Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (6 page)

Disco stayed around for a while, but I started growing out of it when Punk hit the scene. One of my mates had bought the album
Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Sex Pistols
. I would go round and listen to it with him. We loved the Sex Pistols, who were notorious not only for their subversive songs, but for that appearance they made on live television, where they hurled a load of swear words at the host of the show.

When my mate dyed his hair, we all laughed and took the piss but, to give him credit, he didn’t give a fuck. And that was what punk was all about. One night at the disco, my mate went up on the dance floor and started doing what was called the ‘pogo’. I don’t think I need explain what that one was all about. Everyone used to laugh at him because he was the first one to do it, but
soon enough it became all the rage. It wasn’t long before even yours truly dyed his hair. Along with my hair colour, my company also changed, and I started knocking about with a different crowd, with a rougher edge. A couple of the lads, Measor and Waller, had both just been released from detention centre. I knew them from school, before they had served time in Her Majesty’s establishment for naughty boys. We often went to each other’s houses to listen to any new singles or albums by The Clash, Sham69, X-Ray Spex, Sex Pistols, Angelic Upstarts, and so on. We bought guitars and a microphone so we could start our own band. Measor obtained a set of drums, using a loan from a bloke called Ken.

Punk wasn’t just about music. It was about fashion too. We would wear T-shirts with obscenities scrawled on them; coats and trousers were ripped to bits and held together with safety pins and the odd zip. Measor and I wore a padlock and chain around our necks, just like Sid Vicious. I threw mine away though after an incident outside the youth club. Measor was having a fight when his opponent grabbed hold of his chain and started trying to choke him with it. The fight was soon broken up, but still, fuck that, I thought, I don’t won’t to be a fashion victim, and never wore one again.

If punk was about anything, it was being different to everyone else. I went to a hairdressers called ‘The Knut House’ and got a skinhead-style haircut, and I then had
coloured blond hair with red question marks dyed into it. I was over the moon with the finished result, as it was completely different to what anybody else had. I didn’t half get some funny looks from people. I had it like that for about a month. I wish I’d had my photo taken so I could show people it now and have a laugh about it.

Just like the rockers and the mods a generation before, the punks were firm enemies with the bikers. We started going to a youth club that was full of bikers, all of whom were older than us, all in their early twenties. They fucking hated us and we loved it. We introduced punk up there. The DJ started playing a couple of punk records for us, which we would dance the pogo to. Inevitably we’d get drinks chucked over us, resulting in a fight, which would always escalate out of control. There were some enormous fucking bikers, I can tell you, but we always gave a good account of ourselves.

I started seeing one of the biker’s girlfriends on the side. Although she wanted to keep it quiet, it wasn’t long before he found out about it. He came looking for me one Saturday afternoon with a couple of gorillas. I was with Measor, and they spotted us walking back from the town. They expected me to bolt off, but instead I started walking towards them, fucking up for it. He was taken aback when he saw that I didn’t give a toss about him and his mates. He asked if I wanted to fight, so I calmly responded that I did. As we scouted for
a place to scrap, I looked at one of his mates, whom I knew was a right handy fucker, and nodded down at his Dublin boots. I cheekily said to him, ‘I suppose I’ll be getting a taste of them, will I?’ He went off on one, wanting to start it there and then, but it was too busy. We eventually found a bit of wasteland, which is now the site for a doctors’ surgery and health centre – ironic, I’m sure you would agree.

I slowly took my denim jacket off, carefully undoing each button as I looked deep into his eyes to let him know that I couldn’t give two fucks about him. I handed it to Measor, and squared up with the girl’s boyfriend. As soon as he was in range, I snapped his head back with a savage left jab. I wanted to keep him at arm’s length to have a look at him and see what he was all about. I wanted this fucker to know that he had made a grave mistake in challenging me, so kept snapping the jabs home, making his eyes water like sprinklers. He changed tack, and leaped at me like a lame bear, in a desperate effort to turn the fight into a wrestling match, but I sidestepped, cracking him once more on the nose. When he recovered, I could smell his fear. He tried once more to take me to the ground, but that just allowed me the opportunity to catch him again. He had been beaten and, what’s more, I hadn’t thrown a single right hand.

