Young Winstone (16 page)

Right from the start of the fight, I’m just going ping! Picking him off nicely. Can’t miss – he’s walking into ’em. Then at the end of the first round, I hit him square on the chin and he’s straight down on the canvas – wallop! He came out for the second like a fucking lunatic – bit me, elbowed me, kneed me in the groin, stood
on my feet, hit me with everything. He just lost the plot completely. I probably won the fight easier than I would’ve done otherwise, but he did make me pay for it. I don’t think I got out of bed for a day and a half afterwards.

He was a little rat, but he had some heart. My career record as an amateur boxer was eighty wins out of eighty-eight fights, and in all that time I met one opponent I disliked as a person. It wasn’t this kid with the broken hooter, it was another guy who I could tell was a nasty fucker from the moment we shook hands.

Even while I was boxing him, I was thinking, ‘You are not a nice fella.’ He had all the technical knowledge to be a good fighter, so why was he trying to head-butt me in the clinches? He didn’t want to know when it was time to shake hands after I’d beaten him, either, and I just thought, ‘You can go fuck yourself. You’ve just had one hiding – do you want another one?’

That fight was one of the very few bad memories I took away from York Hall in Bethnal Green. Obviously there’s Wembley and the Albert Hall as well, but as far as grassroots boxing in England goes, York Hall is the home of it. The building is a swimming pool in the daytime, so if you go there at any other time, it doesn’t really feel like anything special. But I had some great nights there, and when you step into that ring and the roar goes up, there’s an atmosphere like nowhere else – because it’s a municipal baths, you can imagine the echo you get.

I had thirteen wins at York Hall, and it’s been my lucky number ever since.

A boxing match is nothing like street fighting. First off because you’ve got a referee to stop it – that’s a major difference. Also, street fights (when they’re not a formal ‘straightener’ like that time in Spitalfields Market) are usually over anger, whereas if you let anger come into boxing, you’re probably going to lose.

The one time I lost at York Hall, it wasn’t me who got angry. The kid I was boxing was good and it was close, but I thought I won it. In fact, it was probably the best I’ve ever boxed. But the Repton was a big club, and every now and then they used to surrender someone to make it look fair. York Hall was effectively our home venue so they had to show that we weren’t in control of the decisions, and that night it was my turn to be sacrificed. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I know this might sound like I’m making excuses, but as a general rule in boxing you know when you’ve won and you know when you’ve lost.

Either way, old Sammy Keyworth who worked with us on Roman Road Market wasn’t too happy about the decision. He’d come along to watch me fight, and when the verdict went against me he took umbrage in a major way. The mayor of Tower Hamlets was sitting in front of him, and Sammy was so angry he kicked the guy’s chair over. The mayor went flying in all his regalia, chains and ermine everywhere – it was hilarious.

I got a nice little consolation prize at the end of that evening when I won the Fighter of the Night award from the Marksman pub. As you can imagine, it was pretty unusual for that to go to a boxer who’d lost, so I think that showed where their sympathies lay.

Another great night at York Hall was when I won John H. Stracey’s trophy as Fighter of the Year for going a whole twelve months undefeated. He’s a great mate of mine even now, John. I’ll never forget the time he won the world title against José Nápoles. The funny thing about that was that they didn’t televise the fight live – it wasn’t on till the day after, and the commentator (I can’t remember if it was Reg Gutteridge or Harry Carpenter) had to put the voiceover on afterwards, pretending he hadn’t already seen it. But
he couldn’t help himself, so he kept saying things like, ‘I definitely feel John H. Stracey is going to win.’

The East End had more than its fair share of world boxing champions in those days. Charlie Magri was another one. He was a great boy, Charlie – I think his dad was a tailor. He boxed at the Arbour youth club in Stepney, which wasn’t far from the Repton, and he was about the same age as me, so we all became mates when he was coming up through the ranks. I was there when he won the world title and I had a drink with him after he lost it. You made so many connections in boxing – more than any other business I’ve ever come across, and they’re real friendships as well. Obviously you meet a lot of people in the acting game, but there’s more loyalty in boxing.

