Fighting to the Death (3 page)

A few days later I called at Jason’s and a stranger answered the front door and said that Jason and his mum had gone away and wouldn’t be coming back. I was very upset. How could he just take off without saying a word? What sort of friend did that?

Not long afterwards, his dad Ron came barging his way into our house asking me if I knew where Jason and his mum had gone. I said I hadn’t got a clue, which was true. ‘You lying to me, son?’ he asked sternly. I shook my head so furiously it almost came off its hinges. Then my mum chipped in, ‘Of course he’s telling the truth.’ It was only then I realised they’d scarpered to get away from Ron. It turned out Ron had whacked his wife and then got so violent she’d decided to do a permanent runner.

Here we were living in a hovel with barely the money to pay the bills but at least we weren’t on the run from a psycho dad. And you know what? Ron Neill never did find Jason or his mum and he ended up drinking himself to death just a few months later. They reckon he also died of a broken heart.

My mum often had music on in our flat. She loved all that sixties stuff like Ray Charles, The Temptations and most of the Motown artists of the day. Not surprisingly, I ended up being a big Stevie Wonder fan. Every weekend Mum had the record player on full blast all day, even during Sunday lunch. That’s when my dad would retreat to the local boozer and stay there for most of the day while we tucked into sausages and roast potatoes.

In those days, Mum and Dad had a boozy party about once a month with their mates. It was the only time they seemed happy together. We were allowed to stay up late and often we’d nick a few peanuts, crisps and those miniature sausages on
sticks, and sneak them into our bedroom. Our parents were the life and soul of those parties – thinking of those evenings brings back happy memories.

Then one day Dad announced he’d been offered some building work up north in Yorkshire and we’d all have to move up there pronto. The old man claimed it was much cheaper to live there. But within a couple of months he’d lost his job so we all trooped back down south with nowhere to live and ended up in a homeless hostel. Then my dad went and did a runner.

For about two weeks Mum, my brothers and me lived in that crummy hostel not knowing where our next square meal was coming from. I remember one night I was woken up by a strange scratching noise. Then something brushed my toes. It was a big, fat grey rat. I jumped out of my skin. I’ve never liked rodents since.

Mum and us three kids were huddled in that hostel all alone and very desperate. Then Dad came trooping back one day as if nothing had happened and announced he’d got us an upstairs council flat in Station Road, Forest Gate. It felt like Buckingham Palace after that hostel. But with two bedrooms it was a tight squeeze, to say the least.

But the old man’s happy-go-lucky mood didn’t last long. One night – I was about eight at the time – me and my brothers were tucked up in bed when Mum and Dad started one of their regular shouting matches. I lay there trembling as the yelling got louder and louder. John and Ian were fast asleep on the bottom bunk bed, but I couldn’t get any shuteye because of the noise. Suddenly, I heard something break. It sounded like a vase or a bit of crockery. Anyhow, I leapt down to the floor from the top bunk and headed over to the door.

‘Come here, you fuckin’ bitch!’

My dad sounded completely out of control. I ran down the corridor and got to the top of the stairs. My tiny little mum came dashing out of the lounge. The old man was on her tail, towering over her.

They hadn’t spotted me. That’s when my dad lifted his arm as if he was about to whack my mum. He seemed like a giant to me back then. He was six feet one and fit as a fiddle, and Mum seemed so small up against him. I puffed up my chest and shouted at the top of my voice: ‘Leave her alone!’ The old man was so shocked his arm stopped in mid air. Tears were rolling down my mum’s puffy, reddened cheeks.

I flew down the stairs and stood right between them. But then they started ranting and raving at each other again. My mum reached up over me and slapped my dad right across the face. He didn’t respond but simply turned around and walked towards the bedroom. The flat went deathly quiet. A few moments later he emerged from the bedroom with a sports bag in his hand.

I followed my mum around the house as she shouted and screamed at him. In a way, I suppose I’d decided she needed protection. But, on reflection, she did go a bit over the top at him.

Then my older bruv John appeared and began begging my dad not to go, John and younger bruv Ian were in floods of tears and both hung onto Dad’s trouser legs as he headed down the corridor towards the front door.

