Wild Thing (30 page)

In my opinion, so many things have changed for the worse over the years. Able-bodied men capable of controlling violent criminals in pubs and clubs have been replaced by steroid-enhanced fools armed with council badges because the former are no longer allowed to work if they have convictions. Violent criminals only understand one language, and that is violence. Trying to talk rationally to a man who is threatening to cut or shoot you will only get you cut or shot. Aggressive people have to be taken down, put in fear and made to understand that they cannot go about bullying and hurting people. The police and licensing authorities, in their infinite wisdom, decided to exclude the men the hooligan element respected and feared from working in the security industry. That is why today nightclubs and pubs are dangerous places to visit and drugs are openly on sale. When I see the cannon fodder they have standing on the doors of pubs and nightclubs these days, I am glad that I am no longer part of it.

As Glynn, Joanne and Billy grew older, they began to ask questions about their mother, Jean. I explained to them what had happened, and I did my best to explain the circumstances that might have led to Jean leaving. I was working away and Jean was at home alone with three children. It’s hardly an excuse for the misery her departure caused, but they are the facts. Billy, who was broken by his mother’s departure, decided that he wanted to find her. I knew where Jean’s brother lived in Blackburn, so I gave Billy the address. Within minutes Billy had called directory enquiries and obtained the telephone number, which he rang. When Billy explained who he was and why he was looking for Jean, he was given her address in Somerset and a telephone number. I have no idea what Billy said to his mother, and I did not ask, because he still has a lot of issues that remain unresolved with her. I did learn that she is no longer with Paul Smith, the man she left her family for.

Shortly after Billy contacted Jean, she travelled to our daughter Joanne’s home to meet the children. I wasn’t aware of the meeting until Joanne rang me and said there was somebody there who wanted to say hello. Jean and I spoke, and these days we are friends once more. I hope that one day Margaret and I can also become friends again. There is too much animosity in this life, and not enough time for those we cherish.

I live alone in Cambridge these days. Older, and perhaps wiser, I try to be civil with all of those I have loved in my life, but it’s not always easy. I still train at a local gym and offer advice to the young kids I meet in there. I don’t mind admitting that seeing them work out fills me with envy and regret. If only I was younger; if only I had kept my cool against Billy Aird; if only Shaw had fought me when I first challenged him; if this, if that. Boxing has been my life, and I would love to be the same age as the kids I see down the gym so I could climb into the ring again and win what is rightfully mine.

There are many who will not be happy with the contents of this book. The reputations and grand titles these people have bestowed upon one another will be called into question. The truth does have a tendency to hurt. I am entitled to have my say after reading the drivel some of these people have written about me in their autobiographies. I grew up loving the sport of boxing. I was taught how to fight dirty, how to exploit my opponents’ weaknesses, but never to fix fights or take part in a theatrical charade. I may have been naive to believe I would ever be given a fair opportunity to claim the unlicensed ring’s coveted title of Guv’nor, but those who accepted my challenges in public and failed to organise the fights were not naive. They knew that if they’d got in the ring with me, they would have lost not only the fight, but their manufactured reputations and the opportunity to fix future lucrative fights. They are a disgrace to boxing and the many great men who have put on gloves and climbed into a ring in search of glory. They may have fooled many people, but no man can fool himself. They know they avoided me in my prime to avoid defeat, and they know they fixed the fight with me that after five years they were embarrassed into staging. They know who should hold the title of Guv’nor, and they know where to find me if they wish to dispute that fact.

I was a coach at Lowe House ABC, and when Lew joined, I became his main coach, sparring partner and friend. I’ve always kept pretty fit, so we had a great time against each other in the ring. In competition Lew was a raging-bull-type character: he would never give in and always give his best. He was probably at his fittest while he was with me and won numerous bouts against renowned boxers within the northern counties at that time. One bout springs to mind: when Lew fought Dave James, the Welsh international and soon-to-be ABA national coach. Lew was holding his own when, halfway through the contest, by a complete freak accident, Lew and James clashed heads and Lew’s eyelid split open. Within a few seconds I threw in the towel and the referee stopped the contest. Lew went absolutely berserk, and for a moment I thought he was going to attack me. ‘Why did you stop the fight?’ he shouted. ‘I would have beat him! I would have beat him!’ That was always Lew’s Achilles heel, his uncontrollable temper!

In 1970 Lew was present when my son George, who went on to be five-times ABA Champion and was the last man to fight Tommy Hearns as an amateur, was boxing in Blackburn for Lancashire versus Wales. George was poor that night and lost on a tight decision to a guy named Chris Davies. This was George’s 50th fight and turned out to be only his second defeat in a total of 67 contests. I felt that George had performed badly and was criticising him. George was naturally upset at losing and at having to listen to me have a go at him afterwards. As I was talking to him, Lew walked into the dressing-room. He didn’t say anything at first, but a few minutes later he asked me if he could have a word with me outside. When I stepped out of the venue onto the car park, Lew picked me up by the scruff of the neck and pinned me to the wall. He had totally flipped and threatened to do me all kinds of unimaginable damage if he ever heard me talk badly about George again. I’m no coward, but I didn’t retaliate because I realised how hurt Lew felt about George’s defeat. I just agreed with everything Lew said until he finally calmed down. That’s how much Lew loved boxing and how much winning meant to him.

I have met and fought some of the hardest men in the world of boxing, and I don’t say this lightly: Lew is without doubt the hardest man I have ever known. Out of the ring Lew is a great friend and a gentleman. When my wife Joan and I celebrated our 70th birthdays, Lew secretly arranged to come and stay at the place we were having a meal. As we sat down to eat with our family, there was a loud knock at the dining-room door. When it was opened, Lew was standing there with a knife and fork in his hand and asked, ‘Is there any room at the table for a little one?’ I nearly fell off my chair. Lew had made a 400-mile round trip just to be with Joan and me for our birthdays. Lew Yates gets my vote any day!