I had three fights in one night at York Hall once at the London Federation of Boys Clubs championships (which I think I’m still the only person to have won in three different years). That took me right the way through to the NABC’s, but it all went wrong with the last punch of the semi-finals. I jabbed the fella and he ducked his head and took my hand under with him, which broke the finger on my jabbing hand. If it had been the right hand I’d have probably got away with it, but as it was I couldn’t box in the final. Obviously, I was gutted at the time, but I’d have had to take on a good fighter. His name was George Walker, and he was a big strong kid who might have been too much of a handful for me, anyway, at the time. But we’ll never know because he got a bye and became the champion.

Boxing for the Repton does open doors, because it is a big famous club and they do produce some great fighters, but I never looked at myself as being good enough to join them. That’s not me being modest, I honestly didn’t imagine myself as being that good at anything. I never had that . . . inner belief is, I suppose, what you call it. Even now when I watch a sportsman perform really well I always
think it’s absolutely fantastic, but I never see what they’re doing as something I’d be capable of, any more than I did when I saw Bobby Moore lift the World Cup.

I did get to box for England a couple of times. I was still a junior then – maybe sixteen – and I got picked because I’d won the Middlesex and London championships, which automatically gives you the chance to box for your country. I’d have been a light welterweight at that time, and it was a home nations fixture, England versus Wales.

There were two bouts and I boxed a kid called Gary Ace in the first one. They’re tough kids from that part of the world and he was a good fighter, but I had the secret weapon that was Repton coach Jackie Bowers in my corner. You never wanted to go back in your corner at the end of the round when Jackie was there because he’d give you a harder time than the other fighter would. He’d tell me, ‘You’ll never be a fighter’, and I’d say, ‘I don’t want to be a fucking fighter, Jack – do you think I want to get punched in the face all my life?’ That’s how the conversations between us used to go.

I had a lot of time for Jackie, both as a coach and as a man, and he did me proud that night. Because I was known as a counter-puncher, Gary was expecting me to be on the back foot from the off so Jackie said, ‘Just walk straight across and hit him on the chin with a right-hander.’ I did, and he went straight through the ropes. That kind of livened him up and from that point on I boxed beautifully – he says modestly – and I won in the end. My other fight was against another little Welsh tough-nut. I did alright in that one as well, but not alright enough to win. I’m not saying I was robbed, but it was a good job Sammy Keyworth wasn’t there.

Although I appreciated my dad coming to watch me, I always thought I boxed better when he wasn’t there. He used to get rather
excited, and I suppose I was more worried about what my dad was thinking than I was about what I was doing. I bear that in mind with my eldest girl Lois these days. She’s a singer and I really like what she does, but I don’t go to every gig – even though she wants me to – because I like her not to have to worry about what I’m thinking of it.

I had a particular way of being nervous before a fight, which is still how I get to this day when I’m doing a film. Some people would be physically sick with nerves, but I’d get very tired and start falling asleep instead. I’d try to keep myself going but I’d just feel really lethargic – I think it was the loss of all the energy my nerves were burning. I’d get a kind of fear as well. Not a fear of being punched – well, I suppose there might have been a bit of that – but more a general anxiety about not doing what you’re supposed to do, just forgetting it all. That’s how I’d feel until the bell went at the start of the first round, then I’d wake up – like the drunk guy in the pub who springs to attention when he hears ‘last orders’.

I’m more or less the same on a film set, even now. There’s always that fear in the time leading up to it. You’re thinking, ‘Why couldn’t I have done this yesterday when I was feeling great, instead of today when I’ve got no energy and can’t remember the words? What are the fucking words again?’ Then someone shouts ‘Action!’ and nine times out of ten – thank God – it’s alright. You work the scene out because you’ve got a fine actor opposite you, the timing’s working and bam! some energy floods into you.

That’s why I say boxing was probably more of an education for me as an actor than stage school was (apart from the ballet, obviously – that was an essential). Because without the boxing I wouldn’t have known what that feeling is where you step through the ropes into the ring thinking, ‘Why am I putting myself through this shit?’
Whether you’re climbing into the ring or walking onstage there’s no fundamental difference, what matters is what you do next.