‘I’ve gotta go, boys, I’ve had enough,’ he told them while glancing back at my mum standing, hands on hips, watching him from the kitchen doorway. I stood back and observed the scene. Of course I was sad but I was more worried about my mum at the time.

The truth is my mum and dad had never really got on. These days they’re reasonable friends. You’ve gotta remember Dad was still young, with lots of kids. The pressure must have been unbearable in many ways. A few days later he came round to tell us exactly what had happened and why he’d left, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle.

At least Dad never laid another finger on Mum. She told me later that he was so shocked by my appearance that night, it made him stop and think about what had been going on between them. That’s when he’d decided it was time to call it a day. But you know what? I’m not proud of what I did because sometimes I think that if I’d kept out of it, he’d still be my fulltime dad to this day.

Back then the old man was still struggling to get employment as a plumber, so he started working the doors at some right dodgy clubs in the East End. No doubt he was up to mischief, earning a bob or two from ducking and diving. And there’s no denying he had a temper on him, but he was no worse than most dads round where I lived. The nastiest thing he ever did to me was when I got a bit lippy with him and he hauled me up by my ankles and started slapping my backside. It didn’t half hurt. But then I’d deserved it for being a pain in the neck, like most kids.

It’s a shame I don’t have better memories of Dad. They are summed up by the time he came to visit me when I had my tonsils out in hospital. I must have been eight going on nine and the old man gave me an Action Man as a get-well present. Bloody thing was obviously second-hand because a few minutes after he’d left the hospital the head snapped off. I was so upset I cried myself to sleep that night.

But thankfully my dad never went for me or my brothers and
sister Lee, who was born just after my dad walked out. It was him and my mum who had the punch-ups. After they split, he’d come round once or twice a month and take us all out for a day trip to places like the Tower of London. He tried his hardest, but he never really said much and I can’t honestly say he ever gave me one real word of advice the whole time I was a kid, which isn’t saying much, is it?

Meanwhile, me and my mates in Forest Gate started getting up to our own brand of mischief. We’d pop over the wall of the local boozer, the Angel, nick a few empty beer and pop bottles and then bring them back into the pub’s off-licence to claim the value of the empties. We used to get sixpence a go, which was very useful dough for an eight-year-old, I can tell you.

Then Mum and us kids got transferred by the council to a virtually new house just around the corner from our flat, even nearer to the vast green pastures of Wanstead Flats. It was really posh compared to what we were used to and my house-proud mum always kept it clean. But none of that stopped me and my brothers from causing havoc in the neighbourhood.

One day we almost got pinched by the local law after nicking some of Mum’s stockings and putting them over our heads, grabbing a couple of toy guns and pretending to stick up the local newsagent. The owner, Mr Patel, blew his top when he realised it was a prank by a bunch of kids. We were only saved because Mum wandered in for a packet of Silk Cut just after we’d got caught. She gave us a right tongue-lashing following that little escapade.

After my dad went walkabout, a few ‘new dads’ appeared on the horizon so my brothers and sister (Lee was only a baby then) spent a lot of our time over on Wanstead Flats. Our
experience of Dad had not exactly made us very keen on any grown men entering the household. We saw them as a threat to our happiness.

Wanstead Flats was like an escape hatch for me and my brothers. We called it the countryside, even though it was only a couple of streets from home. It seemed like another world. Lots of green grass, a pond and huge, tall trees where we could shelter from the rain. It was paradise, really. I don’t know how we’d have survived life at that time without the Flats.

Back at home, Mum held down at least two jobs to keep the family together, cleaning offices in the day and working behind the bars of local pubs in the evenings. Sometimes we had a baby-sitter but most of the time we fended for ourselves. Yet despite Mum’s absences, we still lived in a loving home. I never felt abandoned, nor did my brothers or sister. We were gritty survivors. It was us against the world and we were going to win.

At one stage back then, we were so skint that we literally didn’t even have a tin of beans in the kitchen cupboard. They were pretty desperate times. In those days Mum regularly visited the local loan shark who played a vital role in our survival. He even sometimes helped my mum carry her shopping back to our house because he lived nearby.

Everybody knew this fella so I won’t embarrass him by naming him here. Mum had to pay him back loans on a weekly rate but often he didn’t even charge her any interest. I remember one week she couldn’t pay him a penny and he said not to worry and just added it up later.

