Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (8 page)

Even though I was glad to see the back of the place, my behaviour didn’t improve after I was let out. Only a few weeks after, I went to the Lake District with Gaffo, Bob, Gibbo and Toddy. We were all pissed and singing, ‘Hartlepool, Hartlepool, Hartlepool.’ Not surprisingly, they wouldn’t let us in the local nightclub and we gave them some frisk – that is, leg pulling. They called the police. Unfortunately Gibbo wasn’t thinking straight, and he picked off one of the coppers with a cracking right. They banged us up, and gave Gibbo one hell of a kicking in the cells. He was taken to court, remanded,
and given three years. They let the rest of us out after about six hours on the condition that we left town straight away.

I suppose you could say I was bloody lucky. I don’t know who was looking down on me at that time, but I was living a blessed existence. Not long after this I got into a fight with a bouncer at a nightclub. I had been smoking some blow – marijuana – and started missing punches. He picked me up and threw me through the doors. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Just as he started bouncing me off a couple of walls, my boxing savvy took over and, at last, I connected with a punch. He went straight on his arse, but I didn’t follow up. It was the weed. I stood back and just stared at him. He pulled himself together, mumbled something and went back into the club.

Another lucky escape, considering. Not long after that I got involved in the most intense fight I had had so far. It was late at night, and I was walking past three blokes sitting on a pub wall. I was preparing myself for some sarcy comment, but decided to get mine in first. The biggest one was glaring at me and, as I was walking past, I seethed aggressively, ‘Who are you looking at, you fucking doyle?’

He didn’t let me down when he snarled in reply, ‘Who the fuck are you calling a doyle?’

He came at me and swung a big haymaker. I ducked, but could only keep one eye on him as I was also
tracking his two mates. I missed with a couple of wild swings. The doyle’s mates, though, weren’t moving, as they were waiting for him to finish the job. I regained my composure and focused all my attention on him. I moved in distance and landed a destructive hard-hitting right hand, smack on the button – The Muckspreader, as I like to call it. He collapsed in a heap on the deck, out for the count. His mates looked at me and never said a word. The big fella was asleep and wasn’t moving – I had flattened him.

I started jogging away from the scene, looking back about every thirty seconds. The lads were bent over him and he was still stretched out. I had visions of putting the local radio station on the next day, and hearing the newscaster say that a man had been killed in a fight outside a pub. I checked the local papers, but luckily there was nothing about it, meaning he was OK. I was very thankful that I hadn’t killed him.

I started seeing a girl called Gail, who was the sister of one of my mates. We ended up getting a flat together on the seafront at Seaton Carew. At night, I’d smoke a little blow and listen to Bob Marley songs or watch a bit of TV. When we got to know the couple that lived in the flat below, they said they thought that a family of Rastas had moved in when they heard reggae music being played all the time. As a result I didn’t go out drinking as much. But when I did go out, I was still getting into scrapes. I went with my friend Kevin H to a
nightclub where he expected some trouble with the bouncers. As it happened, it was a quiet night. There were five bouncers there, so I thought we should get them to earn their money. We piled in, just the two of us, and flattened all five of them. At that time, Kev’s brother was top boy in the town, perhaps explaining why there were no repercussions.

I really enjoyed living by the sea. I started doing some jogging on the beach every morning for about thirty minutes, filling my lungs with all that fresh sea air. Unfortunately we ended up getting a council house in another part of town – Gail was pregnant and we didn’t want to bring a baby up in a dingy flat. The house was too far away from our friends and family and we were never happy there, though we got on well with our neighbours, Colin and Kathy. Gail went to look at a house not far from her mother’s because she heard that the couple there were looking for a swap. The exchange went through with no problems. Anyway, when I went for a look at the house I couldn’t believe it. What a coincidence! It was the same house I’d lived in a couple of years earlier with Joanne. I told Gail this, but she wasn’t bothered and we started preparations for the move.

