Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (7 page)

The following Monday I was back in court for an assault that had happened four months earlier. Yet again, I made another appearance in the local rag:

This time I didn’t have boxing to put a stop to my antics. I just wasn’t interested any more, as I was busy having a good time out on the piss. I still had to serve my week in prison though. While I was in Low Newton, I spotted Collo, the lad who had stuck up for me back in
the day at primary school, but he never recognised me, so I didn’t say anything to him. When I told the fellow prisoners that I was from Hartlepool, they would immediately think that I was in for football violence, as there had been a lot of fighting at Hartlepool games around that time. Even though it was only a small town, with a population of about 90,000, it had more than its fair share of hard men.

I had recently been dating a lass called Joanne for a couple of months. I got on well with her dad, Jim, and we’d talk until the early hours before I made my way home. He was a really nice bloke and we got on great. I’d get invited round for Sunday dinner and there’d be a load of us sitting around the table: Joanne’s dad Jim, Mam, Pat, brothers Paul and Graham, Joanne and her sister Ursula, and me. They welcomed me with open arms and made me feel a part of their family. My mam and our Sandra (the daughter of me stepsister Helen) came to see me in prison, bringing cakes and sweets, as you did at that time. One time they brought Joanne with them. As they were leaving, Joanne whispered in my ear, ‘I’ve missed my period.’ I still remember that moment vividly, when it dawned on me that there was a chance I could soon be a father.

The court day arrived and I was in the cells at the police station. As usual they were full and they put me in with this big fucker called Jimmy, a proper Jack the lad. A few years after that, I bumped into him at a
nightclub, just after I knocked out one of his mates. He came up to me and stared cockily at me. I stuck the nut on him and set about him with my widow makers – my hands – laying him out cold. He was a mess and the ambulance came and took him to hospital where he stayed for about a week. As soon as I walked into the courtroom, I looked around and saw friendly faces: my mam, our Sandra, Joanne and her dad Jim, Gibbo and a few others. The jury went out to reach their verdict. It felt like ages till they came back. I had a brilliant Social Inquiry report that swayed it for me. The judge said that before my report was read, I was getting six months but because I had such a good report I deserved another chance. I was ordered to do 180 hours of community work. I was relieved.

By this time, Joanne found out that she was definitely pregnant. I was quite chuffed that I was going to be a dad. I started doing my community service. The office where everyone from the area had to meet was through in Middlesbrough. I’d get on at the town centre and used to see Eddie Ellwood on the bus going to work at Head Wrightsons. I’d sit next to him and we’d chat for ten minutes before he got off. At community service, everyone was split into groups with different supervisors. One week you’d be chopping trees at Helmsley Forest, the next week you would be painting the windows of a community centre or digging gardens over at Eston, a wide range of things.

Things at home started going badly. Mam’s husband Ken had old-fashioned views, and didn’t like me staying out all night. One night when my mate Coto stayed round we accidentally left all the lights on all night – it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. When he got home from work the next day, Ken went mad, and we had a big argument in the kitchen. I ripped off my shirt and threw it down, wanting to fight him. My mam jumped in to stop me because she knew I’d have ripped his head off and torn the limbs from him. He told me to get out of his house, so I started shouting, ‘Stick your fucking house up your fucking arse! I’ll never set foot in this fucking house ever again,’ and all that.

I left and went to live with Joanne’s parents, Pat and Jim. I felt a bit homesick for a couple of weeks but settled in nicely. I slept in the bedroom with Paul and Graham. They had bunk beds and put a camp bed in for me. Paul would take turns with me and sleep in the camp bed and I’d get in the bunk. Joanne and Ursula were in another bedroom and Pat and Jim in the other. They had a video on which we would watch the latest films at night – it was like being at the pictures. I had some great times there and felt more like a son than a prospective son-in-law. Paul and Graham were more like brothers.

Funnily enough it was a film that got me back into boxing. One night, Paul and I went up our Roy’s to watch a boxing film that had been pirated; it was a great
copy and an excellent film. After, Paul chuffed, ‘That’s the best boxing film I’ve ever seen.’ The film was
Rocky
3, laughable now, but back then it was the best thing since sliced bread. We went back up a couple of nights later and watched it again. I went to the pro gym to see if I could do a bit of training there and got the OK. I went back to the amateur gym the next day, just around the time of my 18th birthday.