The loan shark was a popular man on my manor. He was
always immaculately dressed in a Crombie coat and I was friendly with his kids. These days that sort of fella would probably be a drug dealer, which would have made him a completely different cup of tea.

Some weeks we were so broke we had candlelit dinners because Mum couldn’t pay the electricity bill. And if we went and asked her for a few pennies for a few sweets and she said no. We knew not to ask her again that week. We certainly appreciated the value of money at an early age.

But even though she was often without a penny to her name, my dear old mum made sure our home was always immaculately tidy. And we always looked neat and pristine when we went out the front door. Us kids even nicknamed her ‘Mrs Sheen’ after the adverts on the telly because she always seemed to have a duster in her hand.

My main priority – even back then when I was only a youngster- was to earn a few bob. The pub where my mum worked sometimes paid me a couple of quid to stack the shelves with bottles before opening time. We were all expected to muck in and keep the family afloat.

Sometimes we nicked milk off the milk float plus a loaf of bread and some eggs if the kitchen cupboard was bare. We knew Mum was up against it and we tried to contribute even if it involved a bit of minor tea-leafing.

When I was about eight I got a police escort home after the cozzers nabbed me and a few mates when we threw stones from the roof of a nearby derelict building. My mum had watched the entire episode from her kitchen window and she was well upset when the PC dropped me home and explained what had happened. Mum didn’t want me getting into the
same habits as my dad. Poor old thing, she was trying her hardest to keep us all in order, but it wasn’t easy with four kids and no support.

Me and my mates got up to all sorts. One of our favourite stunts was to tie some cotton thread round a milk bottle, put it on a wall and then spread the thread across the pavement so that whoever walked through it would end up sending the bottle smashing to the ground. We used to set up three or four milk bottles on one stretch of pavement round the corner from my home. It was bloody funny because people used to think that bottles were being thrown at them. But we always made sure we never did it to any old dears because they might not have been able to handle it.

In junior school, the first proper fight I got into happened when one boy called Delroy Walker tried to give me a hammering. He seemed like a giant compared to me. (He’s now a preacher near where I live and he’s always trying to get me to turn up at church on a Sunday. Not on your life, mate!) But as he goaded me, something came over me. I became completely fearless, steamed in and jabbed him hard in the neck and face, and down he went like a sack of spuds. The fight was over virtually before it had begun. I’d never felt such anger before in my life. I suppose it was an outlet for all the problems that had been building up for so long.

I was hauled in front of the headmaster, Mr Atkins, and given two whacks with a ruler, right across the palm of my right hand. It bloody hurt and left two big lines. When I got home, my mum went mad. She didn’t like anyone laying a finger on any of her boys. She grabbed me by the ear and marched me across the road to the school and demanded that the headmaster explain
why he’d punished me. He seemed terrified of her and even said he was sorry.

My mum still reckons to this day that I don’t know my own strength. She’s never forgotten how I split my kid brother’s forehead when I chucked a plastic cup at him from twenty feet away. But that school fight helped persuade Mum to let me join the local boxing club, West Ham Boys’ Club, in Plaistow. She wasn’t keen on her kid being given a battering, but it was better than letting me wander the streets causing aggro. She knew I needed some kind of outlet for all my pent-up anger and frustration.

I
loved it down at West Ham Boys’ Club because it was like an escape from all the problems at home and school. Boxing gave me a lot of pleasure and a real sense of achievement. I was fitter than most of the other kids because I was regularly running three miles, from home to the club, to save money on the bus fare.

Boxing became my main interest in life. School was a waste of time and I didn’t take to most other sports – especially team games. I was so fixated on boxing, I’d stay behind late at the gym and watch other, older fighters and study their form. I even had a notebook in which I drew pictures of the ways they stood and the ways they punched. I wanted to be better than any of them and I was prepared to train myself. I really believed boxing could lift me out of the slums.

At home, I was still constantly glued to the telly, but now
watched the boxing on the BBC. Whenever they showed any of the old Ali fights I’d go into a trance and study every movement. My mum, brothers and sister would come home and I wouldn’t even notice them. I started trying to copy Ali’s technique and I’d stand up and shadowbox while watching him on the TV out of the corner of my eye. Down at West Ham Boys’ Club, they weren’t keen on a kid doing the Ali-shuffle routine because it meant I didn’t keep my guard up all the time, which was against all the training rules for a young fighter. So I did it when none of the coaches were watching.