Lew was the best doorman I’ve ever known – a proper gent of the old school, respected throughout the industry as hard, fair and effective. I saw him drop a troublemaker with a right-hand piledriver and the guy was unconscious before he had even hit the deck. For the next ten minutes he lay flat on his back with a silly grin on his face as though he was tucked up in bed in a five-star hotel. That’s the way big Lew went about his business. Two warnings and you were out. The night he was forced to poleaxe the half-pissed troublemaker outside a Dagenham nightclub, he had been provoked by a stream of threats and abuse that would have challenged the patience of a saint. In the end Lew had no alternative. Bosh! The man had come looking for trouble, and we all did our best to please the customers.

I have seen dozens of chancers take on Lew. Not one of them came close to succeeding. And no one got through the door when Lew said no. What was different about the 22-st. northerner was that he had no malice whatsoever in what he did. He was old-fashioned muscle: smart suit and dicky bow, out to stop trouble, not start it. A true mark of Lew’s style was that after he had knocked the troublemaker out at the club, he checked that he was not seriously hurt, then organised a cab to take him home, knowing that when he woke up, he would have a headache that he wouldn’t forget as a souvenir of his meeting with the big fella and a reminder not to be so stupid again.

What can I say about Lew Yates other than he is the man? I have worked throughout Lancashire and the north-west and have encountered the hardest guys the area has to offer, but none are a patch on Lew. Don’t get me wrong, being hard doesn’t mean you have to behave like a thug. Lew is a gentleman and would die for anyone he cares about.

I have mainly humorous memories of the times I spent working with him at the Cavendish Club in Blackburn. This may be hard to believe, but one night we turned away three African guys complete with tribal scars, etc., because they were out of their heads on drugs. After closing the doors on them, we walked back into reception, but then heard thud, thud, thud! We looked at each other, gingerly opened the doors and found three spears sticking in them! I swear it’s true. Lew pulled one of the spears out of the door and ran after these three guys shouting, ‘Woo, woo, woo!’ like a Red Indian. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I grabbed myself a spear and followed Lew. We never did catch up with the guys, and I’m not sure what would have happened if we did. When we got back to the club, Lew and I spent the rest of the evening laughing. I have witnessed many strange events in and around nightclubs in my time, but being attacked with spears is something I shall never forget.

On another occasion Lew threw a guy out of the Cavendish for being drunk and misbehaving. Once outside the man, who was absolutely fuming, started shouting and being abusive. Lew was laughing at him, which made the man even more irate. Screaming at the top of his voice, the man tore his own jacket off to reveal a false arm that was made of cheap, hard, flesh-coloured plastic. He took the arm out of the leather straps that held it in place and hurled it at Lew. Still laughing, Lew picked it up and lobbed it over the wall of the multi-storey car park, and it shattered on the street three floors below. For the next five minutes we watched the guy staggering around the street, picking up the pieces of his false arm and cursing Lew.

I have been a good friend of Lew’s for 35 years now. Wherever he may be, he always rings to ask how my family and I are getting on. I honestly cannot speak highly enough of him. When his wife left him, I will never forget how he dropped everything to bring up and care for his kids. That’s what sticks in my mind the most about Lew Yates, his heart; it’s bigger than those enormous shoulders of his, and that’s saying something!

I remember clearly the first time I saw Lew. He was a new bouncer at my favourite nightclub, the Room at the Top. I walked over to where he was and there was some commotion going on. As I got near, I saw three big guys on the floor and a fourth was running away. I was wondering what gang had done these three, who it transpired were bouncers from another club nearby. Then I saw Lew. He looked like someone you see in a fairground mirror that shortens and widens them. The first thing I wanted to do when I met him was pat him on the shoulder to see just how much was jacket. Of course there was no padding; it was all Lew. He was a strange shape. He looked wider than he was tall. I started to speak to him, slightly nervously at first, but to my surprise he was funny and personable – nothing like any bouncer I had met, let alone one who was capable of such awesome power that he could despatch in seconds four big lads who were supposed to be local tough guys and worked on the door of a club.

Soon after this I became good friends with Lew. I was a black belt at a time when it was a very rare thing in the UK, and I was in a top karate team, one that was without a doubt the most successful club team in the UK. We went all over the country and won every open title. No matter what anyone says about martial arts being special techniques that need to be learnt over long periods of time, all the team members had their feet on the ground – meaning that we knew what was important in a street fight. What mattered was the ratio between speed, reflexes and power. We would train constantly to increase our ratio. The top fighters in the club, me included, would take doorman jobs just to get practice in the real uncontrolled situations you encounter in nightclub fights. What I’m trying to say here is I know what I’m talking about when it comes to fighting and those that fight.

Lew was without doubt the fastest and hardest-hitting heavyweight I ever saw. On most occasions when I was with Lew and there was trouble, you would have to be quick to see what happened. It was always over in seconds. A good example was at a club in Greenford. The manager had asked me to help him because he was being terrorised by the local gangsters, and he would pay big salaries for me and a crew to go and make the place safe for the general public. Most doormen I knew said they had heard of the goings on there and thought it was too risky. In the end only Lew and one other friend of ours, Dave Young, would do it. To be honest, we felt a bit like the Magnificent Seven, only four of the others didn’t show up! The place was dark and depressing, and I remember thinking why would anybody come to such a place anyway, but by 11 it was buzzing. In those days anything dank, dingy, with loud music and a bar could make money so long as people could feel reasonably safe there.