I remember the first senior fight I had at the age of seventeen. It was at Alan Minter’s club in Crawley, and I’ve got to tell you that when I was seventeen, you’d have looked at me and guessed I was at least fucking twelve. I was reasonably tall – five foot nine or ten – but I looked like I should still be in shorts and plastic sandals. I think I’ve said before that when you get in the ring you have a little look in the guy’s eyes opposite and you know whether you’re going to win or not. This time, when the other geezer took his gown off, he was covered in tattoos (and this was when having a tattoo still meant something) and hairy as a fucking gorilla. I don’t know what they’re putting in the water down Crawley way. He was meant to be my age but he looked about thirty-five.

All of a sudden you’re not boxing boys any more, you’re boxing men. It’s like moving up from borstal into prison. I mean, the geezer had hairy legs – I’d never had a hair on my legs in my life! At this point you either decide you’ve got no chance and give up, or you approach it like a chess match and try to find a way to win. The first round I went with plan A and I was just totally overwhelmed. But then I went back in my corner and thought, ‘Fuck this!’ The second round I started boxing differently and it was much more even. Then I pissed the third round and won the fight.

That discipline of standing there thinking, ‘I can’t do this’, and then taking a deep breath and giving it a go really stands you in good stead for the rest of your life. It’s not just a matter of digging deep inside yourself, you’ve also got to clear your mind. The way you calm yourself down and convince yourself that nothing’s impossible is almost like meditation – that’s what gives you the confidence to keep yourself out of harm’s way. If you do it right, you can almost get
a feeling that the other geezer can’t hurt you (even though obviously they can). It’s funny with pain, I find I’ve got a way of switching it off. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not, because sometimes pain is there for a reason.

It’s the same with a script where there’s something dark or difficult that’s going to happen. You’ve got to close that down a bit so you can go beyond it. And the fear you have when you first pick it up and maybe think you can’t do it is the thing which is going to help you do that. It’s the equivalent of Jackie Bowers in my corner when I was boxing a kid called Terry Parker at the London Feds Finals. I came back at the end of the first round and got beaten up worse than I had been in the ring. Jackie’s slapping me round the head going, ‘C’mon, liven up’, and I’m thinking, ‘Fuck that, I’d rather be out there boxing than in here fighting him.’

Once you’re out there, that’s when the ringcraft comes in – the stuff that Billy Howick taught me at the Repton. It’s all about the positioning of your feet and where you move – all the little tricks of pushing someone’s arms down to get them off balance and then getting a jab in. A lot of it is kind of on the borderline of being illegal, but there are ways of being illegal which are still within the spirit of the game. And so long as the head coach Burnsy’s matched you up not to get hurt, like he always does, hopefully you’ll keep the old face intact.

CHAPTER 15

THE PROSPECT OF WHITBY, WAPPING

It was partly going to Corona that pushed boxing into the wings. But the gloves were also coming off as far as drinking was concerned, and they were already long gone when it came to girls. I didn’t give the boxing up for good. I would put the gloves back on and return to the ring for two more fights a couple of years later, but that would be my Elvis in Vegas phase.

In the meantime, the discipline I’d learnt at the Repton helped keep me out of some of the scrapes I’d probably have got into otherwise, but not all of them. One incident which has stuck in my mind, for reasons which will soon become obvious, was when I went away for a few days with a mate from drama college called John Walford. His mum lived with a French Basque geezer in Andorra, this strange little tax haven in the Spanish Alps who are one of the few teams England can usually be expected to beat in the World Cup.

Now, the Spanish and the French Basques don’t tend to get on with one another particularly well, but I wasn’t too bothered about all that. I was too busy sliding around the place in all this moody
ski gear – basically a pair of jeans and a woolly hat. One night we went to a club that was up on the top of this mountain. It was full of Spanish and French, not mixing particularly well. You know that feeling when you walk into a room and you can just smell the trouble that’s coming? This was one of those.