Some old ladies who had walked past had alerted a policeman, who then came running over. The other lads bolted, leaving just my beaten opponent and me. The
copper gave us both a warning, and asked for our names and addresses. He also asked our ages. I replied that I was fourteen. The biker couldn’t fucking believe it. When he was asked the same question, he reluctantly answered, ‘I’m nineteen.’ He then said, ‘If I knew you were only fourteen, I wouldn’t have fought you.’ I was tempted to reply, you shouldn’t have fought me anyway, as I was always going to kick your arse.

Fights also broke out between punks. I remember one punk disco where there was quite a bit of barging on the dance floor. As the music got louder, the barging turned to elbowing, and so on. Nothing happened in the end, but at the same disco the following week, we decided to change tack. As soon as the barging resumed, we started fighting, even though we were as outnumbered as Davy Crocket and the boys at the Alamo. Everybody piled out into the street. One of our boys, called Tone, had the foresight to run back to the van we had come up in, and picked up a length of thick chain. He wrapped it round a good few heads, which started making things more even. But just as we were getting on top, the police arrived. They halted the fighting immediately. During the trouble one of the tyres on the van had been pierced. The cops told us to change the tyre and to fuck off immediately or we’d get banged up. We didn’t stand there arguing with that and did exactly what they said. They mustn’t have wanted the paperwork.

Looking back on that period, I’m amazed we didn’t
end up getting banged up. We continued our escapades one night after meeting a couple of girls. Measor, Charlie and I all went back to one of the girl’s houses, sneaking in through the front door while the parents were watching TV downstairs, before proceeding upstairs to her bedroom. Measor jumps into her bed, I grab hold of the other one, and Charlie starts to amuse himself. The bed began to bang against the wall as soon as Measor started to get his work rate up. In the interests of the group I had to put a stop to my shenanigans, and hold down the bed to soften the noise. Soon enough though, the door opens, and in walks the girl’s dad, fucking fuming. He starts punching the walls, shouting his head off. Charlie jumped under the bed to hide, while me and Measor bolted it down the stairs and out of the house. What a fucking performance! Amazingly, Charlie was never discovered, and sneaked out the house a couple of hours later.

Punk, sadly, wasn’t to continue for long, but it was a fucking great time while it lasted. After all the scrapes I’d been through, I don’t know how I’m still here in one piece. My attitude to school, though, had permanently changed. One day in class, I said to the lads, ‘I’m sick of this, I think I’ll fuck off.’ The lads dared me to prove my words, so I just pushed the table away and walked out. The teacher was shouting, ‘Horsley, where do you think you’re going? Horsley, get back here.’ But I just ignored him and kept walking. I had a fellow comrade in hating
school called Roger. We started nicking off lessons together, especially in the last year. We would go to the arcades all day or in the shops and cafés spending money. Roger used to get money from somewhere, although he never revealed his source to me. Once we went into a men’s tailors and bought two trilby hats – they were fucking beauties. They came to thirty-odd quid, which Roger settled. If I ever wanted anything, he would buy me it. But still, Roger was my mate if he had money or not – it made no difference to me.

He was a good fighter too, second only to me at school. One day he turned up covered in cuts and bruises after a fight outside – you guessed it – the local youth club. He had been firmly on top when the lad’s mates waded in. At that time he was only one grade away from a black belt in karate, but ended up packing it all in. I encouraged him to go back, and went with him. We did it for a few months, but I’m not frightened to admit that I wasn’t too clever with my legs. I used to challenge him to Kung Fu fights in the back street, no hands, just kicking. We would go at it, hurting each other with full-blooded kicks, fighting for about thirty minutes at a time. We would put each other on the deck, but each of us would always get up, and start going at it harder than ever. Every time we ended up with bust noses and cut lips, but we would always shake hands after it as if nothing had happened.