I was as rusty as hell. I only just managed to win my first fight back against a 34-year-old bloke. I upped the pace in the last round to catch the eye. I got a taste of snot in my mouth and I felt like spewing because it was my opponent’s. That spurred me on and I hit him with a roundhouse right hand over the top, and then landed cleanly with few good short and snappy shots, turning his legs into elastic. He went down. He was one punch away from being stopped when the bell rang. I got the decision but I knew that my reactions were not fully there. I was arranged to fight a lad from the same club in a couple of weeks. He was a good fighter, in his
mid-twenties,
strong and fit with shoulders like a hod carrier. I knew he would cause me some problems so I went to the pro gym and sparred with Phil Gibson, who had helped George Feeney prepare for his epic title win. George had stopped Ray Cattouse in the 14th round in the 1982 fight of the year. I’d known Phil a few years. He was out of the Jake LaMotta mould and was never stopped as a pro. He was in my face all the time, making
me fight every second of every round, and never took a backward step. I was made to work out angles and to be mentally on my guard; it was just the preparation I needed.

The fight day finally loomed. During the first round, the left side of my face started going numb because of how hard he was hitting me. As I sat on the stool at the end of the first, my eye suddenly closed and then opened again – it was really weird. A few years, later Harry Carpenter described in amazement the same thing happening to Sylvester Mittee when his eye swelled up and went straight back down like a flat tyre in front of his eyes. I knew I had lost the first round, so did my best to win the second. It was hard, the punches were struck with deadly accuracy and thrown with such venom, but I had a big heart and kept going forward to trade blows with him. It came down to whoever won the last round. This was high-octane, bloody and gritty stuff. We were both hugely confident; both sensed victory and fought to a standstill. About twenty seconds from the end of the fight, I put everything into a short, sweeping right hand. It was a stunning shot, which landed in spectacular fashion on the chin of my victim, who went down like a lead balloon.

Amazingly, he got up and took the count and the ref waved us to box on! Everyone was cheering. I won on a majority decision. The full show was videoed for the Owton Manor Social Club, in Hartlepool. I have never
been able to get hold of the video, but I know a couple of people who have seen it. No one seems to know where it is, but someone must have it somewhere. If that person happens to be you, come and see me about it.

I will never forget the feeling of being a father for the first time. I think I was more nervous than Joanne as we went into the hospital just after her waters had broken. Six hours later, she gave birth and the midwife cheered, ‘It’s a girl.’ When I held her in my arms, I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. I was so proud. Having Jill Louise was better than winning the lottery. As Joanne’s house was too small for a baby, we applied to the council, who soon came around to assess us. Luckily we were offered a house within a few days, and after taking a look around we decided to have it. After a few weeks of wallpapering, painting, getting carpets laid and so on, we moved in. I was very happy playing the father role; I changed the nappies and sometimes bathed her, as well as taking her out in the pram for walks and all the rest of it.

We lived over the road from my friend George Feeney, who was the British Lightweight Boxing Champion. I started going with him to the pro gym, only to train though, and to enjoy the crack with the lads. I would help George out with his training, joining him every morning for some road work. George was training for a fight in Italy against the Lightweight Champion of the World, Ray ‘Boom Boom’ Mancini. Mancini had knocked out and killed a Korean in his last fight. He viewed the bout with George as a ten-round ‘warm-up’, just another non-title fight. In the end, George gave Mancini one hell of a fight and almost put him down in the eighth round with a left hook. It was so close that George only needed to win the last round for a draw. He ended up just losing on points, but as the fight went out live in the United States, George quickly got recognised as an up-and-coming world boxer. They wanted to give him a shot at the title but first he had to beat the number-one contender, an American called Howard Davis. This was no mean feat as Davis had won the gold medal at the Montreal Olympics, and was voted the best boxer of the games ahead of Sugar Ray Leonard. In the end Davis wouldn’t let George near him, and boxed a beautiful fight from long range. He won the decision. All these experiences got me closer to George and his family, all of whom were lovely people. One time George came over to my house with his Lonsdale Belt, and took some photos of me wearing it. The last fight of
George’s pro career was in Germany for the European Title. This time he was robbed of the decision. After all, he had decked the champion twice.

People say boxing can be a cruel game, and that was certainly the case for George. A detached retina brought George’s career to a catastrophic end, which prompted him to retire while still holding the British title. I went to visit him at the Eye Infirmary in Sunderland and gave him the biography of his favourite boxer, Rocky Marciano. I regard George as never having fulfilled his destiny. There can be no doubt that he is the best boxer ever to come out of Hartlepool – and we’ve had some good ones over the years.

While I was enjoying my boxing training, things at home were starting to get too much for me. Joanne was so moody, which made us both unhappy. She’s the moodiest person I’ve ever known. I felt suffocated and couldn’t take any more. One day I told her I was leaving. I packed my bags, kissed my daughter goodbye and went to live at my Aunt Ellen’s. My aunt’s second husband, Harry, had a load of boxing videos from his mate and I would spend hours at a time watching them. Our Kevin and Kenny were still living at home so I shared a bedroom with them. I gave Kenny my red-and-white satin boxing shorts and he was over the moon – he wore them for ages and wouldn’t take them off.