There were times when I went completely over the top during matches at the club. I’d get all pent up with tension during sparring and sometimes ended up being dragged off my opponent still punching away well after the bell had gone. That sort of behaviour got me a bit of a reputation at the club as well as with a lot of the other kids on the manor. The nasty ones were always trying to wind me up so I’d lose it and punch out their biggest enemies. Not surprisingly. I didn’t always keep my cool.

One time I walked out of the club in a bit of a bad mood because I’d lost to a sparring partner, which didn’t happen often, and the kid who’d beaten me was standing there with a few of his pals as I walked past. He called out at me, ‘When you joinin’ the Girl Guides then?’ I tried to ignore him at first because I knew it was a wind-up. Then he had another dig, ‘Poor little Carl. No bottle, eh?’ That was it. No one accused me of being a coward and got away with it.

I was standing a few yards from him so I aimed my gym bag right at his face. That distracted him for long enough to give me a chance to get nearer. I was soon climbing over two of his
mates to get at him. I put a sharp left down on his forehead, while those two other kids tried to hold me back. Bull’s-eye.

My opponent reeled back and tried to slap out at me wildly but couldn’t get near enough. I caught him with another powerful left that sent him reeling backwards. Just then a couple of the dads and trainers walked out. One of them immediately realised what had happened and lost his rag. He gave us both a good slap round the face. We deserved it. And then he cracked our heads together for good measure. ‘Behave yourselves,’ he snapped. We both pulled back and walked in opposite directions.

A couple of nights later I turned up at the gym as usual and the head trainer came over and warned me I’d be suspended if I was ever seen scrapping outside the ring again. I’d broken the golden rule, which was to never use the skills I’d learned inside the ring to gain an advantage in the outside world. But when you’re a kid and someone starts taunting you, it’s difficult not to resort to what you know best. I deserved that warning for other reasons too. I should never have let that little prat get to me. The first rule of boxing is control and I’d lost it in bucket-loads when I’d steamed into him.

Back in training at West Ham Boys’ Club, older fighters continued trying to wind me up to get me to hit out at them, I only just kept my cool, and later heard that one of the trainers had put those more senior boxers up to it, just to see if I’d got the message about not losing control.

Throughout this time I kept my boxing training up to the highest standards. Sweat, leather and the slight aroma of oils they used to ease the pain of torn muscles were the
overpowering smells down at West Ham Boys’ Club. A typical week during school term would begin on Monday with me going out and running at least three miles as part of my boxing fitness regime. Tuesday evening, I’d pop down to the gym where I’d go through the full routine. Wednesday would be my only weekday night off, when me and my mates would go down to a youth club at Ilford Town Hall for the weekly disco. Thursday I’d be back in the club gym for training. Friday I’d always stay in and watch TV with my brothers, sister and mum. Saturday there would usually be a party at someone’s house. Sunday I’d try and get to the pictures if I had any dough left on me.

My training schedule was punishing on my nights at the gym: I’d start out with the three-mile run from Forest Gate through the streets to the club. I’d have my gym bag slung over my back. It was a great way to warm up and it meant I was saving mum the cost of the bus fare.

Once in the gym, I’d head straight for the bag room where I’d spend a few minutes limbering up. The whole place was full of mirrors, which all the fighters used for shadowboxing. I’d step in front of one and start jabbing away, then would duck from side to side, using a bit of body movement, twisting and turning, keeping agile. It was all intended to get my muscles flexible and soft. I was boxing myself in that mirror. And, naturally, I always won.

Then I’d head for a sparring session. That’s when it hurt the most that my old man wasn’t around. Most of the kids had their dads watching and shouting for their boys. Each session, the trainer would shout orders while the fathers sat on a row of chairs up against one wall of the gym.

‘Elbow in.’

‘Jab straight. Don’t sway.’

‘Stand right.’

‘Chin down.’

‘Stand to the side on,
not
square.’

I could tell many of the dads felt sorry for me and I didn’t like that one bit. Feeling sorry for someone doesn’t help them – it just makes them even more angry. A few of the dads even hung about when I got in the ring and shouted a bit of encouragement to me because they knew my old man wasn’t around. I know they meant well but it just didn’t help matters. If anything it made it even more painful for me that my old man had done a runner.