Eventually the bunking from school caught up with
us, when one day a man from the school board knocked at the door. To my mam’s amazement, he said I hadn’t been at school for two months! Mam tried to catch me out when I got home by asking me if I had had fun at school. I replied that it had been OK. When she mentioned the man from the school board though, I just started laughing. I had nearly left anyway so it made no difference to me. Hence my surprise when the final examinations came out and I discovered that I had miraculously got three GCSEs. Fuck knows how that happened – in one exam, for instance, I only wrote my name on the exam sheet and passed the rest of the time with a book on Bruce Lee. In spite of that unlikely success, I can only conclude that I was never really a school person. They say they’re the best days of your life, but on leaving the school I felt more akin with Alice Cooper’s sense of joy when he screamed out: ‘School’s Out Forever’.

I left school at the age of 15 and got my first job with a local builder who used to do houses up. All he really wanted was a young dogsbody who he didn’t have to pay much. I never liked it. The builder expected you to know what you were doing straight away and the hours were long. I was only in the first week when he told me I wasn’t what he was looking for. The feeling was mutual – he was a fucking arrogant wanker. If I were a bit older, I’d have chinned him for sure. I then started working on Sea Defence, at Middleton Beach, for five days a week. It was run by a government scheme which paid £23.50 a week, although I only received £19.50 a week until I was 16 as Mam took £4 a week as child allowance. The work was laboriously hard, but it went some way to building my strength up. The labour involved wire cages called
‘gabions’ which had to be filled up with rocks and bricks and stacked beside each other along the beach. You gradually built them on top of each other, until there were about eight or nine levels.

The hard graft complemented my return to the boxing gym. I worked with two gaffers called Denny and Bill, who would tell tales about the old days. They used to call me ‘Rocky’. After eight hours of that, everyone went home to put their feet up, but I would go on to the gym to put myself through more punishment. I’d do an hour-and-a-half session: shadow boxing, stretching, skipping, sparring, pad work, medicine ball, sit-ups, press-ups. I was as fit as a lop in those days. The main trainer at the gym, Duncan White, encouraged me with my training. The other lads were getting better and better, which made sparring sessions all the more intense. One time I went a couple of rounds with a very good amateur, who had just returned from an excellent third-round win in Norway. As the bell was rung I went straight for him, jab, jab, one, two, left hook, right hand – I was really up for it. I think he was shocked at my intensity. He came back at me just as hard and we could have fought in a telephone booth. Neither of us would give an inch as we traded full-blooded shots, toe to toe and head and body. After two rounds Duncan shouted, ‘That’s enough or you’ll kill each other.’ We were both bloodied up, the sign of a proper session.

I’d come through the ordeal and satisfied myself that
I did have some real fighting spirit inside me. I decided to give boxing a proper shot, and agreed to my first fight, but that had to be cancelled when I had a bike accident. I was getting a lift off my mate Tony, and as we were belting along my foot got stuck in the spokes, throwing both of us flying over the handlebars. When I landed my teeth went through my lip, which was pretty fucking painful. Nevertheless, I was allowed to box on a show less than a week later. My lips were still swollen, but Duncan had been told the doctor was going to pass me in advance. The doctor gave me a wink, and then said with a smile, ‘What’s that, a cold sore.’

I sheepishly said, ‘Yes.’

I may have spoken like a sheep, but I fought like a lion and won on points.

This victory impressed the three coaches at the gym, Duncan, Norman and Ernie. Sometimes an old bloke called Frank Pybus would turn up and I would love listening to his stories about the old-time fighters. He was a former boxer and later became a referee. The old veteran had a vast amount of knowledge and a good memory. I bet he could have written a brilliant book of his memoirs but, sadly, he died a while back and all his stories went to the grave with him.