Things took a turn for the worse when I was unfairly charged with theft. Now I admit I am many things, but I am certainly not a thief, and never will be. I had borrowed a friend’s video card and got some films out
but for some reason they were never returned. The shop called the police and I got pulled in. They had just installed a video camera and, of course, I was on it. It was sod’s law that we were moving house on the same day I was due at court. To make matters worse, Gail was nine months’ pregnant and due anytime.

I wanted to be in and out of court as fast as I could so I could help with the house move. I pleaded guilty to get it over and done with. I was expecting a fine, but then the judge remanded me for ten days. I was gobsmacked, speechless. It seemed to be OK to give sex perverts bail. What the fuck’s it all about? Because I pleaded guilty I was convicted, meaning that I received no privileges like other remand prisoners. They put me straight into A-wing of Durham Jail, and stuck me in a cell for 23 hours a day. The day after I was remanded, Gail gave birth to a baby girl. My mam phoned the prison to relay the information, but the bastards never told me, and so I didn’t find out until the eighth day when I got a letter from Gail. After the shock came the emotion and I had a little weep. I wept with joy because I had another daughter, but also with sorrow because I wasn’t there to see her come into the world. The next two days went like two weeks. Finally, I was back at court and had a different judge, who shook his head when he heard I had been remanded for something so minor. I was ordered to pay £300 compensation and was released.

I went straight to the new house but there was nobody
there. I knew Gail must have been at her mam’s so I went round there. There was a few people there and they all said, ‘Welcome home.’ Gail handed me a little bundle and said, ‘Here’s your daughter.’ I got a shock when I saw how small she was because I had expected her to be bigger. I was a bit scared in case I squeezed her too hard because she was so delicate.

I quickly got into the routine of changing her nappies and taking her for walks. She was daddy’s little girl. We used to call her ‘Shitty’, not through maliciousness, but because it was a pet name. Then again, seeing it written down now does make it look different. She used to think that was her name until she started school because that’s all she got called! I still saw my other daughter Jill on a regular basis. Things had certainly changed a lot – not only had I increased my family, but my criminal record was bigger too.

Guess what? I made another return to the sweet science of boxing, putting me up there with Frank Sinatra in terms of comebacks. This time I was training with the Boys Welfare. I was there for about ten months. The training was hard: five nights a week and Sunday mornings. You had to complete the pre-training run in a certain time, otherwise you were sent out again. Training consisted of a round of skipping, followed by a round of shadow boxing, before moving on to boxing staple: press-ups, pads, sit-ups, punch bag, step-ups, sprints from wall to wall. Peter, the coach, operated the exercises in circuits. One punch-bag exercise in particular was a killer. You had to hit it with two jabs and then a ten-punch combination, no more than two seconds to get your breath back and the same again for
a full round. You were fucked afterwards, but it was first-class conditioning. I soon reached the peak of my fitness – I was 13 stone, rock solid, without an ounce of fat on me.

We all did our bit for charity too. We were sponsored to do a ten-mile run to help raise money for gloves and punch bags for the club. I think my time was about one hour and fifteen minutes. We were like a big family but we trained hard and we sparred hard. I liked the feeling of raising money for worthy causes, so I did another charity run with my mate Bob. It was a nationwide event called Everybody Wants To Run The World. The pop group Tears For Fears released the record and the proceeds went to charity. Well, I did my bit.

At the Boys Welfare Club, you’d think everyone hated each other if you watched a sparring session because it was always heavy. As the big guy, everyone would try to put me on my arse: welterweights, middleweight, light heavyweights. But nobody ever floored me, although it did keep me on my toes. There were some really good fighters in the gym and some went on to win national titles. There was Biff, Kev M, Chrissy, Kev C, Graham, Ray, Stewey, Tony, Alan, Garry and others whose names I’ve forgotten, but they all know who they are. Once I got caught with an elbow and my eyebrow burst open like a torn pea pod. The coach, Peter, advised me to go to the hospital so they could have a look. It was sod’s law that it was the same eyebrow I had had six stitches
in years before. Four stitches later and I was rebuilt. This was all part of the game – if you got cut, you got cut, so what?