My family had already increased with Jill Louise, but was set to get bigger when one day Ellen showed me a
picture of a girl who she said was my sister. I had always known that I had two sisters, who were the daughters of my natural mother, Violet, but I’d never met them and didn’t know what they looked like. Over the next few weeks all sorts of things were going through my mind. I couldn’t resist, and kept looking at the photo. What were they were like now? Did they know they had a brother? Did they look like me? I made a brave decision one night, and told Ellen that I wanted to meet my sisters, but without upsetting my mam. Ellen had a talk to my mam, who expressed how glad she was that I wanted to meet them, and got in touch with Violet, who was my natural mother.

My stomach was full of butterflies when I went to meet them. Even though we were flesh and blood it was like meeting strangers, but we seemed to get on OK. I wanted to grab hold of them and give them both a big cuddle and tell them how much it meant to me by being reunited, but I didn’t know how they’d react, so never said much through shyness. My elder sister Debbie was 21 and had just given birth to her second child a couple of weeks before. The other sister was called Jackie, who was 20 and had a little boy. It was incredible that they already had partners and families of their own. I went to visit each of them on regular occasions, but I didn’t want them to think I was interfering so I never went to see them as much as I’d have liked to.

One night I went to Jackie’s place just before she was
going to visit Violet, our natural mother. She asked me if I’d go with her. I hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of me. The whole thing was going to be a surprise. We got there and went into the front room. A smirk spread across Jackie’s face as her mother whispered to her and nodded in my direction. ‘Who’s that?’

Jackie giggled, ‘That’s our Richard!’

After a couple of seconds, it sunk in who I was and she let out a yelp and ran out of the room totally embarrassed. Jackie was grinning from ear to ear. Violet came back in the room and said, ‘Jacqueline, you should have phoned me and I’d have made myself look decent.’ We left after making her acquaintance and having a cuppa. When Jackie smiled, she could light up a room. Our Debra also has the same qualities – both were very bonnie girls. Soon after, I went to the tattoo studio and got a love heart with two scrolls running through it with Debbie’s name in one and Jackie’s in the other.

They used to say that I was the lucky one in getting adopted, as they had a very rough childhood. Their mam and dad drank most nights at home and were always fighting with each other. You could guarantee that if their mam got her hair done on a Saturday morning it would be rived out by the end of the day. Their dad, Jack, was a plumber and worked for the same firm for forty years. One day, their mam just walked out on them and went to live with a bus driver who she’d been seeing on the sly for years. She left a note but no
forwarding address. This all happened when Debbie was in her first year at senior school and Jackie was in her last year of junior school. After that, the dad drank heavily at home every night but still managed to get up for work every day.

I never officially met this man, Jack Dunn, my biological father, but did get to see photos of him that Debra showed me. I met my sisters for the first time in 1983, but a few years before, when I was about 15, I’m certain I encountered him in a newsagents on Raby Road. As he came in, I froze and stood staring at him. Something inside of me was saying that this was my real dad. He stared back at me for a couple of seconds – when our eyes locked, I knew that he knew I was his son. It’s hard to explain, but I could see in my mind’s eye what he was thinking. I looked like him facially and had exactly the same eyebrows. Even though I hadn’t met my sisters yet, I did know that my real dad’s name was Jack. My stomach turned over when the shopkeeper called him ‘Jack’ on his way out. That, though, was my only encounter with him. The only other time I saw him was on the day of his funeral when I paid my respects to him in the funeral home.

I soon moved out of our Ellen’s and got myself a bedsit. Funnily enough, the owner of the place was the Greek geezer who owned the shop from which me and some mates had stolen those kebabs. I tried to repay him by going out every now and then to look for any
troublemakers, putting my name over his door, so to speak. And nothing ever happened when I was there. He was a nice bloke who would give me anything I wanted to eat and drink for nothing whenever I went in. I got on well with his son, Chrissy. He ended up coming with me and my mate Waller to the tattooist to watch us get back pieces. Waller wanted a Pegasus flying through the clouds, but couldn’t stand the pain, so never went back to get it finished. He has still got the outline on his back to this day. I had the head of Jesus with the cross behind it, which takes up the whole of my back. I went back for a few sittings while he finished the shading and colouring. I am still proud of the final result.