If boxing teaches you anything, it is to be humble about your abilities. I remember one time when an army boy came to our gym to train for about a week. He was jollying himself up something rotten. I watched
him spar and he’d go at it hard, trying to be the guv’nor, always trying to prove a point. I got in with him one session and he came at me like a steam train. Bang, bang, bang. He didn’t pull his punches, he would really let fly with them. Then I noticed if I jabbed him to the body he would parry it, which left his jaw exposed. I backed him into a corner and feigned a couple of jabs into the body. His left hand came down to block my jab and in, the blink of an eye, I threw a pile driver of a right hand, which exploded off his jaw. His eyes rolled back as he went sprawling to the canvas, knocked out in the corner of the ring. He took a little time to bring round to the land of the living. Norman gave me a bit of a telling-off in private and said he could see what was going to happen. But it did teach the kid an important lesson.

My boxing successes continued when I reached the quarter-finals of the National (NABC) Championships. I was drawn with a finalist from the year before. I had the upper hand until a clash of heads in the last round. I looked down on the canvas, thinking someone had thrown water in the ring, but it was my blood. I had got cut. The ref took one look at me and stopped the fight. The lad went on to win the title. I, however, went to hospital to have six stitches put in my left eyebrow. I still trained but didn’t spar because my eyebrow needed time to heal.

The night before my big quarter final fight, I should have been tucked up in bed early but, as I’m sure you’ve
guessed, I wasn’t. Far from it, actually. Instead, I went to the engagement party of a lad I worked with called Skiddy, at a club called the Wagga. I’d known Skiddy since I was about seven and all of the lads from work were going, so I thought I’d only have a couple of sharp ones and then go home. I was full of good intentions, but once I’d got a few pints down my neck and got into the party spirit, all thoughts of the big fight the following day were put on the back burner. I ended up having a skinful and the rest, as they say, is history.

I eventually returned to the ring after having my eyebrow tested in a hard fight with a lad from Newton Aycliffe. I won a unanimous decision and had a beautiful black eye the next day.

After a couple more wins, I made the North East Counties Final (Junior ABAs). I was up against the best junior light heavyweight in the country and the previous year’s champion, Gary Crawford, who’d won five national titles already. Crawford was very tall at 6ft 3in and a very big puncher. He backed me on to the ropes and hit me with a big right, following it with a left and right combination of power-packed punches, which all landed flush on my chin. He put everything into them. He gave me a very strange look when I was still stood in front of him, saying, ‘why haven’t you gone down?’ He forced me back on the ropes and caught me in the throat with a big right; the ref jumped in and stopped the fight. I couldn’t swallow for days after. I
later found out that I was the only person who had boxed him in the championships that year, as everyone else had pulled out and refused steadfastly to box him. Eventually, he turned pro and boxed under the name Crawford Ashley. He won the British and
Commonwealth
titles, a Lonsdale Belt outright, and a European title. Another tall lad I fought was from Darlington, who was 6ft 4in. He had very long arms, making it hard to get past his reach.

One of the lads in our gym, called Duane, later went on to become a well-known street fighter, who was feared and respected. We also had a young lad called Andy Tucker who later won the Junior ABA title at middleweight and captained Young England against the USA. Philly B and I used to have some proper
brain-damaging
wars with every punch aiming to be the last; plenty of claret was always guaranteed. I turned up one Monday and Duncan asked me, ‘Will you fight Glenn McCrory on Thursday?’ McCrory’s people had been on the dog and bone to Duncan the night before and asked if I was available for Thursday. I’d boxed on the same show as Glenn a couple of times in the Junior ABAs. One of the lads from the gym thought I had the beating of him but I said, ‘No.’ For a start I hadn’t trained for months. The fight was also to take place on McCrory’s own club show. At the end of the day, boxing is a sport and, no matter how hard you are, it’s not worth doing if the conditions aren’t right.

I did, however, have to start training hard for the championships (NABC), which were only two weeks away. I was in at light heavyweight. All the boys rallied around each other for their fights. We had one lad called Carl, who fought at light welterweight, and was the best gym fighter I had ever seen. He was mixed race with great boxing ability and silky smooth skills. Because he wore white shorts with a black stripe he looked like Muhammad. I thought he would go on to bigger and better things, but he never turned pro. He could hit you three times before you landed a punch. He fought twice that day in the championships and his hands came up like puddings. The second fight was a carbon copy of the first; both fights were wars and he dropped both fighters in the last round to win each by decisions. My head was pounding from shouting for him.