I usually made mincemeat of my sparring partner and would then head off to do some skipping, back near where all the mirrors were. I loved skipping although I found it a bit tricky to start with. Once I got into the rhythm, it felt like I was floating off the floor, though sometimes I’d lose my timing and end up tangled in the rope. There’s no doubt that skipping really helped my co-ordination and speed. Some trainers at the club weren’t so convinced that skipping was important for a boxer, but I disagree. To achieve a double swing through one jump is quite a feat and when I started managing it, I’m sure it helped my balance inside the ring. I also got a real buzz out of achieving it.

After the skipping it would be back to some bag work. This was all about jabbing and learning. We’d use bag gloves, made out of thinner leather than normal gloves, unpadded and only 2 cm thick. They cover just the top of the hand, with black elastic on the underside, and really helped me learn how to combine punching and movement in one combination. My
punches would jab twice. Then left hand, right hook, then straight punching, keeping it straight.

Then it was on to circuit training. This involved more sparring for ten minutes. The trainer either put you in with a novice or a better boy. You never ended up with someone on your own level. You always had to wear head gear with gloves, a gum shield, groin pads and boots. If you ever actually landed a proper punch the trainer would go potty, ‘Come here you!’ he’d yell. I got a lot of calls like that because I always wanted to beat an opponent, even if I wasn’t meant to land a full-on punch on him.

I wasn’t the most punch-happy boy there by any means. There were a couple of red-headed tearaways who were always trying to beat the shit out of their sparring partners. One of them once got in the ring with me and came flying at me like a bat out of hell, as if he’d just signed pro forms. He was all excited, swinging, hitting out, and he just wouldn’t stop. I jabbed him off but he kept coming back for more. He was like a little Yorkshire terrier, nipping away at my ankles. Eventually the trainer jumped in and had a right go at him and he was told to go home. But I didn’t have a problem with the lad because I was way out on top of him. I think the trainer was more worried I might kill the boy if he kept chasing me for a response.

Throughout these sparring sessions the trainer would keep yelling orders through the ropes:

‘Move to the side.’

‘Keep it tight and keep it tidy.’

‘Hold your hands up.’

‘Good work. Good boxing.’

You’d get a nice slap on the back if you’d done well or a nasty glare if you failed to live up to expectations.

A warm-down would follow, which was just as important as the warm-up if you wanted to avoid any nasty injuries. I’d do a load of stretches, much slower ones than for the warm-up. Then I’d take a gentle jog round a small, muddy makeshift running track in the yard behind the club.

They even had a sweat room at the club, which was often used to get a boxer to shed a few pounds to make a specific weight for a tournament. Often the boxer would have to lie in there for hours, hemmed between two smelly mattresses, sweating off as many pounds as was humanly possible. Amazingly, it was possible to lose three or four pounds in one session. But I never fancied the idea of being jammed between those two stinking mattresses.

After it was all over, I’d either allow myself the luxury of a bus ride home if I’d earlier run to the club, or I’d have to run all the way home again if I was out of dough. Each training session at the club cost a quid, which was good value when you consider it was the single most important thing in my life at that time.

During this period of my life, the old man only made occasional visits home to take us kids out for the day. He’d got himself a flashy-looking two-tone, grey and blue Ford Zephyr, with bench seats in the front that I was always sliding across whenever Dad turned a corner badly. Dad never looked scruffy. He was always well turned out and you could tell from the look on their faces that he had a way with the ladies.

Sometimes he’d take us out for pie ‘n’ mash. Other times he’d pop in a boozer and leave us in the car with a bottle of pop and
a packet of crisps each. The keys would always be in the ignition so we could listen to the ‘wireless’, as he called it.

One day big bruv John, who was twelve, jumped in the driver’s seat after the old man had disappeared into a boozer and drove the car across the car park, narrowly missing about half a dozen other motors. The old man was half cut by the time he came out, so he didn’t even notice that his beloved car was parked up in a different place!

I also remember Dad coming round one Christmas Day so pissed that he fell asleep in an armchair. We then all chucked peanuts at him while he was kipping. We didn’t exactly have much respect for him, but can you blame us?