Hartlepool has a long boxing tradition. It all started on the beach at Seaton Carew where the fighters fought bare knuckle. In the early 1900s a boxing booth was established on the corner of Burbank Street known as the ‘Blood Tub’. The Blood Tub always drew the crowds and you were guaranteed a good punch-up. Hartlepool was a booming ship port and someone would go round the docks and pick five coloured seamen for what was called an ‘All In’. One man in each corner and one in the middle. When the bell rang it was every man for himself. The winner was the one left standing at the end. That was always a big crowd puller. During the depression, people fought each other for boxes of groceries. You can see why all the best boxers come from poor backgrounds – hungry fighters literally are the best.

Hartlepool had one brilliant boxer in the early 1900s called Jasper Carter. He was the Lightweight Champion of the North of England for six years. All in all, he had 300 fights, nearly all of which went over 20 rounds. One time he was matched with the then World Featherweight Champion ‘Peerless’ Jim Driscol. The day before the fight, though, Driscol pulled out and it was the biggest disappointment in Carter’s career. Carter fought in front of 80,000 spectators at Celtic
Park, in Belfast, against the Irish Middleweight Champion, Jack Lavery. Although Lavery was a stone heavier than Carter, Carter produced the goods with a first-round knockout and stunned the massive crowd. He died aged 63. They don’t make them like Jasper Carter any more, what a fighter.

I was now working for the council on a job called site clearance. There wasn’t really that much to do but sit in the cabin and play cards while the supervisor waited for a phone call. We’d only get two or three calls a week – it was an easy job. I was working with a lad called Jimmy, who I knew from community service. I was also working with a lad with one arm called Davey, who unimaginatively became known as ‘Davey One Arm’. Friday was payday, so at dinnertime we’d go to the bank and get our wages, have a bite to eat and go to a pub called the Grange and sink a few beers. After a few drinks, you didn’t feel like going back to work so you either went back late or not at all. The gaffer was cushty and never used to say nothing as long as you never took the piss.

So I guess you could say things were going well. Of course, those are the times when you have to start thinking – what will happen next? Well, not long after, Gail told me that a lad called Bernie had been trying to tap her up. This geezer must have thought I had ‘mug’ written on my forehead! I happened to know him and where he drank. One night I went to find him with my
mate Mark, and sure enough we found him in a nightclub with a couple of lads and lasses. I watched and waited from over the road. At this stage, I was hugely dangerous. When they came out, I walked over to him and cuffed him with a rollicking right hand that put him straight on his back and sent him beddy-byes. That’s the nearest he was going to get to Gail! I put the boot into his boat race – that is, face. I remember thinking, Who’s the mug now Bernie?

Davey One Arm came round to mine a few times with some wine that he used to make, which blew your fucking heads off. One morning, at about four o’clock, Gail went into labour with our second child. As we were waiting for an ambulance, Davey One Arm walked past, drunk. He came in and said, ‘If it’s a boy will you please call it David, after me?’ I told him I’d think about it. When Gail was giving birth, there was a panic because the cord had wrapped around the baby’s neck, so the forceps had to be used. It was a boy and I was over the moon. When he came out, it took a bit for him to cry. I think we nearly lost him by the look on the nurses’ faces, but he soon started to cry and there was a sigh of relief all round. He had two black eyes and marks on his head off the forceps but as each day went by he began to thrive. The nurse asked, ‘What are you going to call him?’ I had never thought of any boy names, as I expected another girl. But for some reason, I opened my mouth and uttered ‘Terrance,’ and that’s what we called him.

We moved house and went to the Rossmere area of town. We were near Rossmere Park and I’d take the kids there and have a stroll round and we’d feed the ducks. Terry was still a bit too young to understand, but Donna used to love it. Around this time I started tracing my adopted family again – it must have been the feeling of being a father, and wanting to sort it all out. I was one of four children that Violet had, meaning that there was another sibling to trace after Debra and Jacqueline. It turned out that I had an older brother, who had also been given up for adoption. I applied to go on the television programme
Surprise, Surprise
, hosted by Cilla Black, which would help people trace their missing relatives. I went down on the train to London with Gail. Everything was paid for. The film crew were very nice and it took a couple of takes but I got my plea right in the end. We ended the day off with a visit to Madame Tussaud’s, the famous waxwork museum. It was brilliant and you’d think the dummies were going to come alive because they looked so real.