The lad I fought, Eddie Ellwood, went on to become a professional bodybuilder, who made history by winning the ‘Mr Universe’ title five times in a row. As we started trading punches, I got caught with a couple of slicing uppercuts, delivered with accuracy to my head. The ref gave me a standing count. We carried on trading blows, until I changed tack and got him in a clinch. He was in trouble and blowing like a whale, trying to catch his breath. He’d nearly shot his bolt and I was sure I would stop him. I just missed with an inaccurate left hook, which would have taken his head off. He rallied off another volley of punches, but I overcame the
challenges. Then for some bizarre reason the ref shouted, ‘Stop boxing,’ and stopped the fight. I told him that I wasn’t hurt, but he waved me away, giving no explanation for his decision. When I told Duncan I’d had enough, he said, ‘Don’t get disheartened, I’ll get you a return on a club show.’ I was going to fight Eddie again, but when he arrived he said he wasn’t fighting. This was an anti-climax for me, and I decided to finish boxing for good. Eddie and I did become good friends though.

As my interest in boxing began to wane, I began to go out more and more socially. Mod culture was on its way back in – there were Vesper scooters flying about all over, everyone was wearing parkas with union jacks on, and the group Madness were getting big, supported by other bands like Ska, The Specials, The Selector and Bad Manners. I didn’t get into this scene as much as with punk: the only mod thing I ever wore was a pair of
two-tone
trousers. I preferred to wear a donkey jacket or an Arrington, jeans and Doctor Marten boots, and kept my skinhead hairdo. We had some great fun at discos and house parties. There was always someone who couldn’t handle their drink who would end up spewing their guts up. I have a long list of mates from back then: Johnny, Decker, Peo, Piggy, Gaffo, Anth, Pod, Taller, Richie, Tesh, Finn, Micky Peart, Trav and loads more.

I hung around especially with Micky Peart. We had some good laughs. He was loud, whereas I was quiet. We’d go drinking in this rough place called the Cobble
Bar. You had to go down a set of steps because it was in a basement. The regulars would eye us up with suspicion. They all smoked dope, which was provided by a big, scary-looking dealer. He would pull out a big bag with different-sized and different-prised lumps of dope in full view of everyone. People would be in and out of the pub all night buying dope from him. No one said anything as they were scared of him, but years later it so happened that I had a fight with him. I done the cunt no problem. It turned out that the dirty rat was a police informer. So much for criminal justice, eh?

We started getting up to new and more daring escapades. One night me and two mates, Gaffo and Kev, went into a local kebab shop after a long night on the piss. After ordering three doner kebabs we realised that none of us had any money left to pay for them. As soon as they put the kebabs on the counter, we grabbed them and ran like fuck. As we were running, we heard shouting behind us. It was a geezer from the kebab shop chasing after us with a big machete in his hand! Luckily, we got away. Talk about Ali Baba and the three thieves.

It wasn’t long before I started making the local papers. One night I had been drinking down the town with Mickey and some other lads, when some coppers came up to the car we were in and start looking at my jacket. I had forgotten that I was tooled up that night, and that people could see something sticking through my coat – someone must have called the police thinking I was
carrying a gun or something. I was charged with carrying an offensive weapon – a truncheon – and received a fine of £50. The following appeared in the local paper:

This little episode failed to temper my wild side. One Saturday afternoon, I was back in the Cobble Bar with Mickey P, just having a few pints. As I was in the toilet, I started hearing a commotion coming from the bar. When I went back in it was all smashed to bits. It only took five minutes and the bar, the optics, the jukebox, the table and chairs and all the glasses were smashed to bits. Hartlepool were playing Sheffield United and the Sheffield fans had charged into the boozer and wrecked it. No one got a kicking – they were just intent on smashing the place up and left.