Things in my personal life, though, weren’t improving. Joanne used to hover about, trying to put a guilt trip on me. She would pretend that the baby had been ill, and all the rest of it. One time she said that she had just had the emergency doctor out, but if that was the case, why was she out drinking? I hate to air my dirty laundry in public, but I wouldn’t want to be branded an uncaring father. Well, things started escalating when she slapped me across the face. I told her not to do it again, but she slapped me five or six times before I said enough was enough. She received a bloody nose in the ensuing melee. I know in hindsight that I should have grabbed her arms to get her away from me, but it is very difficult to be rational in those situations.

I soon made another appearance at court when I
tripped into a shop window after a night of heavy drinking. I managed to get up and extricate myself from the mess, but was picked up by the police and charged with criminal damage. The ordered me to pay £600 compensation in court. Now, believe me, that window wasn’t that fucking big, so I never paid a penny of it, and have no fucking intention of doing so. They got me back into court, where the judge asked me why I hadn’t paid. When I replied that I was never going to pay it he gave me three months behind bars.

I was taken to Low Newton Prison where I stayed for a week before being transferred. It was there that I met up with my mate Cliffy, who was in for six months. When I’d see him going to work in the prison gardens on a morning, I’d shout a few things at him from my cell window and he’d laugh his head off. Six months later, he was dead after a fight outside a nightclub. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as they say. He got into an argument with some fella. After thumping him, he went outside and made a call. Out of nowhere, a van turned up full with weapons and a massive fight broke out. Cliffy was accidentally hit by a baseball bat. He staggered over the road and died in the gutter. It was tragic; I’d walk over hot coals if it would bring him back. The lad who got done for it was one of our old mates, but there was no way he had been involved. It was shocking. After a couple of years, he was released after an appeal, and rightly so.

I was sent to Medomsley Detention Centre to do the rest of my sentence. All detention centres were rough and horrible places, operating a regime just like an army boot camp. Everything had to be done at a hundred miles an hour. In general, prison was preferable, as the detention centres were intentionally bad to give offenders a sharp shock and put them back on the lines. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. To be employed there you had to be a pure bastard. The government eventually closed all detention centres down because they were too brutal. My first day there, a right sadistic screw screamed at me as I was walking past, ‘Get a move on,’ and then pushed me hard. I didn’t move any faster, so he went berserk. First he started slamming me against the wall to knock the wind out of me, then he banged my head off the concrete wall a couple of times before raining some punches in on me. I just rode his punches, as they had no effect on me at all. I was as cool as a cucumber, which I think unnerved one of the screws who was watching.

I had only been in there a few days when I confronted the ‘Daddy’. He may have been known as the hardest lad in the place, but now he had a challenger. Everyone could sense there was going to be a confrontation. All the Hartlepool lads were buzzing, as they had someone to look up to who would look after them. But it was hard to have a proper fight in there because you were monitored 24-7. From getting up on a morning until
going to bed at night you were constantly under the watchful eye of the screws. Eventually I took my opportunity after doing some works out in the gardens, when I saw the Daddy washing his boots with a hosepipe. The screws were in sight and watching us out of the corner of their eyes. But as I got closer, I decided to go for it, and walked straight up to him and grabbed the hosepipe out of his hand. I told him to fuck off and started to clean the shit off my wellies. He tried to grab it back, but I caught him by the throat, knocked him against the wall, and told him I would rip his fucking ugly head off. Unfortunately the screws jumped in, so I never got to fulfil my pledge. He later said that he wanted to fight me, but this was all talk. The reality was there was a new kid on the block, a new Daddy – me.

One day I was waiting in the dinner queue when I started to hear growling noises from the bloke behind me. I looked up at him and politely asked, ‘Who the fuck are you growling at, you stupid cunt?’ I went on, ‘Growl like that again and I’ll rip your fucking head off, do you understand, you knob head?’ He nodded in the affirmative and behaved himself. You should have seen the look on his face. Within a couple of days, and after a few arguments, the word went round that I was the best fighter in the place. I got myself a cushty job in the stores, jumping the queue to get in with no problems.

The screws would try to rule the place through fear
and violence, and on the whole succeeded. The more pain you were in, the more happy they were. One day when we were playing hockey in the gym, an orderly told us never to raise the stick above knee height. When one of the lads did this, he was promptly laid out. The intimidation continued in the showers, when the gym screw would run in screaming, ‘Get out,’ whilst whacking you with a stick. Once a week we had to do something that was called ‘the fence’, which was dreaded by all. Everyone had to run around the inside perimeter of the fence. It was two miles all the way round, but it had to be done twice straight off, making it four miles. People would be spewing up, some would cry with pain, and the ones at the back got kicked and dragged around. A few hours later, we’d be put in to teams and have to race each other. But if you weren’t giving a hundred per cent, you were punished.