I was sent two tickets by the TV company to go back down and see the show but I never went, and watched it at home instead. Debbie and Jackie were watching as well. During the show, Cilla handed over to a bloke called Gordon Burns who was introducing a new item called ‘Searchline’ where viewers recorded their own pleas to find relatives and loved ones. He was telling people about the all-new ‘Searchline’ and how it worked
and then he said, ‘We start with Richard Horsley from Hartlepool,’ and I came on. I can’t remember exactly what I said now. I did have it on tape years ago but it was recorded over by accident. Isn’t that always the way? Unfortunately though, we never found our brother. I would get pulled up for months after the programme by people saying, ‘I seen you on
Surprise, Surprise,’
or asking, ‘Did you find your brother?’

That, however, didn’t put a stop to my search for family members. I met a lad called Stewie when doing a bit of security work, and he told me about a book he had been reading by a medium called Doris Stokes. I was so intrigued that I got it out of the library. I was fascinated by it and wanted to know more about the paranormal. I got the phone number of a well-known spiritualist and phoned her up. They called her Ruby and she held meetings every Thursday night, so I went along. At the meetings she would tell wonderful stories to a packed room. I would just sit there in the background and listen. I’d been going for about four months and the philosophy was excellent, but I wanted more. I needed proof on my own terms.

I decided to stay away for a couple of weeks. I got a photo of my dad and started talking to him in my mind. I told him that without proof I would give up on the meetings. Well, at the last meeting that I planned to attend, just before it ended, Ruby suddenly said, ‘I’ve got a man here called Tom. Someone here knows him.’ She
described the kidney dialysis machine and all the tubes, how Dad had died, and other things about him, all of which were true. I couldn’t open my mouth. Then she said, ‘Someone here has got a photo of this man and they talk to it with their mind.’ Well, that blew me away and was all the proof I needed. I never said anything but I did write Ruby a letter and told her that message was for me.

My sister Jackie had post-natal depression when she had her daughter Stacey, so I looked after the baby for a few weeks until she was a bit better. This was around the same time that I started getting back into football. I started going to Brinkburn Sports Centre with my mate Robbie once a week for a game of five-a-side. I started playing in goal for a Sunday team, although my goalkeeping record took a hiding when I let in four goals in my first game. As the weeks went by, I became more proficient and started playing on a Saturday afternoon as well. After a couple of months playing on a Saturday, Sunday and five-a-side during the week, I became a good goalkeeper. I would never duck out of a challenge and would pick up loads of bumps and bruises. I was very physical and would love diving at players’ feet for the ball. One Sunday during a game, I went for a fifty-fifty ball with the opposition’s attacker. I dived at his feet and won the ball, but then I heard him screaming, ‘They’ve gone,’ and he passed out. He’d had both his legs broken! The ambulance came on to the pitch and
stretchered him off, as he was out of it. They called him Faccinni and he had both his legs in plaster up to his waist for months.

One morning, a letter arrived from Halifax Town FC asking me to go for a trial at their ground. When the day arrived, I got my stuff together and went by train with our Kevin. The manager was an ex-Hartlepool player called Billy Ayre. I remembered watching him play for Hartlepool in the 1970s. There was a song that all the fans would sing which went:
‘He’s here, he’s there, he’s every fucking where, Billy Ayre.’
There were loads of people at the trial and we were put into teams and played a game. A few minutes into the game, I dived at a player’s feet and won the ball, but as I dived I took all the skin off the side of my leg. It was bloody painful, and I decided there and then that I would be doing no more diving. As a result I missed a couple of opportunities to win the ball. The game ended 2-2. I never got picked, but didn’t expect anything as I had had a shit game. I had played for about 18 months this time. There were only a couple of games left until the end of that season. When it finished, so did I and hung up my boots for good. I’ve never played since.