bit of a hole in my pocket. I kept wondering about whether I should call him. Certainly, I was anxious to find an easier way of earning money without having to work every hour of the day. After I got indoors, I took Bill’s card out and pinned it up on a notice board that hung over my bed. On it were loads of cards given to me by people aver the years. I made a point of not telling a soul about Bill and how he’d given me his phone number.
That night I lay on my bed, arms behind my head, looking up at Bill’s card, wondering whether I should give him a bell. I shut my eyes and thought of the fight game and immediately felt the adrenaline rush streaming through my body. The thrill. The butterflies. I was still living at home and hadn’t gone out that night because I was strapped for cash. Maybe if I called up Bill I might not have to worry about money ever again …